Secrets Of A Gay Marine Porn Star (58 page)

I had never paid much attention to the military cemetery, deliberately avoiding the unpleasant topic of death. Matt, however, with his photographer’s eye, had recognized the mystical beauty of the spot and took a few photographs of me there. I was merely an unrecognizable shadow against the vivid image of the grave plots. Ultimately the
Times
art department decided not to use any of those photographs because the image muddied the theme of the story. Even then, I hadn’t been certain of what message the captivating-yet-eerie image conveyed.

Now I understood it perfectly well.

Jennifer Egan’s article had portrayed an image of me and the others in the story as men and women forced into lives of loneliness, isolation and secrecy by the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. The photographs that were chosen for inclusion in the story drove home that idea.

The photographs of me in the cemetery carried the opposite message. No matter what discriminatory laws we pass, in the end, death is the final equalizer. Death scoffs at our vain attempts to sort by class. Gay men and women have died in combat, serving their country just like straight men and women have. And as long as we send people off to fight, it will always be that way.

I walked down to the lower part of the slope overlooking San Diego. It was now eleven a.m. and the marine layer was still present forming a stringy grayish-white mist between the city and sun. There was a small tree near the road that wound through the cemetery. I sat on some steps underneath the tree and began to feel the full impact of what was about to happen.

My tears flowed freely now. I cursed for the lost opportunities, for not doing whatever had been required to spend more time with this man. I recalled my childhood prayer, asking God for a friend to share life with. Someone to watch musicals with, to run with, to tell me when I was out of line. God had answered that prayer many times over. I had asked for a friend who would always be there for me, who would understand me, who would help relieve the intense feelings of loneliness I felt even at the age of nine.

Gary had been my first true friend after my devastating expulsion from Bob Jones University. After him, I was able to rebuild a life. God had been so good in answering that prayer that I had taken it for granted that these friends would always be there.

The mist lifted and the sun broke through just as the service began. The funeral director was running behind because there had been so many flowers, he needed an extra van to carry them all to the site. Resorting to my officer days, I approached a Marine.

“Staff Sergeant, do you think you can get a working party over here to help the director get these flower arrangements in place before the family gets here?”

“Yes, sir!” The Staff Sergeant called to some of the members of Gary’s squadron and within five minutes the flowers were in place, just in time for the cars with the Fullerton family to arrive.

The Marines brought the casket to the front. I couldn’t believe my friend was in there. I expected that any minute he would appear, to tell us that while everything looked good, it would be better if we just practiced a little more and worked a little harder. And of course we should have fun while we were doing it. But there was nothing fun about this. This was the hardest thing I had ever gone through. I couldn’t even imagine what it felt like for Norah, Graham or Gary’s brothers.

In a way, I was fortunate. Gay men who were thirty-six years old ten years earlier had no doubt attended countless funerals for their friends. Many of them attended those funerals wondering if they would be next. Thanks to science and medicine, none of the dozens of gay men close to me had died from AIDS-related causes.

I thought of Alan, who had taken his own life almost five years earlier now, and even myself. AIDS was still a problem, but so was suicide. Then there was slow suicide, by addiction, with crystal meth and GHB overdoses claiming more and more lives. And of course, there would always be accidents. Stupid, awful, freak accidents. All it took was a second, an error and countless lives were forever changed.

The service was definitely a Marine Corps ceremony and Gary would have been proud. Despite the misgivings he had had about the Corps toward the end causing him to resign his active duty commission, he had always been a Marine first. A friend delivered the eulogy in dress blues and most of the Marines attending wore the same uniform. He told story after story of Gary demonstrating his toughness, showing off his bravado. I had known that side of Gary first, and had almost been turned off by it completely. But then I had seen a different side of Gary, the sensitive and loyal friend, who, even if he hadn’t approved, had understood and accepted his crazy gay Marine porn star friend.

Thoughts raced through my mind as I studied the crowd of Marines. No doubt some of them knew about my past. Before, I had been nervous being around Gary’s Marine friends because when
The Advocate
had outed me, the story had been e-mailed around the Marine Corps. Maybe it was pure vanity and no one knew of my controversial past, but today it all seemed so pointless. In the big scheme of things, when your body is in the box, so many things won’t really seem to matter all that much. All you can leave behind is the love you demonstrated to your family and friends, the type of genuine love that only shows itself by action and not just talking about it. Looking around the crowd, Gary had left a lot of that behind.

The Marines folded the American flag that had been resting on the top of Gary’s casket into a neat triangle and presented it to Norah and Graham. As the bugler played taps, four F/A-18s came roaring across the sky from over the city in a perfect “missing man” formation. They broke away as they flew out over the ocean. Gary would have been so proud at this moment, and somewhere I have to believe he approved and was deeply honored by the way we tried our best to show how much we loved and respected him.

It was at this moment, with the chills still racing up and down my spine from hearing “Taps” and seeing the F/A-18s, and the tears flooding my face when I realized that, at long last, the demons of fundamentalism were gone from my mind forever. If Bob Jones were right, Gary’s soul was burning in hell right now. Nothing could be more false. Bob Jones was wrong. I still had no definitive idea what was “right” but I knew it wasn’t my former religious masters. I felt a final bit of weight rise from my shoulders and smiled. Gary had given me a priceless gift from the grave—total freedom from the internal tyranny of fundamentalist dogma.

Most of the crowd met at the officers’ club at the Miramar air station later that afternoon. I joined them for a little while, but alcohol was not an option for me. Several people said that if there were ever a time to drink, this was it, and I knew they were right. For people who don’t normally drink too much, it’s a perfect way to get through a day like this. For me, though, there was never a time to drink. I had to feel the total impact of this pain.

There was a spot on the Silver Strand, just below the beach where the Navy SEALs train on Coronado Island that I knew would be deserted. The spot was just a few hundred yards south of where Gary had gotten engaged less than five years before. He had sounded so proud and happy that night!

It was dark and I drove to that part of the beach specifically to be alone. This was the sharpest pain I had ever felt but now wasn’t the time for reaching out. I had to feel this. This was real; this was life. I couldn’t let anything or anyone numb it. I lay on the beach and wailed and moaned and wept until there weren’t any tears. After a period of time I was completely exhausted. It was dark, but I looked to the right across the bay and sensed I was staring directly at Gary’s grave off in the distance.

Gary was given one of the last burial plots in the cemetery. Tami and I had visited it just before leaving the ceremony earlier that day. Immediately to the left of his plot was the final resting place of an enlisted Marine, a corporal who had recently been killed in Iraq.

Gary would have liked the fact that the person next to him was an enlisted Marine.

Gary had been egalitarian to the extreme. Although he had been proud to be an officer of Marines, neither he nor I had bought into the bizarre concept that an officer should be respected just because he was an officer. Respect had to be earned and it was earned by treating
everyone
with fairness, dignity, and respect, no matter what their rank. That was how Gary had lived his life and how he had conducted himself professionally as an officer of Marines.

That was how he had treated me, even after I came out to him.

As I drove away from the beach that night, I recalled the stories I had heard people tell over the last few days. Everyone I spoke to said that because they had known Gary, they were better people. They were better friends, better Marines, better spouses, and generally better human beings in many other ways. They left the cemetery that day and would carry the things they had learned from Gary with them and share those same things with the people they came in contact with. Gary’s spirit would live on and on that way.

That was the real lesson I learned from my friend. We’re all connected. There was no need to feel isolated, rejected, excluded, or lonely. Gary had taught me that. Regardless of the differences I had with my family, with my co-workers or with anyone, and regardless of the things in our pasts, I could still be instrumental in their lives.

We are all connected.

W
hen I started writing this book, I expected it to be a story about me. I honestly did. About the feelings of loneliness, isolation and exclusion that had haunted me my whole life. It was an attempt to discover why and how these feelings had driven me to do crazy things like rejecting my family, doing porn, hiding my real self and feelings from my friends, abusing drugs, and attempting suicide.

Instead, it turned out to be a story about many, many people. It’s the story of every gay or lesbian in the military who thinks they are the only one like them. It’s the story of people who feel inner rage at oppression, and who decide to act out in ways that may be unhealthy or risky. It’s the story of anyone who has ever been sucked into drug and alcohol abuse by the promise of euphoric “togetherness,” only to find they are lonelier and more isolated than before. It’s the story of any child who has ever been forced to grow up according to someone else’s dogma, with the ultimate threat of eternal damnation hanging over their every move.

It’s also the story about my family. No matter how wacky and dysfunctional they might seem to me, they’re still my family and we love each other. We have to. I’m sure I seem wacky and dysfunctional to them. But now that doesn’t seem so important. Only love does.

Most of all it turned out to be a story about my friends, about this group of guys and how we all stuck together, and how we always tried to be there for each other.

Because in the end, that’s all that really matters.