Books > Tricks > Excerpts

A Poem by Seth Parnell
Possibilities

As a child, I was wary,
often felt cornered.
To escape, I regularly
stashed myself

in the closet,

comforted by curtains
of cotton. Silk. Velour.
Avoided wool, which
encouraged my

itching

the ever-present rashes
on my arms, legs. My skin
reacted to secrets, lies,
and taunts by wanting

to break out.

Now I hide behind
a wall of silence, bricked
in by the crushing
desire to confess,

but afraid of

my family's reaction.
Fearful I don't have
the strength to survive

the fallout.

Seth
As Far Back

As I can remember,

I have known that
I was different. I think
I was maybe five

when I decided that.

I was the little boy

who liked art projects
and ant farm tending
better than riding bikes

or playing army rangers.

Not easy, coming from

a long line of farmers and
factory workers. Dad's big
dream for his only son has

always been tool and die.

My dream is liberal arts,

a New Agey university.
Berkeley, maybe. Or,
even better, San Francisco.

But that won't happen.

Not with Mom Gone

She was the one who

supported my escape
plan. You reach for your
dreams, she said. Factory

work is killing us all.

Factory work may

have jump-started it,
but it was cancer that
took my mom, one year

and three months ago.

At least she didn't

have to find out about
me. She loved me, sure,
with all her heart. Wanted

me to be happy, with all her

heart. But when it came to

sex, she was all Catholic
in her thinking. Sex was
for making babies, and only

after marriage. I'll never forget

what she said when my cousin

Liz got pregnant. She was just
sixteen and her boyfriend hauled
his butt out of town, all the way

to an army base in Georgia.

Mom got off the phone with

Aunt Josie, clucking like a hen.
Who would have believed
our pretty little Liz would

grow up to be such a whore?

I thought that was harsh,

and told her so. She said,
flat out, Getting pregnant
without getting married first

makes her a whore in God's eyes.

I knew better than to argue

with Mom, but if she felt
that strongly about unmarried
sex, no way could I ever let

her know about me, suffer

the disgrace that would have

followed. Beyond Mom,
Indiana's holier-than-thou
conservatives hate "fags" almost

as much as those freaks in Kansas

do -- the ones who picket dead

soldiers' funerals, claiming
their fate was God's way of
getting back at gays. How in

the hell are the two things related?

And Anyway

If God were inclined

to punish someone
just for being the way
he created them, it would

be punishment enough

to insert that innocent

soul inside the womb
of a native Indianan.
These cornfields and

gravel roads are no place

for someone like me.

Considering almost every
guy I ever knew growing up
is a total jock, with no plans

for the future but farming

or assembly-line work,

it sure isn't easy to fit in
at school, even without
overtly jumping out of

that frigging closet.

I can't even tell Dad,

though I've come very
close a couple of times,
in response to his totally

cliché homophobic views:

Bible says God made

Adam and Eve, not Adam
and Steve, and no damn
bleeding-heart liberal

gonna tell me different.

Most definitely not this

bleeding-heart liberal.
Of course, Dad has no clue
that's what I am. Or have

become. Because of who

I am, all the way inside,

the biggest part of me,
the part I need to hide.
Wonder what he'd say

if I told him the first person

to recognize what I am

was a priest. Father Howard
knew. Took advantage, too.
Maybe I'll confess it all

to Dad someday. But not

while he's still grieving

over Mom. I am too.
And if I lost my dad
because of any of this, I really

don't know what I'd do.

So I Keep the Real Seth

Mostly hidden away.

It is spring, a time of hope,
locked in the rich loam
we till and plant. Corn.

Maize. The main ingredient

in American ethanol,

the fuel of the future, and
so it fuels our dreams. It's
a cold March day, but the sun

threatens to thaw me,

like it has started to thaw

the ground. The big John
Deere has little trouble
tugging the tiller, turning

the soil, readying it for seed.

I don't mind this work.

There's something satisfying
about the submission, dirt
to churning blades. Submission,

yes, and almost as ancient

as the submission of one

beast, throat up to another.
One human, facedown
to another. And always,

always another, hungering.

Hunger

Drives the beast, human

or otherwise, and it is
the essence of humanity.
Hunger for food. Power.

Sex. All tangled together.

It was hunger that made

me post a personal ad
on the Internet. Hunger
for something I knew

I could never taste here.

Hunger that put me on

the freeway to Louisville,
far away enough to promise
secrecy unattainable at home.

Hunger that gave me

the courage to knock on

a stranger's door. Looking
back, I realize the danger.
But then I felt invincible.

Or maybe just starved.

I'd Dated Girls, of Course

Trying to convince

myself the attraction
toward guys I'd always felt
was just a passing thing.

Satan, luring me with

the promise of a penis.

I'd even fallen for a female.
Janet Winkler was dream-girl
pretty and sweeter than

just-turned apple cider.

But love and sexual desire

don't always go hand in hand.
Luckily, Janet wasn't looking
to get laid, which worked out

just fine. After a while,

though, I figured I should

be looking to get laid, like
every other guy my age. So
why did the thought of sex

with Janet -- who I believed

I loved, even -- not turn

me on one bit? Worse, why
did the idea of sex with her
Neanderthal jock big brother

turn me on so completely?

Not that Leon Winkler

is particularly special.
Not good-looking. Definitely
not the brightest bulb in the

socket. What he does have

going on is a fullback's

physique. Pure muscle.
(That includes inside his
two-inch-thick skull.) I'd catch

myself watching his butt,

thinking it was perfect.

Something not exactly
hetero about that. Weird
thing was, that didn't

bother me. Well, except for

the idea someone might

notice how my eyes often
fell toward the rhythm
of his exit. I never once

lusted for Janet like that.

I tried to let her down

easy. Gave her the ol'
"It's not you, it's me"
routine. But breaking up

is never an easy thing.

Not Easy for Janet

Who never saw it coming.

When I told her, she looked
as if she'd been run over
by a bulldozer. But you

told me you love me.

"I do love you," I said.

"But things are, well...
confusing right now. You
know my mom is sick...."

Can't believe I used

her cancer as an excuse

to try and smooth things
over. And it worked, to
a point, anyway. At least

it gave Janet something

to hold on to. I know, Seth.

But don't you think you
need someone to...?
The denial in my eyes

spoke clearly. She tried

another tactic, sliding

her arms around my neck,
seeking to comfort me. Then
she kissed me, and it was

a different kind of kiss

than any we'd shared

before. Swollen with desire.
Demanding. Lips still locked
to mine, she murmured, What

if I give you this...?

Her hand found my own,

urged it along her body's
contours, all the way to
the place between her legs,

the one I had never asked for.

To be honest, I thought

about doing it. What if it
cured my confusion after all?
In the heat of the moment,

I even got hard, especially

when Janet touched me,

dropped onto her knees,
lowered my zipper, started
to do what I never suspected

she knew how to do. Yes...

No! Shouldn't...How...?

The haze in my brain
cleared instantly, and I pushed
her away. "No. I can't,"

was all I could say.

All Janet Could Say

Before she stalked off

was, Up yours! What are
you, anyway? Gay? Not
really expecting a response,

she pivoted sharply, went

in search of moral support.

So she never heard me say,
way under my breath, "Maybe
I am gay." It was time, maybe

past, to find out for sure.

But not in Perry County,

Indiana, where if you're
not related to someone,
you know someone who

is. All fact here is rooted

in gossip, and gossip can

prove deadly. Like last year,
little Billy Caldwell told Nate
Fisher that he saw Nate's mom

kissing some guy out back

of a tavern. Total lie, but

that didn't help Nate's mom
when Nate's dad went looking
for her, with a loaded shotgun.

Caught up to her after Mass

Sunday morning, and when

he was done, that church
parking lot looked like a street
in Baghdad. After, Billy felt

kind of bad. But he blamed

Nate's dad one hundred percent.

Not Nate, who took out
his grief on Billy's hunting
dog. That hound isn't much

good for hunting now, not

with an eye missing. Since

I'd really like to hang on
to both of my eyes and all
of my limbs, I figured I'd

better find my true self

somewhere other than Perry

County. Best way I could
think of was through the
"be anyone you choose to be"

possibilities of online dating.

Granted, One Possibility

Was hooking up with a creep --

a pervert, looking to spread
some incurable disease to some
poor, horny idiot. I met more

than one pervert, but I never

let them do me. Nope, horny

or not, I wasn't an idiot. No
homosexual yokel, anxious
enough to get laid to let any

guy who swung the correct

direction into my jeans.

I wanted my first real sex
to be with the right guy. Someone
experienced enough to teach

me, but not humiliate me.

Someone good-looking.

Young. Educated. A good
talker, yes, but a good listener,
too. Someone maybe even

hoping to fall in love.

Incredibly

Unimaginably, Loren turned

out to be all those things,
and I found him in Louisville!
He opened my eyes to a wider

world, introduced me to the

avant-garde -- performance art,

nude theater, alternative
lit. He gave me a taste
for caviar, pâté, excellent

California cabernet. After

years of fried chicken and

Pabst Blue Ribbon, such
adjustments could only be
born of love. Truthfully,

love was unexpected. I've

said it before, and I'll repeat,

I didn't fall out of the tree
yesterday. But that first day,
when Loren opened his door,

I took one look and fell

flat on my face. Figuratively,

of course. I barely stumbled
as I crossed the threshold --
into his apartment, and into

the certainty of who I am.

Copyright © 2009 by Ellen Hopkins