Chum: (n) a close friend.
I was twenty-three years old before I realized there were gay people. I had been told they were perverts. Matter of fact, the American Psychiatric Association confirmed this to us publicly, making us feel our squeamishness was justified by their diagnosis.
I mention this because life marches on, and if you want to lay down and object, be prepared to have boot prints on your face.
Frankie was my chum. Frankie was my devoted companion. Frankie hung out. Frankie defended me when other people said I was a fat pig. Frankie liked me.
Now, as I look back at it, I realize Frankie loved me.
Frankie always wanted to come over, spend the night and sleep in the same bed. That wasn’t weird when you were a kid–you could punch each other and joke around, but he always, by morning, cuddled up to my back.
When I was twenty-three, along with discovering gay people, I also realized that Frankie was one of them. I was probably Frankie’s first love. An unrequieted one.
Because when I turned twelve, my gyroscope pointed toward pretty girls. Shortly after that I never saw Frankie again. Matter of fact, I don’t even know where Frankie is.
I hope he’s happy.
I hope he found someone who was worthy of his devotion.
And I hope that person is grateful to have Frankie cuddling up to him.