QColumn: A Gay In The Life: The Tipping Point

Be sure to read part one of this column if you missed it last week.
The Tipping Point
By Steve Prince
After hearing a crunch, I turned around just in time to see Peter’s fist pulling back from the guy’s face. Blood gushed down from the guy’s nose as Peter bounded back like a boxer waiting to strike again.
You’d think that blood pouring from your face might stop you from fighting, but not this guy. After being hit, he stepped back stunned and then lunged towards Peter, rage flooding his eyes. Thankfully, his friend wasn’t going to go after me.
“Jim!” he yelled grabbing his arms, “Stop! Don’t be a prick!”
“Peter!” I went to hold him back.
Peter turned at me and growled, “Don’t fucking touch me!”
I stood frozen. The intensity of his anger scared me.
“I’m sorry,” Jim’s friend called while trying to restrain the bleeding man. “He’s drunk and acting like an asshole.”
“Well, he should fucking know better,” Peter shouted. “I’m not a fucking fag!”
Tearing himself away, Jim adjusted his shirt and flexed his chest. “Get off me,” he said to his friend. “I don’t fucking need this. Fuck you, both.”
Peter began to move towards him, but this time I caught his arm.
Jim quickly ran off with his friend trailing behind and even in that moment I wanted to laugh at his cowardice. I tend to giggle when I get nervous. But judging from Peter’s face, I decided to keep my mouth shut.
The ride home was abysmal. Not only had Peter been drinking, but now he was furious. Everything I said to calm him down only riled him up. Finally I gave up and focused on driving. I just wanted to get home.

My keys clattered against the nightstand. With a tight pop, Peter shut the door behind me.
“Ahhh,” he sighed, “that stupid motherfucker.”
I didn’t say anything. I walked to the kitchen to get some water and ibuprofen. I had a headache. I felt hungover even though I’d only drunk one beer.
“Do you want an Advil?” I asked turning to look at Peter. His right eye was hot pink. I wandered if it would blacken.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I insisted, “Your eye looks really red. Want a cold washcloth?”
“I’m fine,” his tone was short. “I would much rather have beaten the shit out of that fucker.”
Without a word I turned and headed for the kitchen. I heard Peter pacing behind me, mumbling.
He was incensed and rightly so. I was mad too. What that ass said to us was stupid, and even in the middle of West Hollywood, California—one of the gayest places on Earth. I wondered how the other guy was doing. I just knew that Peter had broken his nose.
“Can you believe those fucking pricks?” he mumbled.
“Well,” I interjected as I came out of the kitchen, “the one guy apologized. Maybe he wasn’t an ass. I dunno.”
He whirled and faced me. “You’re not defending them?”
“No, I just mean, he did apologize,” I back peddled, “nevermind.”
“I was standing up for you, y’know? You’re not even grateful. Do you even care?” Peter asked.
I didn’t respond.
“Well?” he demanded.
“For me?” I asked, “I never asked you to beat the shit out of that guy for me. You just did it. What if you’d lost?”
“I’m fine,” Peter said stalking to the window and taing a breath, “You never asked me? Steve, what the fuck was I supposed to do?”
“No, I get it,” I said walking to Peter, “but that guy called you a fag too. I don’t need you to run around protecting me. I’m not your bitch. I’m your… well… I don’t know what the fuck I am.”
“What are you talking about?” Peter said. “We’re us. And I’m sorry if I just stood up for myself. Isn’t this the way to be a proud…” he paused, “…man who goes with another man?”
It infuriated me that he didn’t want to say the word “gay.” It almost felt like being called a fag again.
“Hey,” I turned on him, anger filling my chest with heart, “just because I’m not out there slugging with the boys doesn’t make me less proud. When I’m being myself wherever I am and I’m ‘acting gay’, don’t you think I notice that people commenting and looking sometimes? That’s my way of fighting back. My way of saying, ‘Fuck you. This is who I am.’ It might not be what you think of as being proud, but sometimes it’s just as difficult as beating the shit out of someone. And if you’re wanting to be proud, you might want to think about actually saying the word ‘gay.'”
I crossed a line. I immediately regretted the last sentence. Peter looked like he’d just taken another punch. He stood there stunned and then sank into the chair behind him.
“Oh,” he said, his voice trailing, “I didn’t know I was holding you back.”
“You’re not holding me back,” I said. I crouched down on my knees so I could look him in the eye (the one was that wasn’t injured). “I’m sorry,” I sighed, “I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why did you say it?” Peter’s eyes darted from mine.
He was right though. I had meant it with every cell of my body, but I couldn’t tell him that. Suddenly the man who scared me with his anger, now looked like a hurt little boy.
I waited until he looked at me. I placed my hand on his knee. “What I meant was, that’s why I wanted to go out to West Hollywood with you. I wanted to be seen in public with you. I hoped tonight would be a step towards us being ourselves in public more. Like us saying ‘Fuck you’ to anyone bothered by us. I stopped caring about what other people think a long time ago.”
Peter gulped, “Well, I still care about what they think, and I hate myself for it.”
“Hey,” I said rubbing his knee with my hand, “let’s only beat up assholes who call us names, let’s not beat ourselves up too.”
His face softened and he comforted me by resting his hand on mine.
“I’m sorry I got so mad,” he said, “I scared you didn’t I?”
“A little,” I said smiling, “but maybe I need to get more angry about that kind of stuff too.”
“Are we boyfriends, Steve?” Peter asked.
The question shocked me. He looked kinda cute with his eye swollen shut like that. “Umm, well…” I didn’t know quite what to say.
Peter began rubbing my hand more. “I care about you more and more everyday,” he said. “I don’t want to be with other people.”
“Neither do I,” I gulped. Was this happening?
Peter smiled a beautiful gracious smile.
“So,” he smirked, “how do we make this official? Are you supposed to give me your class ring or something?”
We both laughed. I leaned in towards him. Peter stretched his legs and wrapped his arms around me.
“How about this?” I asked. I leaned in and kissed my boyfriend.
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Years after moving from Oklahoma, Steve Prince is still acclimating to the gay scene in Los Angeles—he’s a slow learner. By trial and error and a lot of sex, his mission is to make the uncomfortable, comfortable. Also it should be known that he is gayer than butt sex.
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Previously, on A Gay In The Life:
The Birds and The Birds
Lyin’, & Twinks, & Bears—Oh My!
Going Public
Christmas in July
Luck Be A Lady Tonight
I Left My Heart In Oklahoma
As Luck Would Have It
Shock & Awe
Blame It On Britney
The Unending Journey
Makin’ Copies
Bullets and Bracelets… and Lube
To Tell The Truth…
Stars Aren’t Blind
The Dark Knight
Come As You Are
A Date?
A Happy Ending
Better Than Nothing
A Man With A Slow Hand
Taking The Long Way
Everybody Knows
Wake Me Up, Before Ya Go-Go
Definition
The Best
The Upper Hand
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
2000-Date
Dick The Halls
The Queer Dear
A Night At The Museum
A Conversation
I’m Just A Girl Who Can’t Say No
Change The Way You Feel
Kissing A Fool
Leo The Lamb
The Elephant In The Room
Zuckerman’s Famous Pig
A Birthday Surprise
The Sleepover-er
SP Phone Home
Out of the Frying Pan and into the Closet
What If…
Just Beat It
Intimate Portrait
Intimate Portrait (Part Deux)
Intimate Portrait (Part Trois)
State of Mind
The Age of Disbelief
A Man For All Seasons
Summer Lovin’
A-Men
The Urge
Gettin’ It Done
Here You Cum Again
Eye Of The Beholder
The Present
A Minute’s Pause
Brotherly Love
Ladies Who Lunch
Here Cums The Rain Again
Dinner For Two
Blow by Blow
Commando
Cum As You Are?
Aftershock!
Caught in the Act
The Great Compromise