So, did the phone really ring when I said it did in the last episode? Really, I don't remember. Somehow though, I found myself on a snowy Beacon Hill New Year's Eve face to face with my old boyfriend Brian, the one with the mother, the one I necked with in the movie theaters, the one I left for Billy the future minister. Brian was there in the snow, In Boston, in my apartment.
It was almost the end of 1967. And I had not done "it" yet. Somehow I knew I would do "it" with Brian, and that made it all ok. Brian was safe. Brian was old school, literally. And I was more than ready.
I wish I could tell you it was romantic and brought back all the old fond feelings between us, but it wasn't and it didn't. Oh, I was fond of Brian, still. Very fond, but like you are fond of your best gay friend, which I have come to have many of since then, although I didn't even know the word then.
It was safe like being with a girl friend, except that we were doing "it" in my narrow bed high above the Boston streets, and it was nothing like what I imagined it would be. It hurt, although Brian was gentle. He was kind, he kept asking, "am I hurting you?" and although yes, he was, I kept saying, "no, it's fine."
And then "it" was over. And Brian was breathing hard and I was left with a feeling of missing something, my great opportunity had come and gone and I felt only sore. was this all there was to "it"? No, of course not, but I wouldn't learn about all the good parts, the parts that made me feel good until years later, and that is another story.
Later, days later, Brian was back in Lowell and I was back at Filene's basement where I could scarcely wait to tell Gail the news.
When we both had a free moment, I dragged her aside, and said, in my best, most dramatic sotto voce tone, "Gail, you are the last one left!" and then to soften the blow, I added, "don't worry, it's not all it's cracked up to be anyway."
