The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente) Read Online Free PDF

unreality. I stumbled around this way all day and into the night. On Sunday I was lying on the sofa across the street, babysitting, when the news came on. My charges were long since asleep, so I was alone when the story of Jim and Eddie came on the 10 o’clock news. As the reporter smirked and told the story of the two Wichita boys from prominent families who had been asphyxiated, the film footage began to show two bodies being carried from the little shack where Jim and Eddie had holed up that night and lit the gas stove for heat. The faulty gas stove with no safety in case the flame went out.
    You couldn’t identify which one was Jim and which was Eddie. Blankets were over their bodies. Then I saw something specific, and I knew. The very bad Beatle boots were peeking from one of the blankets. Very pointy Beatle shoes on a camping trip? How absurd.
    Hey Jim? Why in the hell are you wearing Beatle boots on a camping trip? Who’s gonna trip you now?
    I thought I, myself, would die that night. Partly because of lost love and partly because of all the stupid, mean, evil, thoughtless dumb things I’d done to Jim during our four-year juvenile relationship.
    I didn’t stop crying until I arrived at the double funeral for Jim and Eddie. Double caskets, double families, friends, and guests. Eddie’s mother wore a black dress, black stockings, gloves, and handbag, and a dramatic black hat, draped with a gossamer veil. She nearly fainted several times as she walked down the long aisle of the Catholic church. Handsome men flanked her and caught her at each falter.
    By contrast, Jim’s mother was dressed in a cream-colored suit. Her hair was styled, yet simple. She had a lovely crocheted handbag, and she smiled a lovely, soft smile as she walked down the aisle to her family’s place. She emanated something very powerful—hope and spirituality and knowledge. A certainty that life does not end when our fragile bodies do.
    I’ll never forget the contrast between Eddie’s mother and Jim’s. Jim’s mama was radiant in her faith.
    You are muy linda , I said telepathically to Mrs. Richie that day. You are truly the embodiment of your son’s vast ability to love.

But men are men; the best sometimes forget.
    —SHAKESPEARE
    The Art of
Queers
    I ’VE NEVER gone for bisexual men. I just figure they can’t make up their minds, and indecisive men don’t interest me. I have, however, been heartbroken by one gay man whom I found myself hopelessly in love with when I was 14.
    My gay love’s name was Jeffrey, and our affair took place at Kansas University when I went to art school for the summer. I was 14. He was 18. I was in love with him. He didn’t know I existed.
    It was a fine arts school, featuring artists, musicians, and dancers. Although Jeffrey was a ballet dancer and ran about in tights, it was impossible to detect he was gay.
    I knew nothing about people being gay. Literally. I didn’t know it existed. It sounds impossible in this day when even five-year-olds know the definition. Other than hearing an occasional playground fight ending in “You’re a queer!” (which I thought meant “odd”), I’d never heard of a word that would telegraph man-on-man love. Gay, queer, and homosexual didn’t exist in my vocabulary. When I was 12, I once shouted out of the backseat of my 16-year-old sister’s car, “Hey you queer hoppers!” as she drove by the only homosexual nightclub in Wichita. I had no idea what it meant, but she and her friends were laughing and being obnoxious and were delighted to see some “queers” emerging from the “Chances Are.” I thought I was yelling at guys they had crushes on! I liked the word “queer.” It sounded funny, and yelling it at men was exhilarating, but it had no connection to the concept of men loving men. And even if someone had told me what queer actually meant, it would have fallen into the same category as when my friend Sarah’s sister instructed us on the activities