We had been notified that there was a pre-reunion party being held the Friday night before the major event at a sports bar attached to a health club-something that I did not find unusual in Indiana, a state with drive-through liquor and cigarette stores. After a prolonged period of angst and deliberation, we decided to take the bull by the horns and attend the pre-party as a couple and test the waters.

My high school experience was a strain at best. I spent my first two years trying to blend into the background while wearing the most fashionable clothes that I could get my hands on. I was, as I continue to be, a contradiction in terms. I spent those first two years almost exclusively with my best friend, Steve. We had the kind of friendship that most men have had at least one of in their lives. Last I heard, he grew up and married a very attractive woman. While we were friends, I had no idea what homosexuality was, or that it even existed. I only knew about the repressed feelings and emotions that I felt when I was with my best friend. We were both loners, though he had a few more friends then I did.

Most of our lunch hours at Hammond High School were spent in long walks to the White Castle and then along the railroad tracks back to the school. Conversation flowed, and though I'm sure that we talked about everything, I can't remember now what it was that we actually talked about. We would also have a lot of sleep-overs and play those games that most every man has played in his childhood but almost never admits to. When Steve and I stayed at my house, we slept in the finished basement during the cold months and in the enclosed patio attached to the garage in the warm months. I use the term "slept" loosely, as we were up most of the night playing our adolescent games.

Aside from the occasional skinny-dipping that we did during the summer months in my family's aboveground pool, Steve and I had two other favorite "sleep-over" games. One game we played-and one that I see popping up in my adult life whenever I have a sexual encounter with a bisexual man-is wrestling for underwear. The winner is, of course, the one who removes the skivvies of the other contestant.

There are two particular times that we played this game that have stuck in my mind. The first was at a sleep-over during the winter months-which meant that we were sleeping in front of the large fireplace that my father and grandfather had built in my family's finished basement. We were already wearing only T-shirts and underwear when we began to wrestle. Though I was never much into physical competition, I had the added incentive of getting his underwear off and experiencing that hidden fantasy. We became locked in an eventually sweaty wrestling embrace, both pawing at each other's underwear and, at the same time, pulling up our own, out of some sense of pride-all of this occurring in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace, mind you!

During the course of this wrestling match, we both developed intense adolescent erections. After awhile, something happened that-at the time-I didn't understand. It wouldn't be until later that summer that the full realization would come to me. In the course of our struggle, he pushed me away and exclaimed that he had to go the bathroom. He displayed the sense of urgency of someone who had to vomit-though I found out later that summer that this was not the case. Of course, I took his actions personally, as I was conditioned to do at that time in my life, and I'm sure that we went through an uncomfortable diatribe about what was wrong until he probably feigned sleep and ended my misdirected, adolescent thoughts.

My second strong memory of this game took place in the patio attached to our garage. Steve and I were wrestling for underwear again, only this time it was midsummer and it was hot and humid. We started our wrestling match in our swimsuits. Our half-nude bodies were pressed against each other and our sweat was mingling. He had a hard, tight, lean body, and I was coming from a position where I thought I was chunky-though that was probably a learned perspective and not based in reality.

I didn't exactly understand what was beginning to happen as we were wrestling. Once again, we both quickly developed erections, but this time I must have consciously noticed his. I was suddenly overwhelmed with an intense feeling that I had only felt before in a dream. I was sure that somehow this was a bad thing that was about to happen-and that I had to hide it. I pushed Steve back with a sudden rush of adrenaline, exclaimed that I had to pee, and headed for the door leading from the patio into the backyard.

Of course, peeing was the last thing that I had to do. Just as I turned and was opening the patio door, I was climaxing into my hand. Even though he didn't see this, I was beyond embarrassment. I just knew that these feelings and what had just happened must be wrong. I ran to the back of the yard and desperately searched for large leaves that I could use to wipe away the telltale signs of my sexual arousal.

While finishing my rustic absolutions, a light seemed to focus on the memory of the match in front of the fire, and the pieces fell together. This same thing that had just happened to me had happened to him just this past winter. I was somewhat relieved with the discovery of our shared shame, but, ultimately, more confused. I reentered the patio with some bravado, exclaiming that that was the longest pee that I had ever taken.

The other game that we played, at times even with a third friend, was strip "31." I could never keep the hands straight in poker, but I had learned to play the easy game of "31" from my grandmother. A strip version was an easy transformation. Instead of losing change to the "kitty," the player would lose an article of clothing. The player to win the pot also won the privilege of making the loser perform a task of his (the winner's) choice. We were pathetically nice boys and, speaking for myself, rather naive boys. A game with those stakes could go in several obvious directions.

Upon winning the "kitty," I typically would begin to shake, and my mind would whirl with muddled possibilities. At this point in my life, sex was just an act of procreation in my mind. I had no clue that it could also be a form of recreation or pleasure. Certainly, sex was just something that a man and a woman did. Though I was experiencing multiple feelings of arousal and excitement, I had no idea that there might be an outlet for these feelings directly in front of me.

Needless to say, regardless of who the winner was, the tasks were usually simple and ridiculous-10 nude push-ups and 20 jumping jacks, a few circles around the garage floor lying face-up and exposed on a skateboard, or a timed jog around the yard ending with an au naturel dip in the pool.

Steve's family moved away from the immediate area after my sophomore year, and I was left to face my junior year alone. My third year of high school was one of those turning points in life. I became more aware of my strengths and reduced the amount of time spent obsessing over my weaknesses. I took every art class that the school had to offer. Eventually, they had to create an "expanded arts" program to accommodate art students such as myself. I had two art classes a day and a pass from study hall to the art room.

I was sometimes accused, by those students who took art for an easy grade, of being a teacher's pet. It is true that Mr. Ball is the one high school teacher who sticks out most in my memories of important people to my life. He was understanding, patient, and a great art teacher. I always knew that he was working at cultivating that creative gift that he saw I possessed. My nonstop mouth was an irritant for him, though, and from time to time, he would embarrass me with a harsh reprimand. My face would then blush beet-red, and I would keep my talking to a minimum for the next few days.

During the last month of summer before my junior year, I had discovered The Lord Won't Mind, a novel by Gordon Merrick. After skimming this gay erotic paperback for all of its "dirty parts," I came to the conclusion that there were other men in the world who were like me, but that they all lived in New York City. It would be a good three or four years before I discovered the Newberry Theater in Chicago.

Whenever I got a pass from study hall to the art room, I would work on my project in a back room off the main art room, where another art class was in session. Sometimes there were up to three students in the back room, all with passes to do their art projects, sometimes only two, and occasionally, I was completely alone. For one semester, I most often shared the back room space with one particular boy, Ben. Ben was the school bully. He had also been my bully during middle school. I thought for sure that I would lose him when I came to high school. I was certain that he would go to the technical vocational school and not Hammond High! I was wrong, and here I was, sharing a small, enclosed space with my worst nightmare.

Out of my nervousness, I once blurted out to him that I was reading this dirty novel. I told him that I didn't know what it was about when I bought it, and I then feigned the proper amount of disgust at the nature of its sexual content. This conversation piqued his interest, and I felt a bit safer in my situation.

Ben always wore raggedy, hip-hugging, bell-bottomed jeans. He was part of the more dangerous drug crowd that was referred to as the "greasers," and he exuded a great deal of that attitude- which was, of course, reinforced by the knife that he carried in his tight back pocket. He must have become excited by our conversation about the gay erotic paperback, because he grabbed my hand and pressed it hard against the well-defined bulge in the crotch of his pants. To say that I was shocked would be an understatement. It wasn't enough that this was the first time that I had ever touched that part of another guy's anatomy, but it was Ben-the bane of my existence since middle school!

Before I could recover from this unexpected advance, he had my hand in both of his and was moving my hand up and down the warm bulge in his jeans. I tried to pull my hand away, but he held fast to my hand with a force that said, "you better go along with this, or else!" Truthfully, I really wanted what was happening to be happening, but I couldn't admit that to him or to myself, so I had to resist. My resistance was mostly pretense, as I wanted my hand to remain in this exciting new spot as long as I could comfortably allow it. I was, however, afraid of what might be next; I wasn't yet ready to take that frightening next step. As luck would have it, the bell rang and solved the problem-for the moment.

I dashed out of the classroom with what my mother would call the inner shakes, and into the boys' washroom to look at myself in the mirror. Following behind me was Ben. He forcibly pushed up behind me and, in his most intimidating tone, growled, "You better not tell nobody what happened in there, or you'll be sorry!" I was sure that I would. I promised that I wouldn't say a word to anyone, and he went on his way, convinced that his secret was safe. He really had no reason to worry, as I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't have told anyone even if I had had someone to tell. I suppose he probably even figured that one out.

After about a week of going over fantasy-laden versions of the event in my head, I got another pass to the back art room. Ben was there, and it began again. It was like he hadn't skipped a beat in the last week. This time, after he had me rub him through his pants, he stood up from his stool and pulled his erection out from his pants. He was so close that I could actually feel the warmth coming off him and smell a kind of sweet warm musk. He grabbed my hand again and pressed it against his enlarged flesh. This time, I pulled my hand away with all of my force, afraid that I would somehow be branded by the heat of this forbidden touch. I retreated to another section of the room that had a large box of scrap wood in the middle of it. I put this box between the two of us. I was frightened, but I was really excited as well. We did an evasive dance around the box until the bell rang.

This time, there was no threat after the period was over. It went without saying that we would not talk about what we were doing when we were supposed to be working on our art projects. For much of the time, there were three of us working in the back art room, so our personal encounters were minimal. Each encounter was still met with the expected amount of resistance and a sort of dance had begun. The last dance occurred late in the spring and at the end of the semester.

The period progressed as usual, ending with Ben and I doing a dance around the box of scrap wood. I generally don't remember what we talked about in these encounters, but I do remember that he was particularly persuasive that afternoon. It was the first time that he got up the nerve to touch me and find the same excitement under his hand. The bell rang, and the period ended, but there was something left unresolved between the two of us, the bully and me.

This time, I went to the boys' room not to collect myself, but rather to linger with the hope that Ben would again follow. He did, and we began a disjointed conversation. We both wanted more, but we didn't know how. I wasn't even sure what more there was to be had, but I think that Ben had an idea. Even though I had read the rather explicit descriptions of the male-to-male sexual act in my new paperback, the descriptions were just words to me. I had it drummed into my head by my parents and society that sex between men was the sickest, most unconscionable act that one could participate in. I had heard about boys being sent away to institutions where, with the aid of shock therapy, those bad thoughts were supposedly erased from their heads. I was a good kid, an A-B student, generally well behaved, and somewhat of an "art nerd"-as opposed to, say, a "science nerd." Why, then, was I having these uncontrollable feelings, and what was I going to do about them? Was I going to go to hell if I gave in to what might be coming next? Or even worse, would I be headed to one of those institutions?

I mentioned to Ben that I thought I'd skip the bus and walk home, past our old grade school. He said that he would walk with me, since he lived in the same direction. We both seemed to gravitate toward the back-alley route. My memory isn't clear on what our conversation was about, but my guess would be that we talked about the novel-trying to figure each other out. As we walked, we both seemed to be visually scanning the area for out-of-the-way hidden places. I would point out shaded spots and comment how cool they looked, or walls of large flowers, commenting on their size. We had reached the end of the alley and the beginning of the open baseball field next to our old grade school. We would soon have to split into separate directions. We had seemed to have reached an anticlimactic end to our excursion.

We headed across the field, and a small, dark structure caught my eye. It was the baseball dugout-a small wood building half under the ground and half above. The front open section of the structure was covered in wire mesh. I suggested that we go check it out. The field and school grounds were quite deserted, as our walk had been slow and deliberate, and most kids were home or elsewhere by this time. I took the first two steps down into the small dugout with Ben following behind.

Filling the space between me and the door, Ben grabbed my hand and pulled it to his crotch. He started saying things such as "I want you to touch it" and "I know you want to touch it."

He let go of my hand and unzipped his hip huggers, pulling his erect penis free of his underwear. He then placed my hand back between his legs. This time I actually began to do a little feeling of my own. At this point, I began shaking almost uncontrollably. Ben continued his coaxing: "Come on, touch it. It feels good, touch it," and then "Let me see yours."

Ben grabbed at my large belt buckle and quickly had it undone. I pulled back and found myself against the mesh on the side of the dugout. It was happening, and I tried to make myself believe that I had no control over it. I was also resisting because I was embarrassed by my own erection, even though it matched his. He was fumbling with my underwear and swearing at the complexity of the task. Finally, both his hands plunged around my flesh. My shaking was now completely beyond my control. He was saying something, but I didn't know what it was. Every thought I had about sex seemed to be going through my head at the same time. I didn't know what I was doing or what was expected of me because I had never done this before. Of course, I had already begun the practice of regular masturbation, so what I knew was about to happen came as no surprise. I climaxed onto my underwear and jeans.

This put a halt to the activities. The memory of what happened in the next few moments is a blur. I worked as quickly as my quivering fingers could manage to fasten up my pants and get out of this small cave. Ben must have tried to assert his influence in order to get my attention back to him, but something seemed to be missing. My hand had been placed back on his body as I squeezed past his frame to the door. I pulled away and walked quickly up the short stairs to ground level, yelling that I really had to be home.

I walked as fast as I could until I was out of his sight, and then I ran until I couldn't run any more. I was hit with the fear that I had done something horrible, something unforgivable. My anxiety was compounded by the profound excitement that I felt. I was praying to God for forgiveness while knowing that something similar would have to happen again. When I got to my house, I slipped past my mother, who was getting dinner ready in the kitchen, and headed straight to my room, closing the door behind me. I became overwhelmed with the fear of discovery. I was trying hard to talk myself into not worrying about it when the phone rang.

My mother called me to the phone from the dining room off the kitchen. I asked who it was, and she said "some boy." The shaking began again as I stared at the phone sitting on the room divider, not more than 15 feet from where my parents busied themselves in the kitchen. Luckily, there was a wood sliding door between the rooms that might provide enough privacy. I picked up the phone, and, not surprisingly, it was Ben. I remember briefly wondering how long he had had my telephone number or whether he had just looked it up. He called to accuse me of giving him a venereal disease. Wow, there was a fear that I hadn't yet thought of. I was fairly sure that VD could not be caught so easily, and I spent a few awkward moments trying to convince Ben of this.

After his phone call, Ben and I pretty much avoided each other for the rest of the semester, at the end of which Ben's family also moved away.