Gay in the Ivy League

John Reid is the best little boy in the world. Obviously, then, he's going to be the best little husband and father when he grows up, right? But John Reid knew differently, ever since the age of eleven when he first wondered why he liked looking at those boxers in Sports Illustrated. He knew, but he would make sure no one else ever did:

"I would somehow cope. I would somehow enjoy hour after hour of cosmic depression, day after day, year after year... You would never catch me electing art instead of science, playing Hamlet instead of playing tennis... [or looking] at the 'Ho', drawer of the New York Public Library card catalog... Do you understand? I wasn't homosexual; I just desperately wanted to be cowboys with Chip or with Tommy." The Best Little Boy in the World

John Reid is, yes, a healthy homosexual. His autobiography is the only "case history" I have ever read that has real similarities with my own experience; in fact, several of the incidents he described almost knocked me off my chair.

The overall details are quite similar and unexciting. We both grew up in close, loving families with siblings who turned out straight. We both did well in school and ended up in the Ivy League: he at Yale, I at Princeton. We both pretended to be straight as undergraduates, and we both "came out" soon after graduation.

And we both carried out the deception very well. Reid did better, because he was covering up the fact that he knew he liked men; I was covering up the fact that I didn't seem to have sexual feelings in relation to people at all. Thus, I almost never dated; I pretended to be too busy. Reid dated extensively, and even stayed overnight once (in a hotel) so he could walk in the next morning and have his roommates see him nonchalantly unshaven, wearing the same clothes he made sure he was seen in the night before with Hilda. Hilda herself had been carefully selected; she would let him put his hand on her shoulder, but would resist every time he tried to move it down to her breast. She was just enough of a prude to let Reid show everyone else what a mover he was without ever having to actually do anything to (with?) her. Later, Hilda told Reid that she couldn't let him go very far because he seemed to be interested only in her body. Of course, nothing could have bored Reid more. But in a sense, she was right--Reid was interested in her as a thing, to show off to the other guys.

Later, both of us went through the inevitable how-do-I-find-out-who's-gay-without-risking-being-found-out crisis. Reid's solution struck home with frightening precision. He planned to draw up a "sexual preference questionnaire," completely anonymous, and send it around to all his friends, who would think it was for some sociology thesis, fill it out, and return it to a post office box. Reid would collect the replies and then identify which friend filled out which questionnaire by the ultraviolet ink he had previously coded them with. He never actually did this, of course, but then again neither did I; I had planned to identify the returned questionnaries with inconspicuous pencil dots. I recently talked to a graduate of Lowell House who said that he planned to use slightly torn or dog-eared corners. If you're reading this with your heart sinking down into your intestines, just remember that you wouldn't really have done it either; there are very few new ideas in this world.

The next stage is the God-do-I-want-to-meet-that-guy-but-if-I-did-then-I'll-know-I'm-really-gay crisis. For Reid, it happened in New York City. He was walking home from work, and saw one of those unbelievable raving fags: purse, approximately pink hair, boots up over the knees, poodle, and so on. His reaction was disgust. But then he noticed the guy he was talking to: dark hair, blue eyes, sideburns, blue jeans, flannel shirt--unbelievably hunky. Well, clearly, the poodle guy was... But if he was talking to him, then he must be, too, but... God, is that guy handsome!... Should he go over and introduce himself?... But then everybody else would... And of course Reid finally walks right by, and has always regretted doing so.

With me, it happened sophomore year. One of my roommates and I liked sleeping nude, and one night I couldn't sleep and went into the living room to read. Twenty minutes later, my roommate followed, still nude. Now keep in mind the fact that this guy used to be a wrestler and was built like a dynamo; he was standing just across the room, reading a magazine on the bar, completely starkers, and in profile view. I quickly shifted my position to shield my crotch from any stray glances, and I started going bananas. I began to shake uncontrollably--arms, legs, stomach--because I was in the grip of two incontrollable forces. One: don't give yourself away. Two: attack him. If it were possible to get a hernia while sitting down, I would have gotten one. After about five minutes of this, I got up, took a cold shower, and went back to bed with pajamas. I might as well save you the trouble: it didn't help.

Reid presents himself with remarkable honesty, warts and all; the adult Reid is no doubt aware of this or that immaturity, this or that blindness. Some will pounce on the fact that "John Reid" is a pseudonym; you may as well know that "Charles Bonnell" is, too. Reid does it to protect the privacy of everyone who has had contact with him; I use my real name at meetings like those of the Harvard-Radcliffe Gay Students Association. In contrast, some of Allen Ginsberg's partners have later found in the pages of Playboy all the details of who did what with whom when; that's a result of truth.

Reid's story answers a lot of questions, and destroys a few myths held by many (gay men included). He has never had anal intercourse, he prefers not to have oral intercourse, and he mildly dislikes kissing. What's left? The question betrays a mechanical outlook towards lovemaking. Reid's first experience didn't even involve orgasm, because he was having so much fun he didn't notice or care about not having one. This is an attitude more people (gay men included) should be aware of.

In short, Reid's book is good nostalgia for those out of their closets, a good education for those without closets, and hopefully a great relief to those of you still in your closets. In this last case, the best little boy in the world can help bring fast fast fast relief.

Charles Bonnell is a student at the Harvard Law School.