A gay story: Chapter 1: Student Orientation Author’s Note: Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.
Chapter 1: Student Orientation
(August 5, 1995)
Matt Griffith did not want to enroll at Oklahoma Christian University. His desires did not matter, though. The only person whose opinion mattered in this decision was Matthew Griffith senior, who wanted the family legacy carried forward through a third generation.
Despite the talk of legacy, Matt knew there was a second, unspoken reason driving his father’s stubbornness: his father hoped that Oklahoma Christian would make his son more manly in the only way that counted. Never mind that Matt was a star soccer player, who had carried his high school team to the state championship. What mattered was that five years earlier, when Matt was thirteen years old, he had “allowed” himself to be molested by their church’s youth pastor. (“Real men”, even teenaged not-yet-men, would have fought off such advances.) That belief and the shame it birthed had forced the family to flee Enid, Oklahoma, costing Matthew Griffith senior a coveted promotion at the nearby Vance Air Force base.
Matt’s father had never forgiven his son for having been molested. He bore no such ill will towards the church that had hired the youth pastor, nor the larger denomination itself to which he still tithed ten percent of his income. (The youth pastor had not fared so well. He had resigned his position and moved to another state not long after he was mysteriously physically assaulted one night with a baseball bat.)
It was no surprise, then, that Matt found himself checking into Oklahoma Christian alone. All around him were families who were escorting their sons or daughters to college. The dads unloaded suitcases and boxes from cars and pickups and trundled them to the various dorms. Moms helped unpack or sat through parent orientation meetings.
Had Matt’s father been there, he would have cut quite the figure in his Air Force uniform. He would have garnered even more whispered attention once he “let slip” that he was second generation legacy, which he most certainly would have done. Such status might seem laughable to ivy league snobs, but in Oklahoma, which had only gained statehood in 1907, and to the 50,000 Oklahomans who were members of the Churches of Christ and who considered themselves the only real Christians in the state, legacy graduates were minor celebrities.
Matt lugged his belongings to his room in Fails Residence Hall. He had expected–maybe even looked forward to having–a roommate. The housing director had explained, though, that as a favor to Mr. Griffith senior, Matt would have the room to himself. Matt wondered whether his father’s request had more to do with removing temptation from his faggot son or had simply provided an excuse to flaunt his celebrity status with the housing director and gain his son a privilege forbidden to all other freshmen.
Matt unpacked, made his bed, and hooked up his TV. He heard, from the hall outside his room, introductions, nervous laughter, and stilted conversations–dormmates and roommates meeting and mingling. He was relieved to not be part of it. The noise abated around 5:00 p.m. as everyone else headed to the mandatory student mixer. First stop: picnic on the lawn.
Matt wasn’t hungry. Besides, he had one remaining task: hanging the poster of the Dallas Cheerleaders.
Matt didn’t give a shit about the Dallas Cheerleaders. He knew he was gay, had known it since before he was molested. If 1990 had played out differently, if he hadn’t been molested, setting in motion a train of events almost as traumatic as the rape itself (his mother piecing the story together and treating him like a leper, his dad going psycho and threatening conversion therapy), Matt would have found the courage to come out, hoped he would have anyway–probably no later than his sixteenth birthday. As it was, though, with the shame and the blame, he’d lost his nerve. He’d resorted to pretending to be straight–in word and deed.
Until now.
Matt was done with the myriad sins of commission required to perpetuate the lie that he was straight (talking about girls, affirming his church’s teachings against homosexuality, and, most importantly, either stating that he was straight or denying that he was gay).
Taking that step was hard enough, like jumping off a bridge into blackness, freefalling. Matt’s entire life had unfolded in small Oklahoma towns where a conservative Christian worldview was on a perpetual feedback loop of church, school, and family. What little anyone knew of the larger world was filtered through the lenses of the three major TV networks, with their news, soap operas, game shows, and sitcoms.
Matt knew that gays existed in big cities like San Francisco, where they were all dying of AIDS. “Fag” and “queer” were insults boys hurled at each other as if that were the worst thing imaginable, yet none of them had ever met a real, breathing one–“fag”, that is. As far as Matt could tell, “coming out” in Oklahoma involved no yellow brick road, no friendly fellow travelers. He would have to stumble his way to Oz–alone.
Matt couldn’t afford to come out here at OC, where doing so would get him expelled. (Expulsion might seem like a good thing, but it would carry a steep price: loss of all parental financial support, including loss of his Jeep. Matt had no choice but to serve out his four-year sentence here.
He could take a baby step, though, towards coming out. He’d thought this through. Sadly, he would have to continue having the affect of being straight (dress, mannerisms, the poster). But he would no longer say things to perpetuate that lie. This baby step, switching to sins of omission, seemed the only way to thread the needle between the harsh reality of surviving in OC’s hyper-homophobic environment and Matt’s desire to come out of the closet.
Matt checked his watch: 5:45 p.m. He couldn’t delay any longer. He had to go to the mixer–not only because it was mandatory, but also because he wanted to test a hypothesis.
He ran his fingers through his sandy, blonde hair, foregoing a comb because a too-groomed look seemed gay. For the same reason, he resisted the urge to tuck in his t-shirt. Sure, tucking it in would highlight his broad shoulders and narrow hips. It would also mark him as suspect. Metrosexuals might be accepted in large, urban settings. In Oklahoma they were viewed as gays who hadn’t come out yet, kind of like how Elton John fooled no one when he first claimed to be bisexual.
Matt closed his eyes, took deep, calming breaths to center himself. Baby steps. It had taken him five years to recover his path, five years of aching to experience another guy’s body, imagining the taste and feel of it in frantic, furtive masturbatory fantasies. He would not wait five more years before taking the next step. With that thought in mind, he made his way to the mixer.
Lawson Commons was the site of the picnic. Faculty members manned portable grills, frying burgers and hot dogs. Christian pop music of the Jesus-is-my-boyfriend variety blared from a crackling speaker. “Ike the Eagle”, the school mascot, swayed–not danced, because that was sinful–to the music. (Ike’s costume included bright yellow faux fur leggings; a white-trimmed, brown faux-fur parka, which allowed the wearer to flap his “wings”; and an oversized head with a yellow pelican-shaped beak. As eagle’s go, Ike was the only known furred specimen.)
Matt wondered if that stupid eagle was going to be strutting on the sidelines during his soccer games. Probably so. He had made the team. The OC Eagles.
Matt skirted the edges of the picnic, and entered Gaylord University Center, ground zero for the mixer.
Matt paused in the open foyer, assessing the situation in the great hall. It had obviously been decorated by some middle-aged college administrator to recreate the high school Prom she hadn’t been allowed to attend. The ceiling sported a layer of silver and maroon helium-filled balloons (the school colors) which, in the soft light and the undulating current of the air conditioners looked not so much festive as like a giant seeping bruise. There was even a ’70’s style disco ball that must have been purloined from a long-shuttered skating rink.
Clusters of students hugged the walls, their faces frozen in strained smiles while their eyes nervously scanned the room.
Folding tables occupied the hall’s center. One table was devoted to the obligatory punch bowl, plastic cups, and trays of cookies. The other tables, each manned by beaming upperclassmen brandishing clipboards with sign-up sheets, were reserved for various campus clubs and ministries.
Things would have been so different if Matt had been allowed to enroll at the University of Oklahoma, just 40 minutes away–in the young and vibrant city of Norman. That campus boasted 32,000 students and its own Gay Student Alliance. (That shocking nugget had been buried in an OU admissions brochure’s long list of student clubs and organizations.) Alternatively, Oklahoma Christian, with its 2,000 students, had its homebase in the sleepy, Eisenhower-era, white bread city of Edmond.
Matt wanted to bolt for his car, drive to Norman, and meet the members of OU’s Gay Student Alliance. Surely, they could give him tips on this whole “coming out” business.
Tonight, though, required Matt’s attention here. He knew he couldn’t stand in the foyer any longer without looking socially awkward. Nor did he want to get trapped in the shadowed clusters along the hall’s perimeter. He surveilled the tables, not so much reading their posterboard signage as scanning for the hottest upperclassman. If he had to be here (OC in general, this mixer in particular), the least he could do to kill time was to make small talk with a hottie.
Bingo! A square-jawed guy with a mop of dark brown hair and a wrestler’s compact body smiled at Matt and, with a slight nod, signaled for him to come to his table.
Matt headed mop-top’s way, intending to bypass the punch and cookies.
A pillowy matron, probably the same lady who had planned this event, blocked his way. She smiled and offered him a cup of Nyquil-colored liquid. “Here sweetheart, welcome to OC! Have some punch.”
Matt returned the smile but held up a hand to decline the drink. “Sadly no. No drinks for me,” he said conspiratorially. “I’m the designated driver.”
It took a moment for the joke to register, but when it did the lady giggle snorted. “Oh honey! You are a pistol, that’s for sure!”
Matt smiled awkwardly. He wanted to be chatting with mop-top, not this woman old enough to be his mother. But he didn’t want to be rude either. Something about this woman telegraphed deep loneliness. He didn’t know if it was the lack of a wedding ring, a sad undertone in her overloud voice, or something about her posture. But she was lonely.
The proffered punch took on a different meaning. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He took the cup and thanked her. “This is a great party! Someone went to a lot of work!”
The woman smiled so wide her eyes crinkled. “That was me! I blew up all them balloons single-handedly.” With her now empty hands, she mimed inflating a balloon. “That was the easy part. Gluing them to the ceiling while straddling a ladder was the hard part.” She laughed loudly at her own joke. Her fleshy breasts quivered in their industrial strength brassiere.
Matt laughed and took a tiny sip of the punch. It was sticky sweet, like melted cotton candy. He fought the urge to grimace. He stole a glance at mop-top, straining to see the guy’s ass. Sadly, there were too many people milling around, blocking his view.
Mop-top’s ass (or the inability to ogle it) reminded Matt of his other mission this evening. He’d wanted to test a hypothesis. A 1992 Newsweek article had reported about a possible gay gene. Scientific studies showed that roughly 2% of males were gay. That news had given Matt hope–even after his dreams of going to OU were dashed. Why? Because if it were true, that meant that even at OC there had to be other gays! Matt was good at Math. He planned to major in Finance. His hypothesis was this: there should be 20 gay men among OC’s students. (Student body: 2,000. Half of those male = 1,000. Two percent of 1,000 = 20.) He just had to find the other 19. Tonight’s smaller sample of 300-ish should mean there were two other gays in this room besides himself. One had to have hope, right? Maybe mop-top was one of those two other gays. Matt could take him back to his no-roommate room, wrestle his clothes off, and fuck him–facedown the first time. This was what consumed Matt’s thoughts: how tight was a manhole compared to his fist?
“I’m Debbie, by the way,” the pillowy woman said, yanking Matt out of his fantasy and back to the present. “I work in the Registrar’s office. Nineteen years next February.”
Matt introduced himself. He was trying to think of a way to politely extricate himself from this conversation when a new voice sang out. “HI DEBBIE!”
Debbie brightened. She stood taller and straighter. “William Tyler Jennings! What are you doing here? You’re not a freshman!”
“I’m working the Drama Club table,” said William Tyler Jennings.
Matt was fairly certain (based on William Tyler Jennings’ lilting voice) that he was about to meet one of the expected two other gays in the room. Matt cursed his luck that this guy would be one of them. (Matt’s only framework for picturing a fellow gay was gleaned from TV: cartoonishly effeminate or Paul Lynde sassy, either way having leached out any testosterone.)
Matt studied the body that went with William Tyler Jennings’ voice. The guy was about 3 inches shorter than Matt, so 5′ 9″, no ass, no chest, just a popsicle stick with a big head. On the plus side, he had a pretty face, with dark, soulful eyes, a nice jawline, and soft, pouty lips.
Debbie made the introductions, nodding to each in turn: “Matt, William. William, Matt.”
William Tyler Jennings extended his hand, palm down, like some starlet offering it to be kissed.
Matt played along reluctantly. William Tyler Jennings was not the first theatre kid he’d met. He returned William’s gesture with a courtly bow. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”
Debbie howled. “Get a load of this guy! ‘Bill’ he says! He’s a real pistol, that’s for sure!”
“That remains to be seen,” William said archly, his eyes darting to Matt’s crotch. “But he certainly needs to sign up for Drama Club, don’t you agree?”
Debbie nodded.
“That’s decided then.” William swept out an arm and guided Matt away. “See you later, Debbie!” he called over his shoulder.
William steered a very hesitant Matt towards the Drama Club table. As they passed mop-top’s table, which Matt now saw was for intramural sports, Matt stole a glance, still unable to glimpse the guy’s ass.
“He’s straight honey,” William whispered. “You can window shop all you want, but that Ken doll is looking for Barbie.”
Matt’s knees almost buckled at the realization that William had seen through him so readily. A cold knot of fear and anxiety settled in his chest. Less than five minutes earlier he’d been so eager to meet the other gays in this room. And now here he was in the company of one of them and already regretting it.
Matt and William arrived at the Drama Club table, which was currently free of milling, curious students. Matt was glad for an opportunity to set down the cup of punch. William handed him a flyer that highlighted the Drama Club. “Pretend like you’re reading it, considering joining the club,” he whispered. “Nod if you understand.”
Matt nodded.
“Good. Now listen closely. In a minute, you’re going to ask me a couple of questions about the club. Loudly. We want that part to be overheard. After I answer, give me a polite brush off, something like you’ll ‘think about it’. Then walk away. Go visit the Ken doll. His name’s Chad, by the way. But then leave. Get in your car and meet me at Johnnie’s Charbroiled burgers in thirty minutes. Got it?”
Matt nodded, pretending to be studying the brochure. “Why would I want to do that?” he asked softly.
William batted his long eyelashes. “Because you need my help to survive around here,” he whispered. “Because you’re dying to kiss boys, and I’m going to teach you how. Because, while you and I will briefly be lovers, we will also become friends. Oh, and finally, my name’s ‘William’. Don’t ever call me ‘Bill’ again.”