Oliver's Diary: A Lgbtq+ Love Story

By Robert Groves

Oliver chronicles his journey of bullying, falling into and out of love with more than one man, finding his adult independence, navigating the era of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, and achieving self-acceptance through reflection of his diary entries spanning four decades. You will laugh. You will cry. You will smile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543930955

Book preview

me.

Prologue

I love him.

But he is straight.

His smile.

His lips.

His eyes.

His laugh.

His everything.

How is this going to work?

Now in my senior year of high school, I, Oliver Williamson, wrote those words in my diary to describe Christopher Standridge. Since the third grade, I had written those words, or similar, many times.

Welcome, reader, to my story.

I first recognized these feelings in 1971. It was my 9th year on this planet. And, I acted upon my feelings because it seemed natural. I didn’t understand them. The first crisis, my Dad’s word, I experienced was one of gender identity. I liked to dress up in my sisters’ clothes, jewelry and use their cosmetics. Once, I rode my bike through the neighborhood in drag. Bold! Marie’s brown fringed mini-skirt, black pantyhose, and Lindy’s sequined halter top were my favorites. I was adorable with pink lipstick and blue eyeshadow. I loved playing beauty pageant with my cousin Elizabeth. Those pageant gowns were soft and elegant; I was beautiful wearing them. I had an awesome runway strut along with the hand wave thing.

My parents’ response to this crisis was to padlock my sisters’ closets and dressers. Their actions prevented additional episodes but did not remove the urge. When I came out many years later to my family, Mom said, I’m just glad you didn’t tell us you thought you were a woman and planned to have sex change surgery.

As I became more attuned to my feelings, I realized I had a femme side, was happy as a male, but just liked males. I hate we assign gender roles and label individuals, at least in same-sex male relationships, as top and bottom. But if one must, then my label was bottom. That role met my personal emotional security needs.

My first love interest targets? The boyfriends of my middle sibling, Marie and a cousin, Caroline. But, the person I was most attracted to was a third-grade classmate. Christopher. Chris. Chris Standridge.

First, there was Joseph, a son of the only chiropractor in my small northwest Georgia town. He was Marie’s boyfriend during her senior year in high school and twelve years older than me. I still remember his long brown hair, his clean-shaven face, and bright green eyes. His body was to die for, too! I never saw him naked, but I saw him shirtless and in swim apparel. It was Joseph’s face to which I was most attracted. I took every opportunity to be in his presence. Whenever Marie allowed me to tag along on adventures with them, I’d go whether it was somewhere I wanted to go or not.

One of my first sunburns occurred from a summer afternoon of lying on a blanket in my parent’s backyard sunbathing—without sunscreen. Sunscreen was not a thing in the 70s. Because Joseph never went inside, I never went inside, and we laid in the sun, together, for six hours. I peeled for two weeks. At the end of the summer, Marie broke up with him when she left for her freshman year of college. I don’t know the attribute you would assign to how I felt, but I’m sure devastation was correct. The thought of never seeing Joseph again put me in a dark place to start my third-grade year.

During the same autumn my sister left for college, my cousin, Caroline, filled the void. We went on Saturday morning walks or bike rides through our small town. The Waffle House was a favorite place to stop. I loved their pecan waffles with maple syrup. We often met her boyfriend, Gary, there. I thought I had found my replacement for Joseph. Gary was not as handsome, but he was cute enough with red hair and green eyes. Gary had a decked out blue sports car with mag wheels. I heard for the first time Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog by Three Dog Night and One Toke Over the Line by Brewer & Shipley as they played on the car’s radio from 8-track tapes. Because Gary constantly played them, and they seemed to be his favorites, they became my favorites, too. I was way ahead of my third-grade peers in music tastes.

Caroline took me aside one day while we were playing croquet in the front yard. As usual, I was losing to her.

Oliver, I want to talk about breakfast last Saturday. Kicking my leg and spitting your food at me was inappropriate. Have I upset you?

Not really, I guess. It’s Gary and you.

Oliver if you’re scared I won’t find time to spend with you, please stop it. I will always make time for you and we’ll always have Saturday morning’s together, Caroline told me.

I don’t want more time with you. There’s someone else.

She responded with a puzzled look, Not sure I understand what you mean.

With a smile, I answer, I like Gary, not you. I wish I had more time to spend with him.

Oliver Jude! Boys don’t like boys. You get that thought out of your mind right now before God strikes you dead. God doesn’t approve of such things.

Despite assurances to the contrary, our Saturday morning outings abruptly ended.

Her response was my first validation my feelings were wrong. Or, at least wrong in the view of others. It was my first sense of rejection for being different. For being something not approved. The 1971 holiday period was grim.

Just as spring renews the earth each year, the spring of 1972 renewed my spirit, and drew me toward someone I never imagined. Christopher Standridge had been a bitter enemy during our first and second grade years. He ran after me on the playground, pushed me down, sat on me, and repeatedly hit me. Because he failed and repeated the first grade, he was one year older and bigger than any other kid in our class. I recall feeling frightened the first day of third-grade year when I walked into the classroom and saw him sitting at a desk. Oh my God, I have to put up with him for seven hours a day, every day? I’ll be dead before the end of this school year, I thought. He quit bothering me at recess during our third-grade year. We hanged out on the monkey bars and swings.

I don’t recall why it happened, it just did. I must have put forethought into it because I had a gift for him to commemorate the event. But, I remember when and how it happened. Following afternoon recess, along with our other classmates, we were in line waiting for the water fountain. He was in front of me. The teacher had us lined up sideways shoulder to shoulder.

I got something for you, I whisper to him.

You do?

This, as I remove it from my pocket and held up a colorful beaded necklace which I had taken from my sister’s bedroom. She made them.

With a slight smile, Chris responded, It’s pretty.

Let me put it on you. I slip it over his head.

And then, we kiss. On the lips. Me, 10 years old, him, 11 years old. My first kiss!

Not a word ever spoken between us concerning it; not even a word from our classmates. It’s not like they could have missed it. It was not just a peck. The only thing that could have made it hotter would have been the exchange of tongues, but we didn’t. It was like no one cared. Chris wore the bead necklace daily throughout the spring. Life and years pass. We remained casual friends.

• CHAPTER 1 •

I Think I’m In Love

The phone rang, but Mama didn’t answer. She adjusted her position on the couch and flipped the pages of her book.

I reached for the receiver. Hello? Yeah, this is Oliver. Oh, hey, Chris.

Christopher Standridge and I shared several classes at Dalton High.

As I walked toward the other end of the hall for privacy, Chris asked, Ollie, you want to go to the game Friday night? David, Steve, and Jim are coming, too.

The Catamount’s boys’ basketball team had a perfect season record, and we expected them to make it into the region finals. Friday night’s game was the last home game of our senior year.

I twisted the cord of the black rotary dial phone around my finger. Sure, Chris. Sounds fun.

Where do you want to eat before the game? he asked.

How ‘bout pizza at Rudolph’s? I reply.

Yeah, that sounds like a great plan. They have specials on their beer on Friday nights.

Hey, have you completed the assignment Coach Samuelson gave us? It’s due Monday, I reminded him.

Who? he asked.

Coach Samuelson. American History. The Civil War.

Oh, yeah, Chris answered. I finished the assignment. I wrote my paper on General Archer.

Now it was my time to ask, Who?

General James Jay Archer of Maryland, Chris replied. He was quite a seedy character if one believes the rumors. I thought it would make for interesting research. I wasn’t disappointed.

Ah, I said. I’m planning to write my paper on Jefferson Davis. Research should be easy, but not as interesting. Can’t wait to read your paper if you found it interesting to research.

Yeah, I’ll let you. Well, said Chris, I’ll stop by and get you Friday night at six.

Chris wanted to hang up. I didn’t want to let him. My heart pounded as I tried to keep him talking. I switched the phone from one sweaty hand to the other. After a few more minutes, he insisted he needed to let me go.

Great. I’ll see you Friday, Chris. My body shivered as I replaced the receiver into the phone’s cradle.

*************

I’m the last one Chris must drop off following the game. Buzzed from the pitchers of beer we drank at Rudolph’s, I knew Chris must be, too.

I tell him, I don’t think you should drive home. Your driving is erratic. Why don’t you sleep here tonight?

Thanks, man, but I’ll be fine to drive, Chris replied.

I’m determined, You don’t look fine. Those pupils are huge. You crossed the yellow line a few times driving here.

Are you sure?

Yeah, buddy.

Hmmm. Guess you got a point. You’re always looking out for me Ollie. Ok, I’ll stay. Do you think your parents will care?

Nah. I’m certain they are asleep. If you are as tired as I am, so will we soon. Mid-winter exams kicked my ass this week.

Yeah, me, too. The chemistry test sucked big time.

When we go in, we will call your house and tell them you are staying here tonight.

Yeah, Chris agreed.

Since the 4th grade, we had been having sleepovers. Like always, we slept in the same bed. Unless someone wanted to sleep on the floor, there were no additional sleeping arrangement choices. During the summer, the coolness of the hardwood floors felt good. In the cold of February? Hell no.

Just like the day in third grade, it happened without planning. With my inhibitions wiped out by the beer, I saw the opportunity and made my move.

I slid under the covers