"Hi, ma! I'm home!"
"I was wrong, John," my Mom yelled back to my stepfather in the living room. "We don't have a kid after all."
I was lying half naked on the closet floor trying to conceal myself and get my clothes back on before my secret life came to light. I had tried to sneak back in the house of our suburban neighborhood, get dressed and pretend fake normalcy as per the usual hell. But somehow my Mom knew I was in the closet and furiously slid the clothes hangers down to reveal the end of my life as she looked down upon my unclothed state.
It wasn't the first time I'd done this, just the first time I'd been caught. I'd been outside naked before, sexually starved, dying to be free. I just couldn't hold it in with nothing of my own to hold on to. The day was sunny, warm and bright - a day for others, for the living. The sun did not shine for me, viewing it as someone does on film: there but not here.
I wandered everywhere in our small Texas oil town in search of girls to let "catch" me naked. I'd then agree to be their sex slave in exchange for them not telling anyone I was walking around naked. That was the plan anyway. But I was having no luck.
I remember spotting Mr. Martin on a pay phone, curiously standing in the corner shadow of the old phone building, completely wrapped up in his conversation, dead yellow grass all around from the long, summer drought. I wondered if he was talking to Her, the woman of his lifelong love affair. Pete Martin was famous for two reasons: He'd been a friend of President Kennedy and l'amour of Maria Cruz, famous rock singer.
Story had it Kennedy had spotted Maria on a trip to South America and told Mr. Martin of this amazing woman. This was long before Maria had become famous. I love her balls out music, so culturally rare for an Hispanic woman. In her songs she documented her affair with Mr. Martin: their great nights, distant love, with no strings attached. People repeated Pete Martin stories in awe of his exploits. And I here I was 17 and sneaking past him in broad daylight through some city park oak trees.
Thank God he was too wrapped up in his own life to notice mine. I trust only the ones who have a life, everyone else just wants to interfere, agents of destruction, self-unaware blind predators. There's really no in between. I'd once passed by Mr. Martin on his way to our town's only night club. I remember the cologne but more importantly the exotic air of otherworldliness as he went to no doubt trip the night fantastic. Seeing him later drive that deep blue Corvette around town was to see a god on earth.
But someone saw my naked ass today and reported me to the police. I was never really sure who. I knew I had to get back home and resume the lie before I was caught. Up the street was the Marcy house. I couldn't believe I was so lucky as to have the legendary hottest twin girls in school living that close to me. When I would see one of them driving down the street at lunch I'd step on the front porch naked to get the mail. Oops! Didn't see you coming! Like my weenie?
They could have prevented Hitler from starting WWII
I was thinking about the lucky guys who got to fuck them, their lives saved by the smooth, shapely legs and firm, supple breasts of these sexual superstars. I'd heard how they liked to sneak out at night for illegal rendezvous with grateful, panting boys, hearts beating fast into the night, exploring the treasures of life. Neither of the girls' cars was there as I slinked by their house during my hasty retreat. For some reason I was glad of that.
Slowly around the bend I saw a cop car rolling along searching the cracks and bushes, eager to feel morally superior while paying their rent. What a high that must be. This forced me to cut through the backyard of Mr. Conner. Unfortunately, his car was home since he was retired. Mr. Conner in my eyes was just as famous as Mr. Martin. His daughter was an exotic dream, blonde and deeply tanned, living the life of a goddess. I'd seen her a couple times when she'd come to visit. But I never lusted after her as she was a whole woman.
Conner lived for years in the Middle East where he was highly esteemed among the Arabs which was amazing because he hated custom and ceremony with a vengeance. But he had such a charming personality the Arabs viewed his disdain as delightfully spunky and they made allowances for him they would for few others. They really love Texans in Arabia. But also many a sheik had his eye on his nubile daughter.
In the Mideast women are looked upon as property. As the story goes, Mr. Conner had famously decreed his daughter a "free woman, her own person to do as she sees fit no matter what." That disappointed many a lusty Arab heart hoping to collar her - done in complete social approval. What a scary society over there, I always imagined. Conner's sentiment cost him a two billion dollar oil contract and his job for not giving up his daughter's virtue. I wonder what those Arabs would think if they saw me now. This has no social approval anywhere. But my immediate concern was if Mr. Conner was looking out his back yard window right now.
If so, he never said anything.
I waited for the cop car to pass on by, giving me a chance to get back through the window to my room. The sliding closet doors were open but I had not left them like that. My parents had been searching for me. I could feel the seething anger of them hearing the police report, of wondering how to explain it to their friends. That's when I sneaked back into my room only to be found in the closet. I was so mortified I ran away for two days, living in a barn at the edge of town.
--------------------------------
I was sitting in a police interview room, my mother just outside sitting on a bench. The floor was linoleum and there was a wide gap between the bottom of the heavy wooden door and the tile floor. Basically the room was an echo chamber, meaning my Mom could hear every word even with the door closed. Knowing this, I gave answers for her to hear, not the cop. That's the problem being the smartest person in the room: they think they're manipulating you but you're manipulating them. In the end: no actual communication.
Politics starts where life ends. We all had to go back to pretending I was normal so everyone could save face and not have to answer any hard questions. Life with my stepfather was hell, he an unknown criminal. It was like watching George Bush get elected. How can you people not see?? At no time in my life have I ever thought the world was anything but a farce. I joined the farce, pretending to have no feelings to make everyone happy. I knew that was a death sentence but where's a future here anyway?
Mr. Martin's affair with Maria eventually died as she moved on to wed an avant-garde artist. Without commitment they could not keep their love alive. He ended up broken, alone and drunk - and I here I thought he had the world by the tail, living the perfect life.
What works at 20 doesn't work at 40
The Marcy girls had an infamous sex affair with an extremely rich oil man who lavished expensive presents on them as he lived out the fantasies of a lifetime. When his secret life came to light, his wife demanded a controlling interest in his company or face divorce. He lost the company and the girls ended up working boring retail jobs in obscurity. [Author's note: I'd still hump you!]
Mr. Conner's daughter had a glorious white wedding and marriage, a blossoming woman. Though she was stunning to see, she was so much more, a woman in every sense; I had no jealousy of her. He'd stood to gain quite a worldly profit had he turned his daughter over to the Arabs, but he gained a true profit instead. I'd kill to have been able to look that guy in the eye. Instead, all I could think about was the time I snuck through his backyard naked. He died a happy man.
As for me, having never found a home I roam the streets to this day, molting in a continual prison of shame. I embrace the brethren I find here. All the best liars wear well-regarded suits I've found. Take away their suits and they're just naked assholes under the sun too. Where's it going to end? I'm only free in a place where wounds are allowed to show, outsiders not welcome. Some people have skeletons in their closet - I am the skeleton in the closet.
But I know in the end, everyone comes to where the free air is.
Leading the god life!
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