I am extremely lonely.

My forbidden passions make my life an abyss of isolation.

My loneliness feels suffocating, as though I am constantly drowning.

I did not choose this life! It chose me.

Should I embrace my loneliness, because I lie and say I’m a private person?

Or should I run away from my retreat like the plague, because the truth is it is a façade Which scares me?

“They” say God works in mysterious ways.

Is solitude equivalent to mystery?

Or am I simply doomed to an eternity of loneliness?

By Eric Peterson, Advanced Creative Writing

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Tour of the School

Eric grew more impatient the longer he waited for his morning wood to go limp. To kill time, he criticized his body as he gazed at himself in the full-length mirror attached to his bathroom wall.

“I wish my pecs were a little bit larger,” Eric complained, flexing his chest muscles.

Eric was dreadfully insecure about his physical appearance, which garnered a lot of unwanted attention when he was younger. Kids would stare, point fingers, or make rude comments—“Look, it’s porky Ronald McDonald.” Eric was a red-haired chubby kid who wore braces and had dreadlocks that extended past his shoulders. However, as the years passed, he received many compliments for the unique color of his hair, replaced his dreads with a bald fade, his braces were eventually removed, and the baby fat finally dissolved.

While Eric was a handsome teenager, he was oblivious to this fact, and lacked self-confidence due to his childhood experiences. Eric was 6’0 and his 175 lb. frame was muscle-toned. He had copper brown eyes, and skin color reminiscent of a beautifully enticing bright yellow sunny morning.

Ten minutes passed and finally his Winky—the childhood name he used to refer to his penis—decided to slowly cooperate. Luckily, he didn’t have to go to school for another hour.

Maybe this is an omen, he thought.

The smallest things would cause Eric’s Winky to get erect: watching TV, nasty thoughts, morning wood, and even the wind blowing against him at just the right angle.

Eric’s hormones were in a constant state of rage, which restricted him to wearing tight briefs. However, he was determined to put on the silk boxers he was given as a gift for his 18th birthday last month. The underwear was white, speckled with black musical notes and miniature clarinets.

Finally, his Winky went limp. He stepped into the boxers and pulled them up to his waist.

“Yep, these are officially my favorite drawers,” he laughed, as he modeled for himself in the mirror.

The drive from Uptown Magnet Senior High School (affectionately known as UM) to Loyola University was always a pleasant, yet bumpy ride, as the vast majority of streets in New Orleans were in need of serious repair.

Uptown New Orleans was a strange place. One minute Eric was driving down a well maintained street full of glorious old French and Spanish style mansions; the next minute and two streets over, he was dodging potholes, and wondering how he ended up in the hood.

Eric found a space in the crowded university parking lot. Luckily, he drove a silver Toyota Corolla, which he was easily able to squeeze into a compact parking spot.

UM was a prestigious, gifted high school to which Eric was accepted when he was a freshman. By the beginning of his senior year, he had fulfilled all but one of his graduation requirements. Therefore, after he attended band practice at UM—marching band in the morning and concert band after lunch—he was permitted to participate in an evening educational program at Loyola University. UM students were allowed to take as many university night courses as their hearts desired, as long as they agreed to contribute six hours a week to a work-study program. The university saw this agreement as a great way to entice local talent.

Loyola was a small, private, Jesuit liberal arts university, where only 6,000 students were enrolled. The school was near celebrating its centennial anniversary and looked as though it was plucked right out of a fairytale. Large Gothic buildings made from red brick and mortar extended high into the sky, which resembled old English castles.

Eric arrived at the university 15 minutes early so he decided to take the elevator to the gym (which was on the fifth floor of the parking garage), to watch some of the university’s finest students play basketball. Once in the gym, he climbed the stairwell to the indoor track and leaned his elbows against the metal rails. His imagination ran wild as the caramel, chocolate, and honey-coated bodies, drenched in sweat, did things to him, on him, with him he only fantasized about. He and his Winky were getting very excited when he glanced at his watch.

“Dang, look at the time!” He had only one minute to get to work-study. Eric dashed out of the gym towards Bobet Hall. Reaching the admissions office, he burst through the doors.

“Boy you made it here with 30 seconds to spare,” the overweight, light-skinned secretary giggled without looking up from the book she was reading (E. Lynn Harris’ Too Good To be True).

“Hello, Ms. Betty. How are you doing today?” Eric asked, trying to catch his breath.

She looked up. “Bay-be, I’m blessed, highly favored, and doing great!” Ms. Betty exclaimed in a joyous, heavy, New Orleans accent.

Eric purchased and completed all of Mr. Harris’s novels a couple of years ago. After reading Invisible Life, Eric became a fan. However, he was somewhat skeptical about owning books that explored the world of black gay and bisexual men. Therefore, Eric kept Mr. Harris’s literature on the bottom shelf of his huge mahogany bookcase.

Eric’s work-study assignment was in the Office of Admissions. His duties consisted of giving numerous group tours of the university—three times a week, two hours a day—to prospective students and their parents, in exchange for enrolling in as many Loyola classes as he liked. Last year, Eric took a host of classes: Multivariable Calculus, The History of the Harlem Renaissance Period, Intermediate Java Programming, Advanced French, and Introduction to Creative Writing. Eric decided to take a much lighter load during his senior year; he was enrolled in only one night class.

“Any tours lined up for me today, Ms. Betty?”

“No, Bay-be. Today is gonna be a slow day. If you have some homework that you need to do for your writing class tonight, then ya’ can do that. Im’a finish readin’ this book. It’s getting’ good!”

Eric pulled out the syllabus he downloaded off his teacher’s website a week ago. Tonight would be the first session for his Advanced Creative Writing class. The class met on Monday and Wednesday nights for 90 minutes.

This teacher sounds like a lot of fun, Eric thought as he read the section of her syllabus entitled:

Mrs. Love’s Creative Writing Creed

Creative writing is our life!
Creative writing is fun!
Creative writing may even pay the bills!

He scrolled further down the page.

“Dang, she’s doing a recap of the techniques covered in the Introduction to Creative Writing course. That’s going to be boring. Well, at least we’ll talk about that crazy bitch Emily,” Eric mumbled to himself.

“Who’s a crazy Bitch?” Ms. Betty inquired. “Are them fast lil gals at UM throwing they pussy in yo face?”

Eric laughed. “No, Ms. Betty. I was talking about a character from a short story that Mrs. Love required us to read.

“Barbara Love? She must have y’all reading that story about that Emily Grierson chick. I read that in high school.”

“That’s the one!”

The assignment for the first class was to read and critique a strange and frightening classic short story by William Faulkner called A Rose for Emily.

Eric thought Emily was psychotic. The story was set in the early 20th century. Emily was dating Homer Barron, who was obviously gay; however, she ignored that fact. One day the man goes missing. After some time elapses, a few townspeople report an appalling odor coming from Emily’s home. The odor quickly goes away after Emily purchases arsenic from the local drug store. The only person allowed in her house is a Negro servant. Finally, once Emily dies the reader and the townspeople discover that she’s been sleeping with a dead corpse dressed in a tuxedo for decades—assumed to be the gay man from many years ago.

After rereading the story, Eric played chess on the Internet to help the time go by. Just as he was about to beat his opponent, he noticed the clock above the black file cabinets displayed two minutes past the hour.

Eric darted out of the admissions office. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Betty.”

“Being late is the story of your life, boy! Have fun. Tell Barbara, I said hello.”

***

“Good evening class. I’m Mrs. Love, and this is Advanced Creative Writing. Please pass your critiques to the front of the class.”

Eric sat in the last desk in the back of the classroom closest to the entrance so he could observe his classmates. First, he noticed he was the only male in the room. This didn’t shock him because girls mostly flocked to elective writing classes. He wished he wasn’t the only guy who enjoyed putting a pen to paper.

Next, he counted the number of students. This is a small class— 13 people; just the way I like it.

“Are y’all ready to start our journey into the wonderful world of Emily Grierson and her eccentric relationship with her lover, and the town of Jefferson? I’m most certainly ready to dive into it!” Mrs. Love said enthusiastically.

Mrs. Love amused Eric. He chuckled to himself.

“But before we start, I need to discuss a few things about the syllabus. This course is graded on classroom participation, a few homework assignments, and a final paper. The class is divided into two genres: short stories and poetry. I’ll lecture on a combination of assigned readings and different techniques on writing poetry and short stories.

“Students will choose a partner today. One student will write a collection of poetry, and the other a short story. Y’all will critique each other’s work and will turn in your final product at the end of the semester for a grade. Any questions?”

Eric raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Peterson?”

He was surprised Mrs. Love knew his name.

“I was just wondering how many poems we have to write?”

“Good question. You can write as many poems as you would like; however, there is a 10-poem minimum. And for those of you who choose the short story option, technically short stories are no longer than 10,000 words; however, there is a minimum of 1,500 words in this class. But, you can go into the realm of a novella and write a maximum of 20,000 words, if you are feeling adventurous. If you choose to go that route, please hand your assignment in early enough for me to give it a proper evaluation. Anymore questions?”

An Asian girl in the front of the classroom raised her hand.

“Yes, please state your name and then your question,” the teacher said in an enthusiastic voice.

“My name is Tao Lee, and I just wanted to know how are you going to go about pairing students?”

“Thanks for that question, Ms. Lee. That was actually my next topic. This is the sign-up sheet.” She held up a single sheet of paper with two columns.

“The right side is for people interested in poetry and the left is for short stories. Be mindful that the student who signs his or her name next to yours will be your partner for the duration of the semester.”

She handed the sign-up sheet to a student on the right side of the classroom. Because Eric counted 13 students, he wondered how his professor’s plans would work. Someone would be without a partner.

“Once y’all finish filling out the sign-up sheet, please arrange the desks in a circle. This is a creative writing class! I want y’all looking at each other’s beautiful faces. This promotes creative juices! And while y’all are doing that, can I please speak to Eric Peterson in the hall?”

The room became very noisy with the movement of desks and chatter.

Eric was shocked to hear that the teacher wanted to speak to him privately. Luckily the sign-up sheet was making it to him quickly.

Eric loved writing poetry. It was a way he could express himself when he felt lonely, upset, or extremely happy. Most importantly, poetry was an outlet to voice his forbidden desires.

There were two more slots next to one another that were available. Eric quickly scribbled his name into the poetry box and walked out into the hall to meet his teacher. Because he was the last person to sign, Eric assumed he would be without a writing partner and working by himself this semester.

“Mr. Peterson, your credentials are very impressive. I reviewed your transcript last week. UM produces excellent students.”

Eric blushed. “Thanks.”

“Well, I hope you decide to attend Loyola University in the fall. We give full paid presidential scholarships to students like you. I heard that you’re not only phenomenal academically, but also an excellent clarinetist.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Love. Here is the sign-up sheet. It seems as though I was the last person to sign it, and I’m left without a partner.”

“You’re most welcome, son. I assume Ms. Betty didn’t deliver my message? I requested a special favor.”

“No, she didn’t mention a special favor.”

“That woman always has her head in some book instead of doing her job. I’m going to have to get on her next time I see her,” Mrs. Love said lightheartedly. “Well, I need you to give a freshman a quick tour of Loyola. Ms. Betty agreed to credit you one hour of work-study time for this favor. And according to this sign-up sheet the new student will be your short story writing partner.”

“That’s cool, Mrs. Love. What’s her name?”

“Mr. Peterson, I don’t think Mr. LeBlanc would appreciate you referring to him as a young lady, but I most certainly understand why you would automatically make that assumption. We don’t get many young men in writing classes these days. The new student is actually an education major. Like you, Mr. LeBlanc has a very impressive background. He requested a night tour of the school because his work schedule won’t accommodate a day tour. During the first half of tonight’s class, I’ll discuss writing techniques covered in the introduction course taught over the summer. So I told Mr. LeBlanc it would be okay for you and him to miss the first half of class. Just make sure you’re both back here in time to discuss the finale of the Rose for Emily soap opera!” the professor bellowed in her over-the-top voice.

“Most certainly, Mrs. Love.”

“Mr. LeBlanc will be waiting in the front of Bobet Hall by the double doors.” She looked down at her silver watch. “He should arrive in the next five minutes. It shouldn’t be that hard to spot those beautiful eyes of his. Mmm…Mmm…” she groaned, as though she had just eaten a bowl of Campbell’s soup. “If that boy was a few years older, and I was 10 years younger!”

Walking to the elevator, Eric could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands. Although he was excited the new student would be another guy, Eric was nervous to meet someone the teacher wanted to gobble up. Eric comforted himself with the notion that Mrs. Love was married, older, and would possibly want to eat any young man that gave her the time of day.

Eric walked through the back automatic-doors of Bobet Hall and out of the front double doors. He saw nothing but a trashcan off to the left and all he heard was an owl, which lived in the oak tree above, softly hooting.

Eric was about to reenter the building to check the restrooms, but he was startled by a deep Creole voice.

“Excuse me. I’m new here. I’m supposed to meet a tour guide in front of a building called Bobet Hall. Do you know if this is that building?”

Eric turned around and looked into the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen. The whites of Mr. Leblanc’s eyes were snow-white and his eye color was enchanting and undecipherable.

He was most definitely not an old lady’s version of eye-catching, and handsome was too bland of a word to describe him. Mr. LeBlanc was a towering 6’3” and his head was completely bald. He sported a white sleeveless fitted v-neck shirt and tight navy-blue jeans that nicely complemented his body. Every inch of this guy’s physique was chiseled to perfection. He was an African deity. The shirt he wore clung to his body, displaying his abs as if he were a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest. His chest was two massive mountains of muscle, decorated with stiff and pointed nipples. The dark-chocolate smooth skin and oddly colored eyes mesmerized Eric.

Eric stood with his mouth open, until Mr. LeBlanc spoke again. “Are you okay?”

“Ya…ya…yes. You are fine. I mean yes, I’m fine,” Eric quickly corrected himself and was now extremely embarrassed.

“Sorry, Mr. LeBlanc.” Damn, I’m just rolling with the dumb responses tonight. Why did I call him Mr. LeBlanc? “I’m Eric Peterson and Mrs. Love asked me to give you a tour of the school and she only referred to you as Mr. LeBlanc.”

“I’m indeed Mr. LeBlanc, but most people call me Marquis.”

Eric tried to smile as he shook Marquis’s unusually cold hand. He had never been this tense before in his entire life.

Oh no! This can’t seriously be happening. But it was; his Winky began to stand at attention.

Because Eric’s private part was so large, it was hard to hide in situations like this. At this moment, Eric wished he had worn briefs instead of the silk boxers. He attempted to casually cover himself, but his effort was pointless. Marquis’s eyes had already noticed the bulge in his pants. As his stare traveled from Eric’s groin to meet his panicked eyes, a slight grin appeared upon Marquis’s face.

Was that a smile I saw?

“I guess we will start with the computer labs,” Eric suggested, walking ahead of Marquis and praying his erection would subside. It did as Marquis disclosed a few details about himself.

“I love to draw. Sometimes I sketch right before I start writing. It helps my creativity and stirs up innovation. Mrs. Love gave me a heads up on the structure of the class, so I started writing my short story. I hope there’s a slot available,” Marquis stated as they passed by the instrumental practice rooms.

“That’s really cool man. I play the clarinet and compose my own music. And yes, there is a short story slot available. By the way, you’re my writing partner.”

“That’s great Mr. Peterson,” Marquis laughed, teasing Eric for referring to him in the same formal manner earlier.

Eric told Marquis about the music program at UM, and how he had a few competitions coming up.

“You are very mature for a high school student,” Marquis complimented.

“People tell me that all the time.”

“So, are you any good on the clarinet, Eric?”

“I’m the best!”

“Over confident I see,” Marquis taunted.

Eric was about to make a snide remark as they were walking out of the Student Union, but instead he zeroed in on what was distracting his attention.

“Marquis, I don’t mean to change the subject, but what color are your eyes?”

Eric’s question made Marquis showcase a smile that could melt a stick of butter. “If you had to guess, what color would you say they are?”

“I would say…umm…” Eric got lost in the beauty of Marquis’s eyes.

Just as he was about to respond and say hazel, Marquis pointed to his watch. “Eric, we have to get to class. We’re late!”

They quickly headed in the direction of the classroom.

Eric and Marquis walked in on Mrs. Love’s closing remarks about A Rose for Emily. “So, can anyone tell me why Emily might not be the twisted woman most people think she is?” Mrs. Love asked.

Marquis surprised the entire class with his response, “Emily is not twisted. She was a woman that was struggling for her right to live and be in high spirits as much as she could. It’s the damage that was inflicted upon her that coexisted within her from the moment her father died, until the moment Homer Barron disregarded her. Those things made her a woman of strong wits and beliefs.”

Mrs. Love was impressed. “Well said, Mr. LeBlanc. I heard great things about you, and I must say you live up to the gossip.”

Eric was amazed with Marquis LeBlanc; he was not only attractive and possessed an athletic physique, but intelligent.

Every girl in the class was amazed, too; they just gazed at Marquis as if he’d cast a spell on them.

“Because it is the last three minutes of class, why don’t you introduce yourself, Marquis; and Eric tell us something interesting you learned about our new friend.”

“Hello, my name is Marquis LeBlanc.” He glanced at Eric. “Most people think my eyes are hazel, but after close observation you would see that they’re actually emerald green.”

How did he know I was going to say hazel?

“That is so sexy,” a girl from the left side of the circle shouted.

It was now Eric’s turn to speak, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

“As some of y’all know, I’m Eric Peterson, officially no longer the only guy in Advanced Creative Writing.” The young ladies laughed.

“Umm…now something I learned about Marquis LeBlanc. Well, he just moved here a few weeks ago. He is originally from Louisiana, but Marquis has been living abroad for the last few years.”

“Thanks, gentlemen. Please finish the first entry of your poems and short stories by next week. You will exchange your work with your partner during that class. See y’all in two days.”

After Mrs. Love’s announcement, a cluster of girls rushed over to Marquis.

Eric felt disregarded, and started walking towards the door.

“Hey, Eric!” Marquis called out. “Thanks for the tour.”

“No problem, man.”

Marquis managed to make his way through the crowd of girls to shake Eric’s hand. It was firm, but this time slightly prolonged. Although Marquis’s skin was cold, it did not stop Eric’s erection from immediately returning. By chance, Eric looked down and noticed that Marquis was rock hard. Eric didn’t want to let Marquis’s hand go, but he had to.

As Eric walked toward the elevator, he couldn’t believe what had just transpired. It was almost as if he’d died and went to a forbidden heaven.

But as he opened his car door and sat in the driver’s seat, his excitement changed to doubt and fear. Was Marquis really coming on to him, or did he imagine everything? Eric never entertained this type of flirtation with a guy and wasn’t sure what his next move would be. He couldn’t wait to tell Sean about his amazing day.