Love At First Sight for a Gay Boy in Waiting
Chapter 21: The Breck Girl
I start my sophomore year at the University of New Orleans in 1968 with fraternity and sorority exchange parties. This week my fraternity TKE is mixing with the the ZTA girls. I’m going without a date since the parties are for meeting new people, not that I did much of that last year.
I have dated several girls, but none of those relationships were serious or lasted long. It started with a perky provocative little blue-eyed blond who initiated me into the joys of regular back seat sex.
The abundance of sexually eager girls distracts me almost entirely from boys. It helps, no doubt, that the temptations of PE, locker rooms, and showers are behind me. College social life focuses exclusively on dating girls. I prove I am as game as the next guy.
1968 has been a bewildering year with the war in Vietnam, student unrest, the Black Panthers, and the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy. None of this concerns me or most UNO students, though. We are too woven into the the fabric of the old Deep South. I am a Nixon-supporting Republican like everyone in my circle, students and adults. We lament the chaos but are not instruments of change. We study and party in our straight white world oblivious to the zeitgeist.
This party is at the Lake Terrace home of one of the Zetas. I do not know any of these girls and am not expecting to have a particularly interesting evening. I go alone so I can leave early.
The reclaimed brick house is a sprawling ’60s porched ranch on a corner lot. Gas entry lights, impressive architecture, and meticulously groomed landscaping fit the plush neighborhood. In the wide driveway sits a convertible amphibious car, complete with polished brass stern propellers. It’s the same car I used to see full of girls motoring by on Bayou St. John across from my high school.
I knock on the imposing front doors and wonder why a rich girl is going to UNO. A parent escorts me through formal areas to a sprawling den overlooking the sparkling waters of a seductively lit swimming pool. A murmuration of early evening voices filters through a haze of cigarette smoke.
I approach a frosty bowl of fruit punch with its inevitable chunk of floating ice. It is as awful as I expected, but I do my duty drinking it down quickly while moving outside to the bar, manned by one of my fraternity brothers. As always, our liquor is nasty and cheap.
I order a scotch and water, having by dint of relentless effort reached the pretentious goal of acquiring a taste for it, believing it a mark of sophistication.
Dedicated, I swig down half of it for artificial party courage. I light a cigarette with what I hope is an accomplished flourish of my Zippo. I scan the crowd for companionship.
I spot my closest friends Alan, Bruce and Bill, and we catch up, including on the remarkable amphicar. Bill says a girl told him it belongs to the Zeta hosting tonight’s party, Margret. He points her out as the animated brunette centered in a large attentive group.
We step inside to get a better look at our curious and (to us) rich hostess.
She’s soon joined by a girl in a black turtleneck, short herringbone skirt, black stockings and cordovan penny loafers. She’s more than eye-catching; she is slim, poised, and beautiful. As she chats with our hostess, she stands in profile and I move closer. She has tucked glossy brown hair carefully behind her left ear, from which hangs a simple gold hoop that moves and sparkles with her.
I am entranced.
The world slows down. My gaze falls to her lovely neck and a fine chain which suspends a gold cross above perfect, modest breasts. A good Catholic girl, I think, an easy call in Catholic New Orleans.
As I stare, I make out one flashing blue eye framed by delicate long lashes. Her clear skin glows with no discernible makeup. Her nose is perfectly aquiline, turned up slightly over full unvarnished lips. She is neither smoking nor drinking, but is nevertheless relaxed and smiling, lighting up her face even more.
I need to hear her speak.
So I head closer, nonchalantly, sipping my drink. Her voice, in conversation with Margret, is musical and engaged, neither bored nor perfunctory. Her tone is perfectly friendly, free of abrasiveness, sarcasm, irony, or haughtiness. I value humility above all in people, so this is good.
From what I can make out of the conversation, she is smart. She brings to mind the Breck Shampoo girls plastered in ads on the pages of every magazine in America, but she is more of this moment with a younger, late 60s look.
She is perfection; no more, no less.
Returning to my friends, I keep checking her out. I want to meet her and begin to think about how. I mention this to Bill, always the operator. He acts quickly, confidently, and subtly.
He finds his Zeta friend and asks about the amphicar, wondering if Margret could tell us more about it. We wind our way through the room and wait for a conversational break. After introductions, I jump right in.
“Thank you for hosting tonight. It’s a great party and we’re so glad to meet you.”
Margret smiles, gracious. “Oh, it’s my pleasure. And thanks to you Tekes for turning out such a good crowd.”
“I hear that’s your amphicar in the driveway. Tell us about it?”
She says it was her high school graduation present as she explains a little about how it operates. She says it’s proven seaworthy. That’s when I make my move.
“Have you been for a ride in it?” I ask the beauty standing right beside us.
Margret quickly introduces us to Sue Wentworth, her neighbor and old high school friend, now a freshman at the uptown St. Mary’s Dominican College for girls. I introduce myself to Sue and let Bill move in to chat Margret up. I’m nervous yet oddly confident. Maybe the scotch has tapped some hidden reserve of charm.
Sue is not a Zeta. Her college prohibits sorority membership. She dropped in for a few minutes to say hi to Margret but does not plan to stay.
She is barely out of high school and Catholic girl’s school at that. I realize she has little dating experience. I am in her thrall and am determined not to use my usual “another notch on my belt” approach. She is sweet and innocent, so I approach her that way, without any conscious motive other than to get to know her. I want to protect her … even from me.
We talk about everything and nothing. There is a spark between us that requires no fanning. We are immediately comfortable with one another, and I hang on every word, giving her lots of room to talk. When I do question her, I find she is almost entirely inexperienced in love and, I presume, sex.
Ordinarily, I have no interest in such girls, but I want to talk to her all night. But I don’t want to scare her off by overdoing anything. I tell her I have go home early because of my 9:00 am Saturday class.
Then I take my shot. “So … could I trouble you for your number?”
She hesitates a beat or two, and then says boldly, as if she had worked up courage, “Why not?”
I borrow a pen and a paper from Margret, who looks surprised. I take Susan’s hand in mine and squeeze gently as I say good night and “I hope to see you again soon.”
I toss and turn instead of sleeping. My mind will not stop reliving the evening. I am in awe of this wondrous soft creature. I consider what I should say or do next. I imagine holding her gently, kissing her ever so carefully and tenderly while telling her I love her.
The next morning, I am tired and vibrating from lack of sleep. At the University Center Teke table, where we congregate between classes, I see only a few members and pledges. There is the inevitable post mortem dissection of the party. I contribute nothing and am so detached that I am finally asked what I thought.
“I met someone,” I say. “A gorgeous sweet smart girl I can’t stop thinking about.”
I tell them about spotting her, talking to her, and being unable to think about anything else ever since. I go on until I realize I have disclosed too much. I am not thinking coherently, but one thing is certain; I have fallen hard in love and it began the moment I saw her.
This disorientation continues for the next three days, during which I sleep poorly and eat without appetite. I mention none of this to my family because it is too new and private to share. It is also premature since I am not at all sure this is going anywhere. I resist calling her because it is too soon. I must not look over-eager, but am not sure I can hold out much longer.
I continue to ruminate obsessively but know I have nothing to offer this prize. I am broke, unathletic, the product of an embarrassing broken home; not special enough in any way to be in her league. Why was she so sweet to me if not because of her inexperience?
Mid week, I call her. We speak briefly as I tell her how much I enjoyed meeting her and ask if she is free Friday night to see 2001: A Space Odyssey, a new movie I am excited about. She agrees (!) and we settle on a time. I hang the phone up in its cradle and exhale with excitement and relief.
It will be an expensive evening for me, but I saved everything I earned from my job last summer. I had to borrow for my tuition and books. My mother will not allow me to work, even part-time, insisting it will hurt my grades and my prospects. When this semester started I took a job at an off-campus pizza parlor to pick up spending money. When mom found out, she calmly told me to pack my bags and get out; it was room and board with her or the job. So I quit.
Money may be tight, but nothing will stop me from going after my Breck girl.
Early Friday evening I drive my polished Tempest thinking it will be presentable even for Lake Terrace. I arrive at Sue’s home, a low slung flat-roofed sixties modern with a brick façade.
A broad mahogany door is flanked on one side by a sunken planter filled with split leafed philodendrons. Yet again hopelessly out of my depth, I step under the entry spotlight and ring the doorbell, provoking a cacophony of barking dogs and shouting voices.
A dowdy woman with unkempt gray hair opens the door, pushing the dogs back with her cane, and introducing herself breathlessly as Mrs. Wentworth, Sue’s mother. She is harried and preoccupied with dinner for her family, and I instinctively apologize for disturbing them. She nods, ushering me across a broad foyer around free-standing mahogany panels.
A younger-looking middle-aged man sits in a carpeted living room surrounded by built-in cabinets and ceiling-high shelves of books. Classical music plays softly from ceiling speakers. Floor-to-ceiling glass looks out over tropical vegetation. A cocktail seats on a coaster.
He does not get up, but says after a pause. “Oh, hi… Make yourself comfortable.”
I am nervous and disappointed Sue is not ready. Her parents likely wanted to meet me, so I expected some polite questions but sense disinterest. Trying to make a good impression anyway, I ask, “So what’s new in the paper tonight?”
He sips the cocktail. “Oh, not much worth discussing.”
Then more silence … until he asks me what I am studying. I explain I’m a psychology major planning on law school. This prompts him to ask where, and rather than tell the truth, which is anywhere I can afford, I say “I haven’t decided yet, but I’m interested in Tulane.”
Finally, Sue arrives looking stunning once again, this time smelling ever so slightly of perfume, which she later tells me is Tabu, a provocative choice given my first impressions of her, which I think bodes well. Then we are off to the movie and I feel good to have survived this first encounter with her family.
We have a wonderful evening made more exciting by this overwhelming movie that gives us a lot to talk about afterward. We meet up with my friends and their dates at our regular late-night spot. Eventually, I take Sue home and after some hesitation and awkwardness gently kiss her good night. I tell her I would like to see her again. She smiles and says she would like that too.
I am certain she is the one and begin planning my next move, hopeful that the social and economic chasm between our families can be bridged. I think ... “I will make it happen.”
