Being Don Being Donna - Chapter Seven

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We unloaded the car at the house. I could see the curtains move at the Sullivan house next door, so there were bound to be questions in the morning about loads of bags and the two boxes we carried in from the car. Had to figure out what to say, in advance so Nosy Rosie doesn’t blab the wrong message to her soul sisters about my new wardrobe. It wouldn’t be hard for her to conjure up a spicy story about the Henderson kid being "kept" by an adult woman.

Miss Morgan carefully took the price tags off the clothes and matched them to the sales slips. She folded the sales slips neatly and put them into her purse. "I’ll keep track of everything we spend, Donny. In case anyone has questions, I have a file on my desk to support what the bank has come from you. I’ll add the cost of these things to the outstanding mortgage, to attest to their propriety. No sense in adding fuel to rumors about our relationship. We’ll keep it strictly professional."

"Lot of good that will do, Miss Morgan. That waitress thinks the worst. Others will, too. They’re bound to talk. I think we both better think twice about what we say in public and steer clear of the house when we’re together until dad gets back."

"I’m not ashamed of what we’re doing, Donny. Are you?"

"I don’t know. It doesn’t look good. People have small minds. If I was a girl, and you were an adult man, the caseworker wouldn’t have considered you to be my guardian in a million years, would she?"

"Perhaps not. What do you think we should do?"

"I don’t know. We have to be sure they don’t think we have any personal interest in each other. They wouldn’t think you’d have a personal interest in me. I’m not attractive. So, it looks like I’m the culprit. That waitress looked at me as if I was a monster. She told you that you could do better, and she’s right."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I think you need a man of your own. If you were married and had a husband, no one would give the wrong ideas a second thought."

"What! That’s absurd! I told you. Donny. I don’t need that kind of love in my life, right now. Things are complicated enough without my taking on another man to look after. Get that idea out of your head, thank you. I don’t want a husband."

"How about a sister, or a mother figure? We need to get someone else involved in this charade. You’re alone. I’m alone. People are going to get funny ideas. We don’t want trouble, do we? We need to create a diversion."

"What are you talking about, Donny? What charade?"

"Face it. No matter how innocent we are, people are going to think we are doing something immoral if I continue to live here in the daytime and sleep over at your place every night. We have to do something to dissuade all the neighbors from thinking the worst like the waitress did. Everything you said was perfectly legit but it sounded as if you were keeping me, in clothes and in this house, like a hooker keeps her pimp. We can’t let the neighbors make that mistake about us."

"What do you propose?"

"I think you should go home alone, and let me remain here for a while. You can look in on me in the mornings in full view of Nosy Rosie next door. If you bring a man with you once in a while, I’ll tell the neighbors he’s your boyfriend or fiancée to keep them from thinking we have something going on. Sure, it’s ridiculous, to even think you’d have anything to do with a fat slob like me, but that won’t stop rumors from going around, anyway. People are goofy about stuff like that."

"I don’t think the neighbors care much what you do, Donny. As long as you take good care of the house, they’ll ignore what relationships you are involved in. Why should they care? Would you be upset if the neighbors think we two gradually become more and more ‘attached’, so to speak?"

"No, on the contrary. Nothing would be nicer, but they’d make fun of me if they knew that you think I’m a kid that needs to be watched over. I wish you’d show that you respect my judgment enough to let me act on my own. I can take care of myself, even if dad shows up. I’m used to him ranting and raving when he’s been drinking. You don’t have to protect me from dad. There’s no danger to me from him. Let me handle him."

"Hmm. Maybe you have a point, but not yet, maybe next week. It’s late. Let’s go. We can continue this conversation in the car." We closed the house and left.

She drove silently for a mile or so then resumed talking. "There is someone that I know well that might be the perfect escort for me to dissuade your neighbors from spreading any rumors. We’ll continue staying at my apartment until the timing is right to introduce him to the scene. You’ll like his often-hilarious antics. He’s an actor and very gregarious. He’s fun to have around.

He’s in the market for a place to stay. Right now, he’s on the road but is looking for a place to park all the things that he can’t lug around while he’s traveling. I can arrange for him to become a boarder at your house. He can stay with you when he’s in town. He has asked me out several times, but he’s not my type. He’s a good friend, so I’m sure he will be pleased to have a low-cost place to crash and help us to dispel any rumors before they start. There’s only one catch."

"What’s that?"

"He’s gay."

"Gulp!"

"Donny? Are you okay? ---- Donny? What’s the matter?"

"If he’s gay, aren’t you afraid of him?"

"Why? Being gay isn’t contagious unless a person is sensitive to the lifestyle, to begin with. As for the increased risk of getting AIDS or other sexually transmitted diseases, as long as he doesn’t engage in careless sexual contact, and this guy never does, there isn’t a health risk. All we want is someone to act as my beau! What better candidate could we find? He’s an actor, Donny."

"I don’t know."

"Look. Some of his stuff is stashed away in my storage closet at the apartment. He was bunking with me for a while before you entered the picture. I know I can trust him, Donny. He’s my good friend. He won’t bother you.

I was considering how I was going to introduce you to him when he gets back in town. You can make room for him to stay there. That way, you’ll have a male image to influence you and you won’t have to worry about vandals."

" Yeah, a GAY male image. How did you get to know a gay man?"

"I met him in college. What difference does that make? Can’t I choose friends if I want to? I don’t think a person’s sexual orientation is important to friendship. Why are you looking at me funny? Haven’t you ever met a person who is gay?"

"Are you kidding? I don’t have any gay friends. I have enough trouble with some guys making fun of me because of my shyness due to my weight. I’ve been called a fag because of it. Why would I make things worse by associating with ‘those’ people? I have a hard time with people without looking for trouble."

"Shame on you, Donny! That was a prejudicial slur! I ought to slap your face for being narrow-minded about something people have no control over. If you want to make fun of people, do it over things they can change, not what they have to live with. Gay people have some choices, but most of them didn’t choose being gay or the way they feel toward others. There is no known cure for being gay."

"I don’t want someone around that looks at me the way they do."

"You don’t have to worry, ‘Fattie’. You aren’t his type, I might have to worry about him, but you won’t."

"You? Why? He’s gay!"

"I should have suspected. You don’t know much about alternative lifestyles. Do you? Some gay men are attracted to women, too: or other men that try to look like women, Donny. Do you know what I mean?"

"Oh. Those."

"What does that mean?"

"I saw pictures of them, once. Guys in school had them. One guy had some of a young guy in a girl’s fancy underwear; you know a scanty panty and lacy bra. He said a cute guy dressed up like a woman wants to be treated like one. That’s all."

"That’s all?

"He asked me if I want to try it, to see if I liked it."

"And"

"And, nothing! I told him to buzz off!"

"You’re not telling me something"

"There’s nothing to tell. I told him to buzz off, that’s all.

"That’s all."

"That’s all, except"

"Except what, Donny?"

"Except the way I feel when I wear your pajamas and the new underwear you got for me like I wore last night with that black silk jacket!"

"Did you like them?"

"Yeah! Too much! I keep thinking about what the guy that asked me to wear a panty and bra would say if he knew what I was sleeping in now. If he knew about it, he’d want me to wear stuff like that for him, and maybe do other stuff together. Makes me wonder if I have problems."

"If he knew about it, would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Wonder if you would want to do other stuff with him? You know, kiss, and make out, let him touch you the way a guy touches girls."

"How should I know? If anyone found out, my name would be mud, or worse."

"So, you are curious about your sexual preferences."

"Curious? Me? No! Scared of what it means? Hell yes!"

"Scared? Scared of what, Donny? Don’t lie. I promise. I’ll never tell a soul."

"I’m scared of the way I felt when I wore your pajamas if that’s how a girl feels."

"There’s nothing unusual about that, Donny. Most growing males wonder how girls feel. I see nothing wrong with wondering what it’s like to be on the other side of the gender barrier. It’s a normal part of growing up. The best way to solve the puzzle is to try it out a few times under very safe conditions and see how it feels. Try to find out how deep your interest goes. Then you won’t have to worry and wonder anymore. You’ll know."

"Sure! I’ll know something is wrong with me. What then?"

"Wrong? You’ll know what it’s like, not whether it’s wrong. Maybe you will like it a lot and want to continue wearing soft, frilly things that most girls wear all the time. So what! It’s nobody’s business what you like to wear to bed at night. In some countries, it’s proper for men to wear sexy things when they are in private, making love to a woman. They wear short bolero jackets, tight sashes to pull in their waists, and diaphanous leggings to accent their legs.

Did you ever see the cute silk shoes Arab men wear with soft soles and pointy, curled-up toes? Arabs wear shoes to woo the ladies. They wear long flowing gowns at home all the time. It’s becoming vogue in other countries too. Men in Europe and America wore nightgowns until the turn of the century. Men’s styles change. Gowns are cooler and more comfortable than pajamas or sweats.

I Betcha a lot of guys would wear them here in the States again if they weren’t so paranoid about their precarious male egos. Did you ever see the short skirts the male Greek dancers wear? How about the thin leotards all-male ballet dancers wear. Would you consider those things for girls? Certainly not! Care to hear me recite more examples for you?

We pulled up at her apartment building. I carried her gym bag for her while she fiddled with the elevator key card. She resumed talking when we got inside.

"Do you think anyone cares what you wear to bed at night now? Who could ever know? Why would anyone try to pry into your bedroom to find out? Maybe some perverts go around peeking into guys’ bedrooms to see what they wear. How many perverts do you know offhand, Donny? Are you going to invite any over? "

"But, wearing girl’s stuff is perverse."

"Says who? Magazine publishers that make it sound seedy, so they sell more magazines. Some men that would never look anything like a girl get off on seeing a guy that can wear them. Clothes are clothes, nothing more. It’s what people do that’s seedy and perverse, like selling dirty magazines or dressing up as a girl to filch money off of the weakness and fear of others.

It’s the purpose, not the deed that’s perverse. A lot of men wish they could wear silks and lace but live in fear of others poking fun at them. Others are lucky. They can successfully wear a girl’s outfit in public without others detecting there’s a man under all the frills. Others have little choice. They look so feminine; they get tagged as being gay and dressed in male clothing, even if they’re not. So they dress in a manner suited to their features. That doesn’t make them perverse, Donny.

Men were the first to wear silk stockings, underwear, and lace hankies, not women. Latino men still think silk shirts; tight pants and slick hairdos are mucho-macho. Do you need any more convincing that there’s nothing wrong with your simple bit of innocent curiosity?"

"I’m afraid of what might happen."

"What would that be?"

"That I’ll like to wear the stuff so much, I’ll turn into a queer."

"What you wear won’t change anything. If you have a skeleton in the closet, you might as well take a good look at it now and decide how to handle it, not hide from your inner feelings until repressing them makes you neurotic. Do you want to redirect your attention to a serious diversion, something worse, like alcohol?

That’s what your dad did. The doctors feel his depression was caused by the loss of his mom. He may be suppressing inner guilt because he feels he should have done more to help her curb her compulsive eating. Maybe that’s why you eat so much, too. Are you suppressing your guilt, too, Donny?"

"You think I’m fat because mom died, and I feel responsible because I should have stopped her from eating herself to death? What sense does that make? I was a fat slob long before mom took ill. I was heavy ever since I was very small."

"Really? That explains why you choose overeating as the prime means of your escaping from the things that bother you. When did you begin to really put on the weight, Donny?"

"What difference does it make? There’s nothing wrong with my head, I just like to eat a lot, Miss Morgan. Why can’t we leave it at that?"

"I don’t agree. It’s dangerous and can be deadly. You don’t need to look far to prove that. There’s an underlying cause for the state your body is in, or you’d work harder exercising to burn it off like most people do like I do. I’m surprised that your dad didn’t make comments about your weight, Donny. I guess he had his own ‘curse’ to contend with"

"He did make comments, Miss ma’am after mom passed away, but I always got mad and wouldn’t talk to him if he did. He was half-drunk. Called me names. Told me I’d end up like mom if I didn’t listen. I’d lash back about his drinking. We got nowhere arguing, so we both avoided talking about it."

"Do you think his depression got worse when he realized you were not going to heed his advice? Maybe his drinking spiral was intertwined with your eating. Did you gain much weight in the past year?"

"What? Are you trying to blame dad’s heavier drinking on me? I was born a fat baby and never was a small kid. If he thought he could change the way I am, he should have talked to my great-grandparents, long before I was born!"

"True, being overweight can be attributed to heredity and the eating patterns we learn when growing up. I’m not denying that, Donny. I’m trying to find out if your eating habits changed dramatically right after your mom passed on. Your dad’s drinking did. I’m curious to know if there is a direct correlation, that’s all. I’m not trying to place blame on anyone, I’m seeking a possible resolution. To do that, I need to know as much as I can about the problem."

"Well, hear this. I was always fat, and I’ll always be fat, because: no matter what happens, I eat. Good things, I celebrate with food, bad things, which I had quite a bit of lately, I eat to help forget about my rotten luck. What’s the use! You’re on a mission that’s bound to fail. I like being fat! I don’t want to be cured, and I don’t like your personal interest in my problem.

Now leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about my weight anymore. Go to your computer and make up another list. I don’t want to join your ‘fat farm’ at the club and I don’t want you to stuff me full of any more vegetables. My sore guts are still boiling from the changes you made in my diet, already."

"Are you sick, Donny? Are you coming down with the flu or something?"

"No, I don’t think so. I had to run to the bathroom twice, this afternoon. I almost didn’t make it the second time. I’m not used to my stomach being so sensitive. Must be because of all the veggies I eat now. Can’t we eat pizza or something normal people eat for a change? You kept pointing to the healthy choices at Bennigan’s. You don’t realize it, but you don’t let up. I’m glad I don’t smoke! If I did, you’d be paranoid!"

"I suppose you think smoking is harmless, too: just a bad habit people have."

"I don’t give a darn about what smoking is. All that I’m trying to deal with is an evangelist that’s dead set on converting me into a health freak. Yesterday you promised to back off. I can see how good your word is. Leave me alone!"

It was my turn to slam the door to my room. I paced the floor for several minutes, anger burning inside. I wanted to throw something! I threw myself across the bed and pleaded into the pillow. "Why? Why me? I don’t want to be saved! I want to die. Why does everybody have to give me a hard time about everything I do? I only want to be left alone. Why is everyone against me?"

I cried into the pillow for an hour. Finally, after I cried out. I thought. She was only trying to help. I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I felt worse. I wanted something to eat. I knew there would be nothing in the fridge that would be worth sinking my teeth into. I had to use the bathroom again, so I got up and went to the door.

The lights were out and the apartment was silent. I went up to her bedroom door and listened. I could barely hear the soft tapping. She was at it again: making another list. I lifted my hand to knock but stopped. I had said too much as it was. What good would it do to prolong the argument? Maybe she was busy with something else. It can’t be the only project she has to work on her computer. Interrupting her concentration would only make her upset. I turned and went to the john.

I wasn’t too pleased with the reflection. She was right. I did gain a lot of weight after mom died. Mom was gone. My increased need to stuff myself was over the mounting bills and dad’s increased consumption of alcohol, that’s all. How could Miss Morgan think my overeating was mom’s fault? Once you die, nothing that happens afterward is your fault. You’re gone! You’re out of the equation!

It’s my fault. I can’t do anything right. If I weren’t around, dad would still be in his sales job, making the money to meet the mortgage. He wouldn’t be a boozer, and he’d find another woman to live with. He’s still young. That’s what I am! I’m the troublemaker that drove him into the hospital, totally out of control.

What would dad think if he knew what we talked about tonight? If he discovered how afraid I am of being ‘different’ than other guys he’d die, too. I can’t let her talk me into wearing any more silky things. If he finds out, he’ll go off the deep end, for sure. I have to resist the temptation.

I can’t let him know about that. He’s a man’s man. If he finds out his only son likes soft and delicate things, the shock would kill him. I can’t let anyone know why mom had a heart attack and died. I can’t.