A NSFW Life

April 25, 2014

“It was horrible, Cary!  Just….horrible!”  That is what my mom said to me 13 years ago after I answered my phone with a simple, “Hello.”

It sounded like she was crying.  Her voice strained to speak through a loud whisper, trying to connect sounds between sobs to form those words.  “I just….just horrible.”

The logical part of my brain immediately attempted to match the alarm in her voice with a possible, tragic situation.  Did my father suddenly drop dead?  Was my sister mangled in a car accident?  So many macabre possibilities, but Mom wasn’t telling me anything but how horrible “it” was.

"Are you nuts, Mom?  IT is one of my favorite books ever!"

“Are you nuts, Mom? IT is one of my favorite books ever!”

 

“Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Calm down, Mom.  What’s going on?”  By this time, my body had responded to the terror in her voice, surging with adrenaline, ready to take immediate action and make quick decisions as she clearly seemed unable to think straight at that moment.

I listened as she took in a deep, slow, stuttering breath.  Waiting for her to collect her composure felt like hours.  Did their house burn down?  Had she been mugged?

Maybe she was just overjoyed by seeing this.  I was.

Maybe she was just overjoyed by seeing this. I was.

 

At that time it really broke my heart to hear Mom so distressed.  This was during a rough period in my life where I experienced growing pains from accepting my new identity (i.e. leaving my wife and admitting to being gay), and she was my champion and strength.  She went out of her way to help me feel more accepted.  When I admitted to her my life-long secret, her reaction was to shrug it off and tell me, “You can fuck aardvarks for all I care.  You’re still my son.”  As I closed myself off from the world, she attempted to show me that there were more people like me (“You may like this book, Cary.  The author is gay, too.”).  For my birthday, she gave me a card that proclaimed that she was giving me a hairy dick (but to my disappointment, when I opened the card, there was nothing more inside than a picture of a fat, hairy guy in a wife-beater bearing the name Richard).  Hearing her sound that weak, I felt it was time for me to be her strength.

The writer is gay; the book is dreadful.

The writer is gay; the book is dreadful.

 

Eventually, she began by saying, “I went on the computer at work to Google an e-card for you.”  Her voice was still shaking.  Did somebody open fire in her office?  “You know; something nice and gay-themed.”   I imagined tears streaming down her face.  Did a co-worker attack her for having a gay son? “So I clicked on a link, and Cary,” she started to break down again.  “The things they were doing to each other were horrible.  Just horrible.”

Grandpa? No!

Grandpa? No!

 

I listened to her sob as I tried to figure out what to say.  “So you’re calling to tell me that you just discovered gay porn on your work computer,” was the best I could come up with.

“But they were…it was…”

Back then, you couldn’t just hop on the Internet and search for anything “gay” without pulling up something sexual.  It’s all my kind was associated with: sex.  People thought we were deviants because that’s what everyone told them, even the Internet.  I’m glad society has progressed over the last 10 years.  Search results now display articles about gay history or gay news.  You have to be pretty specific, nowadays, if you want to find anything “gay” deviant.

No comment.

No comment.

 

I never did get that nice, gay-themed e-card Mom was looking for.  As a matter of fact, she hadn’t sent me a gay-themed anything since that incident.  Calming her down was a task, but it wasn’t until after I hung up the phone that I realized I never got that damn web address from her.