Both Sides Now: A Bisexual Memoir: Book One--The Underclassman

By M. Bancroft

You can take the boy out of the country, but–well you get the rest of it. There just had to be more to life than grabbing a chocolate malted at the drive-in or loitering at the bowling alley or sneaking into the picture show to pig out on sour pickles and popcorn. When Bancroft left behind this dusty, ultra-conservative, tiny Texas town that he had called home for the better part of 17 years, he veritably launched. His launchpad was the buckle of the Bible Belt.

He went to college early, not so much to “get a head start”, it was more like “to get the hell out.” As if it were the Resurrection, he was convinced he was going to a better place and, no matter where that was, it had to be an improvement well above the status quo. While in pursuit of an education, even though he knew text books would probably be involved and like-it-or-not he would have to attend at least some classes, he never actually realized to what extent or what kind of education he was going to get or exactly how broad his horizons would eventually become.

Although THE SUMMER OF ’42, was a movie favorite of Bancroft’s, (a virgin in every sense of the word), he had never actually considered it a manual to manage one’s own sex life. Besides, if that were the case they sure left out an awful lot of integral footnotes in the appendix. Where were the road signs defining just how quickly things change or how surprisingly partners tag-team and you suddenly find yourself swapped out. Unexpected directions, twists and death-spiral u-turns can alter this journey called life while advancing toward your final destination in the great beyond?

Even though events made his college years seem more like BOB & CAROL & TED & ALICE or BOYS IN THE BAND rather than LOVE FINDS ANDY HARDY, the truth is it probably falls somewhere in the middle–which is also where he seems to find himself a great deal of the time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483507552

Book preview

Marcus

Chapter One--Summer of '72

The most logical place to begin is at the beginning; therefore, having no claim to logic, we'll start in the middle. Besides, the beginning is boring.

It all middled three days after high school graduation. It was June 1972 and time to go to college and become a man. I had always hated school, but would have done about anything as long as it got me out of that town. I didn't test my wings first; I grabbed a Lear jet and took off. I was as naive as any college freshman, and a helluva lot less experienced than most. Living in a tiny Texas town of 3,000 for seventeen years isn't very enlightening. In preparation for my transition to college, I did some soul -searching and self-evaluating. Finding that I was so terribly pure of heart and mind and body---(I was a virgin in every sense of the word) I decided to try almost anything once.

I found myself entering a Party School. If one is inexperience, enrollment in one of these will soon solve that. On campus were such esteemed fraternities as I -Felta-Thigh and Halfa-Cana-Alpo. Many were practitioners of the Church of the Infinite Frisbee. These were kids who knew why they had come to college. It's a pity that it wasn't for an education--degree-wise, that is.

This was before the days of the co -ed dormitories. Although there were several women's dorms, only one men's dorm was open that summer. The men's high -rise was twelve stories of luxurious grayness with a crack as big as the San Andreas fault running from the basement up through the fifth floor. It was here that I was committed for the first year of my college career.

I lugged all my stuff up the five flights to my cell, since it was impossible to get an elevator on the first day. With no TV or stereo, thus having no other means of entertainment, I decided to sit downstairs and watch the other poor suckers move in. The lobby was furnished in shades of blue and green in a style referred to as Early Office. A dentist's waiting room was cozier. After checking out the TV room, the ping pong tables, and the registration area, I went to the candy machines, got a Coke and sat on a chair with a broken arm that had a view of the front desk. Suddenly, Venus walked in with a man who was checking in. A hint of Windsong perfume lingered in the air. She was beautiful, if slightly chubby. About 21, she was the first college girl I had ever seen close up that wasn't a relative. I was impressed. She wore cut-offs and a slightly-too-tight t-shirt. She had long, sandy-brown hair that had been frosted by an expert. Her big green eyes were unmatched, until her brother turned around and batted his in my direction. Oh brave new world, that has such people in it!

Just what are you laughing at? he said.

Sorry...you do look like you could use another hand.

Would you mind? she purred. Hi, I'm Debbie, and this is my brother Skipper

Hi, my name's Marcus, I said flinging the bulging clothes bag over my shoulder, nearly collapsing under the strain. The elevator mercifully arrived with a loud clunk and we wrestled his belongings to his room on the second floor.

It was obvious that they were both older. When you're 17 and at college, who isn't? But, a friend is a friend, and I had found two with one relatively painless introduction. I was excruciatingly shy back then. Now I knew someone and I was ready to conquer the campus; that is, as long as I knew I wasn't absolutely alone in this madcap world of college crazies.

For two days I perused my crumpled gas station map and studied our small college town. It was Friday, my third night at the dorm. There was nothing to do since school didn't start until Monday. So, after scurrying through the maze of registration and wolfing down some starch-filled concoction laden with saltpeter, I dragged my self uphill from the cafeteria and sank into one of the naugahide chairs lined up in front of the TV downstairs. There was nothing on the tube but reruns. As I looked around, Skipper caught my eye and waved me over.

Twenty-three, he was a graduate student every bit as lanky as me, even if not quite as tall. He was only six foot even. Skip had medium -length brown hair that compli-mented those big green eyes. Long lashes made them very expressive, whether condoning or condemning. He had a mustache that r aised when he laughed and lengthened when he smiled. He was a sincere person, yet difficult to know. He was also the first person I ever hurt. (I wish he were the last.)

Skip smiled as I moved to talk to him. There's not much to watch, is there?

Nah, he agreed. Why don't we go up and listen to my stereo? It beats sitting down here watching old Westerns.

Sure! I jumped up, anxious to encourage the friendship of an upperclassman. Maybe his sister had some friends my age.

We tramped up one of the refrigerated stairwells, which were always at a brisk 65 degrees, as were the rooms. Frank Lloyd Wrong had placed the thermostats under the spotlights on the stairs, so they never shut off for very long. Nice if you're a penguin. Skipper's room was warmer than most because he had thumb -tacked a blue pillowcase over the vent to stifle the outpour of Arctic air. He put on a Judy Garland album. I'm Always Chasing Rainbows drifted out of the speakers when he finally spoke.

Do you mind if I get comfortable?

Puzzled, I replied, It's your room, fella. Suit yourself.

Feel free to make yourself at home.

I'm fine for right now, thank -- I was caught by surprise when he didn't stop at unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his shoes and socks. I was confronted by a man clad only in yellow-mesh underwear. I pondered a second on his immodesty, then shrugged it off as to each his own. I was sitting on his roommate's bed (who was conveniently out of town) as Skip sat, legs spread, on his own bed. Again, I shrugged it off. When the record ended, Skip got up and put on another album, a jazzy record with a slow, syncopated rhythm. He sat down again and slowly began rubbing the mattress and patting the bed softly to the beat of the music. The little warmth there was seemed to flow from the room and into his eyes as his friendly gaze changed to a wide -eyed look, and his smile grew, revealing almost too -white teeth. Someone walked across my grave. I shuddered, wondering what was going on.

Suddenly, I realized something. What? His intent? I wasn't sure. Electrical charges raced through my body. There really are people like this, echoed through my head. Like what? I didn't know. I was scared, anxious, shocked, and strangely curious, all at the same time. I felt circuits between my mind and my body short out as gears stripped and pinwheels spun, exploding in the realization that I did know what this man wanted.

I flashed back to high school and the rumors about Charley Goolsby. There really were boys who wanted to do it with other boys. This was a first for me.

My hands and feet were nervously throbbing with aching cold. As seconds of reverie that seemed an eternity passed, the terror of the moment returned. Fear of the unknown. Not fear of the man. Fear of the fact that I didn't know how to handle the situation--at the time. I had to have time to think. I needed time to contemplate my own consciousness of the realization that there are men who want men. This man wasn't queer. That was a repulsive word that stirred up unimaginable creatures of repugnance. I was not repulsed, he was attractive. Skip couldn't be associated with a word as demeaning as that or as clinical as homosexual. He was my friend, wasn't he? What the hell did I care who he took to bed? I should have been flattered that he found me attractive, and that he wanted me, and I was --later. But I had to have time to organize things in my mind, put things in proper perspective. Quickly and as gallantly as possible, I left to gather my wits. I think he understood.

I spent Saturday and Sunday alone. I read. I left my room only to eat and to use the John. I wasn't ready to meet anyone else yet. I've never been the type to just go around introducing myself to people. I vegetated and contemplated, but after being inert for two days, I was ready for Monday.

My first class was swimming, which was very uncomfortable for me. I had been in marching band for seven years, and thus had no P.E. requirement in high school. It took a while to acclimate to the community showers in the sport's center and in the dorms. (I wasn't used to being sized -up in the bathroom.) The dorm John was set up in so that the doorless cubicles directly faced the open four -person shower stall. There was no way to not watch or not be watched by someone else using the facilities, unless you sat or showered facing the wall (which could prove as uncomfortable as inconvenient.)

I was late for my first class in the sports center. As I timidly entered, I looked down and saw fifteen wet faces peeking over the edge of the pool. I dove in and swam back to one that seemed particularly friendly. His dark hair was slicked back and his bright eyes were out-shown only by his smile.

Haven't I seen you around the dorm? he asked.

Yeah, sure. I thought you looked familiar.

What floor do you live on?

The fifth. You?

The second. He extended his hand. Name's Grayson.

I'm Marcus.

A deafening whistle echoed around the pool. The swimming coach came in and class began. We had to prove our adeptness by swimming one full lap of the pool. Some of us barely made it.

I somewhat overcame my modesty once I had nonchalantly perused the shower and realized that I wasn't the runt of the lit ter. Smugly, I was rinsing the shampoo out of my eyes when a loud thwap accompanied by the sharp stinging of my right buttock brought me to attention. Grayson had just popped me with business end of a wet towel. Naked and dripping, I chased him half-way to the stairs leading out before I lost my footing and careened into the lockers, clumping into a heap on the floor. He ran out laughing as I swore, Vengeance is mine!

Grayson and I must have made a strange pair. We had what you would call a Mutt and Jeff friendship. At 6'2, with ash-brown hair and hazel eyes, I was Mutt. Grayson, only about 5'6, with blue eyes and thinning, almost-black hair, was Jeff. He was a man of the world, a Viet Nam vet, although he would never talk about the war.

We started doing things together. We really enjoyed each other's company. One reason was that he told the best sexploits that I had ever heard, and I drank in every syllable. To hear him tell it, he had gotten enough nookie to fill one of the smaller women's dorms. I guess what they say about opposites attracting is true, because Grayson was 25, short (if you'll excuse the expression), muscular, and dark with a neatly trimmed mustache. I was long, very lanky, and clean shaven (having mastered this male ritual just the week before). I looked like the English Major that I was. We spent most of the time laughing.

One night, about two weeks into June, as we walked back from the cafeteria, Grayson asked me if I liked beer. Being from a fine Episcopal family, a resounding yes echoed in the air as we drove off to the 7 -Eleven. We returned to the dorm and parked the car. Sacks in hand, we trod merrily about a quarter -mile down the unbeaten path to sit in a small clearing of a wooded area. It was illegal to d rink on campus then and I was about four years shy of the legal drinking age. We popped tops and leaned against large rocks as we gazed at the stars, taking record -breaking draws from the cool cans. The air was filled with a symphony of night sounds that mingled with his husky voice as he recounted one of his conquests, punctuating with an occasional chuckle. The wind tussled my hair as I sat back and listened to the branches creak, just enjoying his company.

Having finished our six-packs, we gathered ourselves up and headed for home. Because we had raced through the brew, blood now raced through our bodies and the pulsating rhythm clouded our vision, stealing our coordination. The only solution was to lean. So, each acting as crutch to the other, we slowly made our way back uphill to the dorm. We fumbled and stumbled and finally got to the back door. We assumed the facade of sobriety until we hit the stairwell, when a piercing Rebel Yell rang from Grayson's throat and a loud whooping laugh rang from mine. I barely made it to the second floor, I was laughing so hard. We decided to talk in his room since it was doubtful that we could make the three more flights of stairs to mine. After a quick pit stop, we rounded the corner and collapsed on the beds. Neither Grayson nor I had a roommate to worry about, so we could talk as long as we wanted. (This soon proved advantageous.)

We lay there lingering on the edge of Utopia as our minds hazed. Hours passed as we basked in the warmth of companionship and laughed the time away. Grayson took off his shirt as he stood at the window looking down at the lights of our quiet college town. For the first time, I noticed how handsome he was. Oh, what a piece of work is man. I watched his manly form silhouetted against the midnight sky as the lights of the night reflected in his dark eyes. He stirred something in me. Something that I didn't quite understand or fully comprehend.

As always, the conversation drifted to the topic of sex. Although I had had no experience in matters of love, I found myself identifying with Grayson's tales as I soaked in every detail.

Chuckling as he turned, he looked at me with an intensity that seemed strange when coinciding with his flippant comment. I'm so horny, I could screw a tree.

Jumping up from the bed, I ran to the window and pointed down to an oak in front of the dorm. There's a likely candidate.

Grabbing my arm, Grayson bounced back onto the bed, pulling me on top of him. After wrestling a while, we lay back laughing and collapsed in each other's arms. There was an awkward pause. Then we moved apart, untangling ourselves. I heard only silence as I leaned back, hands behind my head. Waiting --for what, I didn't know. Grayson sat up and looked down into my eye s, alluding once more to how frustrated he was, without a bed partner. Seconds ticked by as there was again a slightly awkward pause.

Grayson turned to me and asked, Have you ever had anyone go down on you?

I froze. The words repeated in my head. I wasn't exactly sure what he had meant. I considered a moment what going down could be. Even though the fog was beginning to clear, my mind was still somewhat clouded.

"What does that mean?" I heard myself ask.

You know... he said.

I shook my head. He laughed nervously.

That's when somebody sucks your cock.

Ah...No...no, I haven't, I said with what must have been a little too much conviction, because it seemed to make him nervous. He turned away.

Grayson hesitated before asking the question. Turning back he proposed, Well...would you like to try it?

I started to freak, but halted my train of thought. No, I considered, I'm not going to flip out like I did with Skip. I decided to find out for myself what was right or wrong for me. I couldn't make a snap judgement. I heard myself say, Try what? I was petrified. I was stalling, still tentative.

You know, he said earnestly. A desire for physical contact was searching from his eyes. It wasn't the near-lust I had seen in Skipper's eyes, but a need, a longing that I knew I could satisfy, if I would.

I wanted to. I honestly wanted to. Turning slowly, I looked at him and smiled. "Hell, why not. I said I'd try anything once. "

We both released a chuckle of