Whores, Queers and Others

By Philip Barrows

Classic of gay literature, and a 10-year chronicle of life split between post-war Paris, Italy, and New York. This seminal title, helping to transition society from the days when Glory Hole meant a lucky mining strike, has been out of print for a while, perhaps because the modern gay community isn't able to come to grips with Barrows' "final" decision on his own sexuality. Still, as a work by a man who tried just about everything, beginning his narrative at the seminary of all places, it's a worthy effort for anyone interested in the subject or the period.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olympia Press
• Release date: Nov 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781608726783

Book preview

OTHERS

Philip Barrows

This page copyright © 2004 Olympia Press.

Our life is a book to which we add daily, until suddenly we are finished and the manuscript burned. In this diary we set out meaning to write one story and write another. To turn back to the beginning is only to wonder and to be sad, but to compare the second half of the volume as it is with what we vowed to make it, is to be lashed with nettles.

—Sir James M. Barrie The Little Minister

To the memory of

John R. 1925-1951

Volume I

1

STRANGE, WHEN YOU'RE SURE YOU'RE about to die, the unimportant things in life you remember. There doesn't seem to be any meaningful pattern at all. Or maybe there isn't supposed to be a pattern. Or maybe we just can't stand off and look at it clearly and honestly.

The earliest clear memory I have is of my fourth birthday party with cake and ice cream and hot chocolate at lunch. I blew out all four candles with just one breath so I was sure of getting my wish, whatever it may have been.

There were just four of us: my mother, her mother, my older brother John and myself, but it was an exciting party with balloons and funny paper hats and those favors that look like fringed napkins rolled up. But the most exciting thing was when the radio announcer wished me a happy birthday and played my favorite song, Rain On the Roof. I was a little disappointed because some girl sang it instead of the man whose record I liked, but even so, it was wonderful to have the announcer tell the whole world about my birthday. I was having such a good time I didn't mind too much when John went back to kindergarten for the afternoon. My grandmother rocked me while my mother did the dishes, and then my mother took me to bed for my nap.

You shouldn't mind too much when John has to go back to school every day. Sooner or later we all have to say good-bye to each other and go away for good. Like Granny. She loves us and would love to rock you forever, but she's very tired and sick so pretty soon she'll go back to her house and then she'll go to God's house and rock the little baby Jesus. Won't that be nice?

When's she coming back?

Well, don't breathe a word of this to her or John or anyone else—promise me?—but I don't think she'll be able to come back. We'll be able to visit her in our prayers every morning and every night, and sometime, maybe soon—you never know when—we'll go visit her in God's house and stay there with them forever. Won't that be nice?

Won't John have to go to school?

Not any more after we go there.

Won't Daddy have to go to the drug store?

Not after he goes to heaven.

When are we going?

You're a big boy now and you've got to be strong and brave. We never know for sure when God is going to invite us to his house; that's why we have to be good all the time. If you're not good, He won't invite you. He'll send you away to another place and you'll never see any of us again. That's why you've got to be a good boy all the time. God knows everything you say and do and even just think. Anyway, He'll invite us to his house one at a time. Maybe years and years apart, but you never have to feel lonely because we can always visit each other in our prayers and keep the memory of each other in our hearts.

You won't go away without me, will you?

Not really. My soul will always follow you and be with you even after this fat old body of mine is dead and gone.

When are you going?

I hope I don't have to go for years and years, not until you're a big man and have little boys of your own. Stop that! Only naughty little boys touch their teapots when they don't have to go weewee. Do you have to weewee?

No.

Then take your hand away and keep both hands on top of the covers where I can see them! That's better. Now, as I was saying, I hope I don't have to go away for years, but we never know so we always have to be ready. Maybe I'll have to go away in a few weeks when the little baby comes.

Take me with you!

I can't. That's up to God. But you're such a big boy now you really don't need me. You'll have to stay here and take care of John and Daddy. You want a baby sister, like I do, don't you? Well, God has heard our prayers and in a few weeks I have to go through the Valley of the Shadow of Death in order to get the baby. Every time a woman has a baby, she has to go right up to death's door to get in. And sometimes God opens the door and invites her in. Sometimes she takes the baby in with her, and sometimes she has to leave it outside for other people to care for, while she has to stay there. Do you understand?

Don't go!

But I have to, baby! No, I can't call you baby any more. You're a big strong boy now and I'm very proud of you. You're my very special little man! But in a few weeks now, I'll have to make that short trip into the Valley and if I don't come back, I want you to know it's not that I don't love you or don't want to come back, it's just that God might make me stay. What are you crying about? Come on, stop those tears and tell Mommy why you're crying.

I don't want you to go away! I don't really want a baby sister. I just want you and John and Daddy and Granny!

Don't cry, lovey! You know I'll hurry back unless God makes me stay. You know I love you more than anything or anyone else in the whole wide world.

I hate God!

Stop that! Don't you ever let me hear you say that again! God loves you even more than I love you... even more, and He knows what's best for us. I'll tell you what! If you stop crying, and if you're a real good boy and pray real hard, I'm sure God will listen to your prayers and let me come back with the baby and then we'll be all happy together. Won't that be fun? We'll have lots of ice cream and lots of parties, too. Will you pray for me? Oh, feel here quick! Feel how happy the baby is just thinking of all the parties we'll have? Can you feel him kicking? Isn't that funny? Now go to sleep, my love, but first we have to say our prayers. Fold your hands and close your eyes, and we'll say the Hail Mary together out loud.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...

2

YEARS LATER, WHEN I STARTED GOING TO an analyst, I asked my mother what I had been like as a child.

What kind of a child? Well, you were always very obedient, thoughtful, considerate, intelligent—everything a mother could really ask for, I suppose—and yet while I can't say you weren't affectionate, I always felt when you were a child, and even more so as you grew up, that I couldn't really get close to you. You never seemed to be completely happy, and you didn't like to be held or cuddled. You always kept me at a distance, in a way. Part of your mind seemed to be somewhere else, almost worrying about something else, and yet, you never missed seeing or hearing everything that was going on!

My brother John was eighteen months older than I, and whenever my mother would say to friends or relatives that we were as different as day and night, I thought he Was the day. He had a sunny disposition, a big smile for everyone, an exuberant self-confidence and optimism. He was adorable to women, and a real athlete to men. Everyone enjoyed talking to him. My mother said he had the biggest blue eyes and the longest lashes in the world.

Long before I Was five, I wished he would die or be kidnapped. I was willing to do anything to get out of his shadow and bask in the love which I felt should come to me instead of being wasted on him. He seemed to take it all for granted whereas I felt it might be taken away at any moment and never given back. According to psychological theory, the four-year-old boy is more or less in open conflict with his father for the attention and affection of his mother. But as the boy comes to know and love the father between the ages of four and six, he loses his hostility toward, and fear of, his father and starts to imitate him and wants to grow up to be like him. I never had that type of Oedipal conflict. If anything, my father had the reverse problem, because my mother despised him and much preferred her sons.

He worked in his little drug store from seven in the morning until eleven at night six days a week, and had only a few hours free on Sunday afternoon.

As a result, almost everything I knew or thought about him was based on what my mother confided as I helped her do the housework. She more or less thought out loud, needing a confidante and assuming my childish mind wouldn't remember what she was saying. He was lazy and selfish. He never did anything unless she made him do it. He didn't bathe often enough. He snored. All he thought about was pretty girls. He was a poor businessman. He never bought her anything or took her anywhere. Half the time he seemed dead on his feet or doped up. Nobody respected him. He didn't really love us. Why had she ever married him? He was a good-for-nothing. He never helped around the house. He never showed any interest in the kids. All he thought about was himself or some pretty girl.

So I never really felt I had to fight him for my mother's love. But I did feel I had to fight my older brother for it. I felt I had to destroy John in her eyes before she would really appreciate me and give me every bit of her love, leaving nothing for him. I hid his schoolbooks so he'd do worse—he wasn't interested in studying or learning—and excelled in my own studies. I pushed him into puddles while staying immaculate myself. I'd goad his easy-going disposition quietly until he seemed to start the fights we constantly had. And yet, I could never win. He was too attractive, too extroverted, too charming and friendly, too innocent for me to destroy. She might spank him one minute, but a few minutes later they would kiss and make up.

When I was five I found a portrait of her as a child in the attic and thought it was a portrait of him with long hair. For years I was positive, in spite of being told otherwise, that it was his portrait. I couldn't figure out why my mother persisted in lying about it. Yet, even when I hated him most, I felt guilty; he seemed to love me in spite of my running feud. He never held any grudges. It was confusing to envy and love-the same person, to want to be exactly like him while seeking to destroy him, to want to injure him while wanting him to protect me.

3

HOW DID YOU TOILET TRAIN ME?

Do you really have to go that far back and discuss such disgusting things? What differences could that make in your analysis?

It might explain things like generosity versus stinginess, or being a spendthrift instead of saving. Little kids think their bowel movements are far more precious than gold, you know.

No, I didn't know, but at times you would look at it and seem disappointed you hadn't laid a golden egg! Well, I did it the way every other mother does. I'd strap you into the little chair over the pot, dip my finger in vaseline and insert it in your rectum. Then you'd react and have a movement. Are you satisfied?

We sat in silence looking out over the lake. I'd never heard of that type of training before. No wonder I never let myself get constipated and never saved any money. Who'd want to provoke an attack like that?

"Of course, later, whenever you needed a movement, I'd use suppositories or an enema. If you made much of a fuss, I'd get out the vaseline and warn you. That usually made you shut up and do your business."

4

"CHRIST IS THE UNSEEN HEAD OF THIS house.

The Silent Host at every meal.

The Silent Listener of every conversation..." We had a long prayer to that effect hanging in our dining room. My mother used to read it to us kids at least once a week. Like many of her stories, it gave me goose-pimples and I often looked around, trying to catch sight of the invisible guest.

Once upon a time, there was a very evil and very ugly man who bought a beautiful mask to wear in order to fool people so they would love and trust him. The mask was so beautiful that people did love him, so much so that, little by little, he, too, learned to love and trust people. Gradually he became less and less evil until finally he was a very saintly man. When he died, his friends discovered the mask and took it off and, lo and behold, his face had become even more beautiful than the mask!

"Once upon a time, God was walking past a monastery with a man and let him see all the ordinarily invisible devils who were trying to climb the walls and sneak through the gates. And God explained that the devil always concentrates his efforts where good men live. He doesn't need to spend much effort to conquer evil men."

You can't judge a book by its cover! The most evil books sometimes have pretty covers, while the dullest covers might contain very good books.

"Just because he's so handsome and quiet, he doesn't fool me for an instant. I know he's making eyes at that shameless Florence Johnson! Oh, Prank darling, it's so good to have you home again! Did you have a hard day?"

How would you like to get dressed up like a little girl and fool Daddy and everybody?

... And then the tiger put on little black Sambo's pants ...

Let me paint your finger and toenails just like mine!

Why can't you act like a nice little boy?

... And then the tiger dissolved into a puddle of butter! Wasn't that funny?

Isn't Jackie Peterson adorable? And he's such a nice little boy, so polite and always so clean?

Don't be afraid, John! Daddy won't hurt you. He's just playing. He's not really a horsie or doggie or tiger. It's only make-believe.

Step on the cracks in the sidewalk and you'll break the devil's dishes.

That poor Lindberg baby. It would break my heart if you were kidnapped. Don't ever talk to strangers or go anywhere with them!

Why don't you smile more? You always look too serious, like your father! Look how friendly John is! Everyone loves him because he's got such a friendly smile. People won't like you if you're an old sourpuss!

Let's pretend you're a little girl and I'll show you how you can help me dust and make the beds. You're such a big help around the house, not lazy like John and your father. I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you!

Once upon a time there was this fairy princess and she had a wicked mean old witch for a stepmother who made her sweep the floor and wash the dishes and made the beds and everything ...

Kiss Daddy when he comes home! It'll make him happy!

Frank, stop tickling him so hard! You'll break his ribs!

What was true and what was false? What was real and what was imaginary? What was right and what was wrong? Who was lying? I was hopelessly confused by the masks which I thought concealed evil, beauty, terror, love, hate and everything else. How could just a photograph be an aunt or uncle? Was the devil always attractive, and were attractive people really devils in disguise? What was the difference between a wicked stepmother and a loving mother? Were ugly people evil or good? Did God really listen to everything I thought, even if I didn't say it out loud? How could I smile more when she was usually complaining about being so unhappy and he was so mean to her he hurt her every night?

Give me back that mirror? You're not that good looking and you'll get cross-eyed! I handed over the mirror and watched the change as she carefully applied lipstick and rouge, comparing the results in her large and small mirrors.

Now turn around and don't peek while I get dressed. It's a sin to look at anyone when they are naked or getting dressed! You shouldn't even look at John when he's getting dressed, or the baby either, when I'm changing him! Why don't you go look at the pictures in a magazine, or go look out the front window and see if anyone's coming to see us? We never have much company, do we? Maybe Billy Anderson will come over today! Did you know he's the captain of the high school football team? I used to have a boy friend once who played football, but he broke his neck in a game while I was holding his coat and he died right away. Wasn't that awful?

It was like riding the carousel at Watch Hill. The same music played over and over again, the same animals went round and round, and riding one of the wild wooden horses up and down, round and round, I could catch only glimpses of the people standing outside the fence and always just missed being able to reach the brass ring that would win me a free ride. I was strapped on too tightly, or was too small and too slow to react.

Yet at the time, and with many reservations, I thought I could catch and peel away the hard edge of the invisible masks that everyone wore, able to find the edge and so make them afraid of me. I thought I could learn how to manipulate them like the cardboard puppets in kindergarten so that most of the time I could feel in control and fairly safe.

My father was probably a devil behind his handsome face, but he was nice and friendly when I let him tickle me, or sitting on his shoe when he crossed his legs, rode the cock horse to Danbury fair, or clung to his thigh and stood on his foot while he walked around like a giant, smelling the blood of an Englishman.

My brother, too, was probably really a devil behind his laughing face, too, but he'd be nice and play with me anytime I threatened to tell my mother about any small mistake he'd made.

My mother seemed to have so many masks (as most intelligent women do, even though poorly educated) that I had to switch my own frequently, yet carefully, in order to mirror hers and so keep her under control. One of my most successful was an imitation of my father coming into the house, throwing my arms around her, and mimicking his bass Hell-low, Rosie! This always put her in a good mood. Imitating his tired groans, taking off my shoes and flopping on the couch with my feet sticking over one arm of it and snoring loudly always sent her into gales of laughter.

Imitating John's big innocent smile, dreamily saying, Huh? What did you say? always drew a big smile.

But the most disarming masks were imitations of her own:

I just don't know what to do about that boy!

Thank God, he's got such a good disposition!

"Oh, well, he's a darling baby even if he does make a mess!"

Thy will be done!

Jesus, Mary and Joseph pray for us!

Jesus knows all!

Jesus Christ, have mercy on us! and of course, Offer it up to Our Blessed Lord as pennance!

Listening carefully to what she praised or scorned in others, I was able to patch together a personality which worked, or at least made life more predictable.

But one of the results was that I never felt I was really being myself and suspected everyone else of playing equally deceptive roles. There was always a part of the back of my mind which remained aloof, as though sitting on top of the doorjamb or window, and critically watched and listened and judged like the Unseen Guest, waiting for me or one of the others to let a mask slip or a truth slip out. He, for by now I practically consider Him a separate identity, is still always there except when I get so drunk that the next morning I can't remember the evening and am glad that I can't. At times, I thought I would go mad unless I could reintegrate the two of us and live one life instead of playing parts. And I have always intensely envied people who seem whole.

5

MY MOTHER ONCE TOLD ME THAT BEFORE I was old enough to go to school, her most effective technique for keeping me quiet and out of her way was to give me a photograph, an album of photos or an illustrated magazine. She said that just one photo could keep me occupied for over an hour, as I examined every feature, turning it occasionally upside down or staring puzzled at the blank back of the picture.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons I came to feel that faces and bodies are merely masks like clothes and really have little to do with the real you. Somehow, somewhere, I could find the edge and peel it back and find the real truth and really know you. In any event, I stared at people, too, wondering what they were really like, until they'd tell me to stop staring, it was rude. Since then, I've been too afraid to risk that reproach when I'm sober so I glance at people only surreptitiously and stare only when I'm too drunk to give a damn.

In brief, I suppose I've always been at least an intellectual voyeur—one affected with an undue visual curiosity; especially one whose sexual desire is concentrated upon seeing sex organs, etc.; shameful by the world they live in. But, I went to the opposite extreme and never allowed myself to even glance at sexual organs. I can't recall seeing either of my brothers' genitals after I was four or five. We frequently saw each other's naked buttocks, of course, since we always turned our backs while dressing, and about once a week my mother would make us take down car pants and kneel alongside her bed as she whipped us in turn. I can't recall ever being erotically aroused, however, by the sight. If anything, I suppose I always associated the sight of naked buttocks with very painful punishment. My mother wielded my father's doubled-up leather belt with great enthusiasm although she always prefaced her lickings with a resolute: This is going to hurt me much more than it's going to hurt you! Then she'd start with John and slowly work her way to me and then Jimmy. Fortunately for Jimmy, she was usually exhausted by the time she got to him, and he'd have been crying all the time anyway so he seemed exhausted by the first blow.

The summer I was nine, she took me to see a specialist. I don't know what he prescribed or why, but he was very nice and a few weeks later, my mother drove John and me up to a boys' camp in Vermont for a two-week vacation.

It was run by priests, so there were lots of prayers and during meals one of them read to us from some book about the Cure d'Ars. It was a terrifying mystery story. The devil was trying to drive this French priest nuts, so as soon as the priest went to bed every night, the devil started throwing the furniture around, making weird noises, and even starting fires. Alone in a bed for the first time in my life, I used to lie awake, waiting for him to start, scared by every creak in the old wooden building.

They taught us to swim, to pick up bits of paper on the grounds with sticks with nails stuck in the end, and they took us on hikes. We even learned how to paddle tiny punts just big enough for one of us. But, since I wasn't a good swimmer, I wasn't supposed to paddle past the buoys into the deep water where the float and diving boards were. John was always out on the float getting diving lessons so one afternoon I waved to him and started paddling out. He watched me coming, watched the punt capsize and my hands slip off the slimey bottom. I went down, once, twice, three times, four times—amazed because I heard you drowned the third time you went under—five times. Each time I came up I pleaded with my eyes, hoping he would save me but too afraid of being punished for going out over my head to dare shout for