The Year Was 1987, Part Two

However, my reputation wasn't the only thing endangered by these clandestine meetings with Leo. Since he literally lived on the other side of the tracks, I was also risking bodily harm. After every session, he would beg me to stay, but I refused because word would get around (from the dorm's "conserje" and my dorky Spanish roommate) that I spent the night elsewhere.

Wistfully, I would take my leave while Leo put on his white robe and stepped out to the balcony for a smoke. As I walked away, I would look back periodically to see if he was still there, watching over me, the shadowy figure in the white robe. Right before I turned the corner, I would stop and wave, and even though I couldn't see his shape anymore, his cigarette would signal back, like a single firefly blinking an orange farewell.

I can't believe I was never assaulted, the gay American bull's eye in jean jacket and loafers, haughtily clacking down the street. The crumbling, abandoned buildings reminded me of post-WWII London (or North Philly), and I barely breathed until I reached the main thoroughfare, where finding a taxi at 4am was yet another adventure.

I eventually stopped seeing Leo because it was getting more and more complicated. He only had a phone at work, and my Spanish wasn't good enough at the time to understand his doublespeak when co-workers were around. He started saying that he was going to miss me when I went back to the States, and I ran scared. Plus, the Americans were becoming suspicious of my unexplained disappearances.

For the next few months, I was one horny, closeted, post-adolescent American abroad in a sea of horny, closeted, post-Franco Spaniards. One day at the Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, I was gracefully descending the staircase after another bleary-eyed morning of classes when Kimberly appeared, blocking my passage, hands on hips. She was a no-nonsense Wellesley woman who flirted with me in a non-sexual way, sort of like Dámaris when I first arrived in San Diego, all double entendres and raised eyebrows. Kimberly said flatly, "OK. Just say it. Just say yes." Although momentarily stunned, I knew this moment had to come sooner or later, so I shrugged and said, "Yes?" She smiled and replied, "Good. Now that that's out of the way, we can cut the crap and talk about cute boys."

Kimberly's coolness encouraged me to come out to several other people in the program, who in turn inspired me to come out with a vengeance at Wooster. I don't have to tell you that there's no bigger bitch on this planet than a closeted gay man trying to deflect attention away from his own sex life (or lack thereof) by getting involved in everyone else's business. Several acquaintances at Wooster noticed the change in my general demeanor and went on to become good friends during junior and senior year, not having to keep their distance for fear of incurring my wrath and scrutiny.