Party of One: A Memoir in 21 Songs - Dave Holmes Page 0,27

more somber affair than what you might expect from a roomful of skittish gay people and a Catholic priest. We were given copies of Brian McNaught’s On Being Gay and urged to talk about our feelings. My feelings, quite frankly, were that I was tired of being scared. I wanted to be out. I wanted to be a beacon to other kids on campus, who I believed existed, who were searching for the same things. I wanted people to see that I was out and social and accepted and happy and that they could be, too. I wanted them to find the inspiration to be brave and to live life as their truest self. Also, I wanted to have sex with dudes.

The women were warier, which in retrospect I understand. They were from tight, talky little New England, where if they were to come out publicly, their conservative families and friends from home might hear about it. They wanted to stay right where they were for the time being. Quickly, they proposed a policy: No talking to one another outside of the meeting. The women could talk to one another; they already knew one another and wouldn’t need to invent a cover story. As for me, I was not to address any of them while we were outside the meeting place. It was too dangerous. I didn’t like it, but I agreed.

After a couple months, facilitator Mary Pat called me in for a meeting. “We have a job for you,” she told me. “There’s a sophomore named Jeff who wants to join the group, but he’s nervous about it.” I perked all the way up. “We’ve met with him a few times, and I think he just needs to talk to someone who’s been through it. Would you mind having coffee with him?” My heart pounded at the prospect of helping someone who was going through what I was still absolutely going through, and doubly so at her use of a male pronoun. I said that I would not mind having coffee with him. She said, “Great,” and I said, “Terrific,” and as I was about to leave, she said, “You should know this going in: Jeff is very, very handsome.” Of course he is, I thought. I was already picturing him. Jeff had me long before hello.

Through Mary Pat, we arranged it. We chose a place off campus so as not to arouse suspicion, and a time when most of the student body was in class so as not to bump into anyone: Friday at 2:00. I buzzed with excitement and nerves and rage that I could not bend time to my will.

Friday at 2:00 finally came. I decided to be fashionably late, which is to say that I arrived at 2:01. Jeff was at a table, reading a book.

Jeff was beautiful.

Dark, wavy hair, the kind eyes and dimpled chin of a young Campbell Scott. He was perfect.

“Jeff?” I asked.

“Yeah, hi.” He said. Nervous. Like me.

“I’m Dave.” We shook hands. I felt it in the pit of my stomach. I felt a handshake in the pit of my stomach. “What are you reading?”

He held up the book and looked at the cover, and then at me. “I have no idea.” And we laughed.

We talked about the school, and where he was from, and where I was from, and how weird it was that we were doing what we were doing. He mentioned how nervous he still was—he held up his hand about five minutes in and it was still shaking—and I tried to make him relax, to make it look like it was a real hoot to be a half-closeted gay guy at The College of the Holy Cross. I told him that of course he should totally come to the support group meeting, and also, funny enough, that I was having a party that very night and he should come to that, too. He said he would, and we said goodbye, and then I sprinted home to tell all of my friends and my roommate that we were having a party that night.

I’m going to play it cool, I told myself. I’m not going to tell anyone what the deal is or how we met—I have to protect Jeff’s anonymity, after all—I’m just going to take the opportunity to get to know him a little better. He showed up a little later than everyone else—because I had told everyone else to show up an hour earlier than I