Shirts vs. Skins…

The smoke was thick; swirling around the glittering disco ball that hung from the ceiling. I’d almost swear there was a fog machine somewhere hidden. Later I would hang my clothes over a chair to air out the stench of cigarettes, which I realized was what really provided that magical effect.

Sylvester, Prince, and Grace Jones blared from the speakers, impossible to resist as that tiny dance floor became packed. Watching men dancing together without any inhibition was fabulous, surreal, and frightening. Inside these walls there was a freedom from out there. Escape, even if just for a few hours, from the suffocating judgment residing in the outside world.

It had been just a handful of weeks since I’d entered through that nondescript wooden bar door. This portal into what­ – I prayed – would bring me a sense of belonging. How would I know? I wondered if a feeling of liberation would just wash over me suddenly, without warning. Or would be gradual, and one day I’d just say to myself “Oh, when did you arrive?” I was trying to be patient. Trying to find my place in a community I had yet to truly feel a part of.

“Could I buy you a drink?” His voice cut through my concentration as I sat staring at the bar door. Mona was late as usual. Being obsessively punctual was apparently in my DNA. Surrounding myself around girls was as well. Unfortunately, they seemed to always be late. Mona was fabulous with beautiful big eyes and an infectious smile and laugh. I could be myself with Mona. As I nervously looked towards the door he again offered -“I really would love to buy you that drink.” Having cocktails offered and bought served as a perk in this newfound life. A perk for which I was certainly grateful, as I couldn’t afford to buy my own. Turning my attention to the voice on my left, I caught his reflection in the mirror above the bar. I recognized him immediately, causing an unexpected flush running through my cheeks.

Shirts vs. skins, the dreaded words would play over and over in my adolescent head. Gym class was bad enough. The test of masculinity and manhood would be set before me every time I stepped onto that wood floor of Winslow Gymnasium. I wasn’t like the other boys. And though I’d perfected the art of being invisible, my powers were zapped under the bright florescent gymnasium lights. Changing in the locker room combined mildewed sneakers and self-induced terror. I had been reminded my entire life how I was tall like my Uncle Larry and would no doubt inherit his skills on the basketball court. This prediction however would not come to pass. I would fumble and bumble my way about the basketball court. Attempting to fake my way through the drill from Hell. Being pigeon-toed and knock-kneed with arms so long and skinny it seemed my knuckles nearly dragged the floor. The term ”They can’t walk and chew gum at the same time” never applied to me. As having the excuse of gum would have been a luxury.

When choosing teams, the last two picked were always tied between Cecil and me. The team captain would always sigh, “Well, at least Cecil tries”. Watching the other boys peel their shirts off in near celebration of their masculinity was nothing short of astounding. For the next 50 minutes I would run up and down that gym court in a confused state of inadequacy. I didn’t belong here.

On this particular day I’d worn one of my favorite shirts. Brown ribbed with a gold zipper, a far cry from the plaid button down shirts I normally wore. I’d seen a picture of it in a catalogue, fallen in love with it, and was breathless with excitement when Mom ordered it. From the moment I slipped it over my head it felt somehow authentic and right for me. Seldom did anything ever feel right like that. My Father became angry when he thought I was showing any interest in fashion. That was high on his list of ‘Real Men Don’t’. So Mom and I agreed we’d keep this new treasure out of his sight.

Walking out of the gym I passed one of the teachers. Though I didn’t have his class, I was well aware he knew me. I recognized that glare. It was the same one I’d seen on my father practically every time I passed him in a room. I’d noticed this teacher staring at me many times before, and I’d quickly try to work my magic of becoming invisible. Only this day my magic didn’t work. And within minutes I’d find myself alone with him outside the principal’s office. I felt his total blanket of disgust, from his glaring eyes to that tone of voice. My Father had trained me well to recognize when my presence made others sick.

I choked back tears as he explained my shirt had been unzipped too low and thus was against dress code. I kept repeating over and over in my mind “Real Men Don’t Cry” as he told me, smiling, they had called my father and he was on his way. Taunting me to failure, another tactic he shared with my father. By the time my father arrived, my panic was high pitch and they could both see me shaking. My Father told him he had done the right thing in calling and then cautioned “No one lays a hand on my son”. Moments later I would find myself in the truck, staring straight ahead. Knowing any moment that flat hand would come searing across my cheek, ear and side of my mouth. I’d learned the drill long ago.

Looking past the drink now sitting in front of me, that teacher no longer had the look of disgust I remembered from years ago. He smiled, winked, and asked my name. In those few minutes I wondered if this teacher was still married? Perhaps he too had stepped through that bar door hoping for a few hours of freedom. I wondered if he’d seen something of himself in that little boy so many years ago? Or was his own self-loathing so great that he had to take it out on a child who reminded him of himself? Something perhaps that disgusted him to the point of being deliberately cruel. Something that had nothing to do with me, I realized. Fear and loathing in the closet. I have no idea if he was living an honest life or not. All I knew was that I had to.

I never told him my name. And I didn’t take a sip of that drink sitting in front of me. Without a word I stepped away, only pausing once to look out across that packed dance floor. In spite of all the recent hurt and heartache I’d caused in my search of being honest, I felt the first real stirrings of freedom. Perhaps it might be the right choice after all. I didn’t want to lie about who I was. Not to the people I loved. Not to live in some town where I would have to hide all my life. Willing yourself to invisibility wears you down. And those who truly disapprove eventually find a way of seeing you anyway. Better to be able to see yourself honestly and with love.

All those boys danced in that smoky fog under that disco light. A few dancing with shirts off, tucked into their jean hip pocket. I was reminded of ‘Shirts vs. Skin’ from so long ago. I felt myself wondering… When? When will it all transform and change for me? Are those feelings of authenticity and freedom right here? Maybe they were just waiting for me to find them….