SUGGESTS THAT I SLEEP WITH A
MAN
The leaders of my therapy group recommended individual therapy. I was referred to Richard Diz, a psychiatrist.
In the building of the new School of Psychology, before entering my new therapist’s office, I read a poster announcing something unusual: “Gay Dance in the Washington Dormitory Ballroom”.
The new specialist was beautiful: blond, athletic, blue eyes, and about twenty-five years old. He liked to play tennis and specialized in sexuality. He made my sessions as close to having a father as possible. At that moment, I had found a new Jenny in Washington, an Uruguayan companion named Carmen. Although we went out on weekends and had a great time, I hadn’t even tried to kiss her.
“What do you think, Jacob, if you try with a man?”
Richard asked.
“Oh no, this is too much, Richard. Did I come here to get cured and you’re telling me it’s time for me to fuck a man?”
“Jacob, you’re in the United States. Here, we fuck from the age of twelve. There are no virgins here anymore; I think you are the only one left. You must try it once and for all to have a good fuck. With what you’ve 94
told me, you’ve been thinking about it for many years.
And I’m telling you the truth, it’s not bad at all. In fact, I’ve tried it and it doesn’t taste bad.”
“Now you really got me. My mother is paying for this therapy and you’re telling me that a gay fuck would do me good.”
“I’m telling you to have a good roll in the hay and decide if you like it.”
This was revolutionary. A therapist promoting homosexuality? My mom would be shocked!
I told him that I saw the poster that said the Gay Student Alliance had been established in Maryland. “I know they have a social activity on Saturday,” he said,
“are you going?”
I’m in another world, I felt like a parallel one was colliding with mine. Richard was telling me to go to a gay dance. He didn’t suggest hormones, lobotomies, or prostitutes: just that I sleep with a man. I couldn’t believe it.
I thought about it repeatedly. That Saturday at seven o’clock, I headed to the hall; I looked around everywhere so as not to be seen by any classmates, especially any Latin American ones. From a distance, I glanced out the window and could barely make out silhouettes. I tried to enter, but I couldn’t take a step; one, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and I was still there, in front of the door, petrified.
“Did you go?” - Diz asked the following week.