Yes, He's My Fucking Boyfriend!

Note: This is a follow-up to "Juliana's Summer of Lost Innocence," published in the Taboo/Incest section on 6/6/16. It helps if you read that one first but not crucial. What follows is a slice of campus life in the tumultuous year of 1968 as told in a college romance between Juliana and a guy whose politics swings 180 degrees from her own. Those who crave prolonged graphic sex in their stories won't find it here.

*****

Juliana Wilcox felt relieved to be back at Brandeis for her sophomore year. Last June, she had looked forward to the summer with high expectations, most of them centered on Wendell Perdofsky, her neighbor and a guy she had started seeing over spring break. She had no inkling of what was to come—her strange sexual encounter with her mom, her parents' separation and a ménage à trois involving herself, Wendell and her mom that barely got started before Juliana bailed. She had left for the summer secure in her sexual orientation. She returned to school confused and confounded by her deviant experiences over those three months.

Counseling sessions with her mom in August had helped—sort of. It felt good to talk things out, to express her feelings to someone who was paid to listen and not judge. It did little, however, to allay the guilt she still felt, the feeling that something was profoundly wrong with her. Normal girls didn't engage in incestuous sex with their moms. Of course, the reverse was also true, except that Janet, her mom, didn't feel guilty about what they had done. The Duchess of Kink, Juliana had called herself, the "not so famous offspring of the Queen of Kink" as she had told Wendell.

She hoped to put what happened behind her, to make a fresh start. It was the first semester of a new school year. She planned to concentrate on her studies and looked forward to making new friends, perhaps meeting a nice guy. She followed with great interest the presidential race. She once liked Humphrey over Nixon but now wasn't so sure, not after what those brutal, head-bashing Chicago police did to peaceful demonstrators a few weeks ago at the Democratic National Convention. Grudgingly, she gave Nixon credit for his remarkable political comeback following his loss to Pat Brown in the 1962 California governor's race. Rockefeller had seemed like a moderate alternative to Nixon and Humphrey but his half-hearted campaign fizzled as had Eugene McCarthy's.

Being only nineteen, Juliana couldn't vote, but she could make her views known through student demonstrations. Vietnam was still the prime issue and she, like much of the country after the Viet Cong's surprise offensive known as Tet, thought it was time for American troops to pull out. Still, a conservative vocal minority ran counter demonstrations, people that still supported U.S. intervention.

In the first week of October, one such demonstration took place on campus in front of Ford Hall, a brick, architecturally undistinguished, three-story hulk of a building built in the early 1950s and the center of student activity. Juliana and dorm mate Mindy Asch joined the faction protesting against the war. The groups carried signs and shouted at one another. Faculty and campus security personnel looked on while the students marched back and forth just yards apart in the crisp, early autumn, New England air. Juliana wore a black skirt hemmed at her knees, boots and a light suede jacket over a white blouse. She wore her chestnut hair up, a departure from her current coiffure, a twisted pony tail that dropped over and below her left shoulder. STOP THE WAR her sign read, perhaps the most pedestrian of messages among the anti-war group. Nevertheless, it caught the eye of a counter protester, a tall, lanky, broad-shouldered guy carrying a sign that read DEMOCRACY FOR SOUTH VIETNAM.

"Stop the war? Stop the commies you mean," he barked as they faced each other.

"We don't belong there," Juliana barked back. "Ho Chi Minh is no threat to us."

As they passed each other, Juliana looked back over her shoulder. "Misguided he might be, but I could look at him all day," she said to Mindy.

Mindy, wearing jeans and blue sneakers brushed back her dark, shoulder-length curly hair and laughed. "Shame on you Julie, putting sex before politics."

When they passed each other again, he said, "Ho Chi Minh is Moscow's dupe. So he's very much a threat to us, sister."

Juliana couldn't help but smile as she looked him over, from his wavy brown hair and strong features to his six-foot athletic frame. "First off, my name is Juliana Wilcox, not sister. Second, communism is not a monolith centered in Moscow."

"Okay, Juliana, I suppose Red China, which supplies Ho's army with weapons and possesses a nuclear arsenal, isn't a threat to us either." He paused and smiled back. "And I'm Chad Grossman."

She held her hand up and wiggled her fingers. "Bye Chad," she said as they moved forward with their own group.

"I think he likes you," Mindy said.

"Too far to the right for me," Juliana said. "He's no doubt a Nixon guy, probably rooted for Goldwater in sixty-four."

"So now its politics before sex?" Mindy teased.

"Oh, I don't know," Juliana said laughing, wondering what his next pithy comment might be when they faced each other again. Before she could come up with one of her own to counter his Red China remark, she caught sight of him once more, looking absolutely smashing in his blue v-neck sweater, chinos and what looked like hiking shoes. "From the looks of those shoes, I gather you do a lot of this," she said.

He stamped his feet. "Only when provoked by naïve peaceniks like you."

She stopped walking, holding up the people behind her. "It's you who are naïve, my friend, if you believe that we belong in a third world country that's engaged in a civil war."

They stood and traded barbs back and forth, surrounded by their respective supporters who joined in. No longer in motion, the groups stood face to face, shouting at one another, some thrusting their placards toward the other side. Then someone from Chad's side hurled a rock that hit Juliana in the solar plexus. She doubled over, then collapsed on the grass. Pandemonium ensued. Security and faculty moved in to quell the physical altercations that broke out, mostly among males, but also among a few females engaged in punching and hair pulling. Juliana sat doubled over in the midst of the melee, struggling to breathe. She saw Mindy on the ground and then Chad's handsome face. He was stooped down with his arm over her back, asking if she was okay. She couldn't breathe normally, much less speak, not until he scooped her up in his arms and carried her several yards away before lowering her to the ground.

"Looks like you got the wind knocked out of you," he said. "I wish I knew the idiot who threw that rock." She clutched the spot where the rock hit her and winced in pain. "Maybe you should go to the infirmary. I'll walk with you if you'd like."

She smiled weakly. "Thanks, but I'll be okay. It's probably only bruised."

He nodded and watched as the uniformed security team dispersed the crowd. Most of the students left willingly, while others had to be dragged away. "This should never have happened," he said.

She flashed him a scolding look. "But it did and it came from someone on your side."

He shook his head sympathetically. "Look, I'm sorry you got hurt. But you shouldn't paint our group with a broad brush."

"Look who's talking about painting with broad brushes, calling me a naïve peacenik. I know that military force is sometimes warranted. But not by OUR military in Vietnam."

"Guess we'll have to agree to disagree then, Juliana."

"Guess we will, Chad." She started to get up and he reached for her hand. Refusing the help, she rose on her own and looked to see Mindy, worried and anxious, running toward them.

"My god, Julie, are you okay?" She eyed Chad suspiciously. "That rock must have hurt like hell."

"Only when I laugh."

Chad smiled and glanced at his watch. "Look, it's almost lunchtime. Why don't you let me buy you ladies lunch? It's the least I can do to make up for what some asshole from my side of the political isle did."

Juliana and Mindy looked at one another. Then Mindy said, "You two go. Three's a crowd and anyway I've got class in less than an hour, so I'll just grab something in the café." She then left, leaving the two of them alone.

Juliana shrugged. "Sure, why not? That is, if you don't mind eating with a naïve peacenik."

"Not at all. Opposites attract, you know."

They do in this case, she thought, though his political views were hardly what she found attractive. "So I've heard. Okay, where to?"

Minutes later, they were seated in the Prime Deli, a short walk from campus. "Hey Jude," which had topped the pop charts for weeks, played on the jukebox. Juliana said she heard rumors about the Beatles splitting up. Chad heard the same rumor and hoped it was just that. He was on his second Sergeant Pepper album having worn out the first. Like her, he was a sophomore majoring in economics. Juliana had not yet declared a major, though in light of her experience over the past summer, she was leaning toward psychology. She wasn't surprised when Chad told her he was in the ROTC program, allowing him to defer his military obligation until graduation. "Then it's off to Nam," he said.

"That's three years from now. Hopefully we'll be out of there by then. Haven't you heard? Nixon's got a secret plan to end the war," she said, her cynicism evident. "Or so he said. So, who do you like come November, Milhous or Hubert?"

"You don't like either one, I gather."

"You're right. McCarthy was my guy. Nixon and Humphrey? I don't think there's that much difference. If I was voting age, I might stay home. How about you?"

"You're not gonna like it."

"Try me."

"George."

"McGovern?"

"Wallace."

Her jaw dropped. "You're kidding! That racist?"

Just then, their sandwiches and sides of coleslaw arrived. Chad took a bite into his roast beef on rye. Then: "First of all, he's not a racist, just a peeved Southerner who resents Northern liberals, limousine liberals especially, telling other Southerners what's best for them. Second, his running mate, Curtis LeMay, won't take shit from the Russians, the Chinese or anybody else. He'll convince his boss and congress to do what we need to do in Vietnam to win instead of dragging on this so-called war of containment that's been an utter failure."

Juliana shook her head as she chomped on a pickle. "I can't believe I'm having lunch with a Wallace supporter."

He laughed. "Don't fret. Other than that, I'm a decent guy. I didn't see any of your liberal friends carry you away from that dust-up in front of Ford."

Simon and Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson" came over the jukebox, triggering flashbacks of a summer Juliana would never forget. She stared off into space.

"Juliana?"

She blinked. "Huh? Oh, sorry, I was just thinking. Um, yes, you're right, and I'm very grateful for your help."

"I hope I'm not boring you."

She cut the air with her hand. "Hardly. I find nothing boring about having lunch with maybe the only Wallace supporter on campus."

He forked into his coleslaw and nodded. "My conservative friends here shake their heads in disbelief, if not disgust." He chuckled. "They find it hard to believe that a Jersey boy like me could go for Wallace."

"For good reason. Your guy Wallace is a strict segregationist living in the dark ages before civil rights legislation. Don't tell me you agree with that."

"Strict segregationist? More like a shrewd politician standing behind the majority of his constituency. Like I said, he resents Northern politicians telling his people what's best, moralizing in the smug way some of them do. Look, I have no problem with equal rights for all. Discrimination on the basis of race is wrong. What galls me are the radicals, the black power crowd, the Black Panthers and people like that who keep clamoring for more and more. That includes some of the black students here who are demanding a black studies program. Don't tell me you agree with THAT."

"Well, we'll have to agree to disagree again, because I see nothing wrong with black studies programs. Black history's always been told the way white people think it should be told. So yeah, I'm all for it." He shook his head and finished chewing a forkful of coleslaw. Then she said, "Given your ultra conservative views, why did you decide on a liberal school like Brandeis?"

"Good question. Well, liberal or not, you get a good education here, and I got a partial scholarship. Plus, it didn't hurt that I was regional cross-country champ in high school. I'm on the team, you know."

She put down her corn beef sandwich and looked at him with an exasperated eye. "You, Chad Grossman, are a true anomaly."

"And you, Juliana Wilcox, might be the hottest chick on campus, liberal or conservative. Can we at least agree on that?"

She batted her eyes in a mock glamour pose. "I'm not sure I agree but I won't argue. Thanks." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "And since we're both being so candid, I had my eyes on you too. Just ask Mindy."

He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "Well, you might have heard something about politics making strange bedfellows."

She smiled coyly as she twisted a strand of her hair. "Metaphorically, yes."

"Of course metaphorically. I didn't mean it literally." His mischievous guise told her he did indeed mean it literally and wanted her to know it.

She sipped the remainder of her iced tea, sucking on the straw until the last few drops gurgled from her glass. "No, of course you didn't," she said, striking the same mien. "So, leaving the bedroom for now, when can I see you run?"

"We're hosting Boston U. and Harvard this Saturday."

"I'll be watching. That is, if you don't mind a liberal like me cheering you on."

"I'll do my best to overlook it."

***

Saturday broke cool and drizzly, not the most ideal weather to watch a cross-country race, much less run in one. Yet Juliana showed up as promised, standing among a sparse audience near the starting line in jeans and a Brandeis sweatshirt. Umbrella in hand, she watched Chad and the other runners preparing to run a five-mile loop, two-thirds of it through open fields, a third of it through woodland. Chad, clad in a blue and white striped tank top over blue shorts, ran in place and rubbed his long limbs in an effort to keep warm. He looked over at Juliana and winked. "Go Chad, go Brandeis!" she cheered seconds before the eighteen runners took off, a mass of lanky male bodies in Brandeis blue, Boston red and Harvard crimson churning their long legs over wet grass.

Juliana cheered every time the group passed by. Chad's place improved with every complete loop. From his start toward the rear of the pack, he had steadily moved up toward the front. By the final loop, he was running third behind runners from Harvard and Boston. Then, into the backstretch, he kicked hard enough to finish second, carrying enough Brandeis runners behind him to secure first place for the team.

Juliana rushed forward to embrace him amid the handshakes and high-fives. She pressed herself against his hard, muscular body, inhaling an olfactory mix of sweat, cologne and rain water. "I could really go for a steaming cup of coffee right now," she said. "How about you?"

"You must have read my mind. I'll shower and shave and then we'll go."

"Oh, don't shave," she said, rubbing her palm against his stubble. "You look sexier with this."

He laughed. "Think so? Well, okay, just the shower then."

Less than an hour later they were seated in Lou's, an off campus coffee shop. Their initial conversation about the race segued into a discussion about the upcoming rally planned by students supporting an Afro-American studies department. Once again, Chad and Juliana found themselves on opposing sides. She planned to demonstrate in support, he against. "You have a minority trying to dictate to a majority," he said. "There's something wrong with that picture."

"What's wrong is that for hundreds of years, black people in this country have been denied a history of their own," she said. "It's time we remedy that."

"We? No, you, maybe, not me. LBJ pushed major civil rights bills through congress, yet they're still not satisfied. Martin Luther King preached non-violence, yet riots broke out in hundreds of cities when he was killed last April. And don't forget the riots before that, the big ones in Detroit, Los Angeles and Newark. People are fed up, which is why people like me favor George Wallace. He doesn't have a prayer of getting elected. But if he did I guarantee you he'd put an end to the riots and crack down on violent crime."

Juliana shook her head and signed. He was so handsome, so nice in ways, yet so misguided, so wrong when it came to this, she thought. She'd always been tolerant of political views contrary to hers, so long as they didn't stray too far from the mainstream. Chad's did, as radical to the right as some of those SDS students were to the left, the ones that called for violent revolution to bring down the government. In mock exasperation, she lifted her cup from the black Formica table and said, "Chad, what am I going to do with you?"

He paused for a few seconds. Then: "Well, you can start by letting me kiss you, cause' you look incredibly cute today. I like the neat color coordination between your blue sweatshirt and emerald green eyes, and the sexy way you fixed your hair after the race. Plus, I respect people of conviction even though I might not agree with them." He paused. "Your hair—it's the way Cissy wears it on "Family Affair," right?"

She grinned. "You watch that?" He nodded. "Well, at least we have that in common." Their discussion of other mutually favorable TV shows, "Laugh-In," "Bonanza" and a new show called "60 Minutes," eased the tension, and when they got outside, Juliana fell easily into Chad's arms. Right in front of Lou's big window, they indulged in some kissy-face, huggie-bod in the cool misty air.

"This is much better than talking about politics, don't you think?" Juliana said.

He touched her face and ran his hand along her twisted pony tail. "I concur. And it would be so much better if we could do it in more comfortable surroundings."

She looked eager. "Like in a room devoid of roommates and in a nice warm bed?"

"See, we think alike more than you realize."

"And do you have such a room, Mr. Grossman?"

"I do Miss Wilcox, because Mitch, my roommate, goes home on weekends."

***

Chad's dorm room had that generic dorm room look—cinder block walls painted a light green, gray linoleum floor, two desks, two chest of drawers and posters, Che' Guevara, the Rolling Stones and Jimmy Hendrix. The Ritz-Carlton it wasn't, but it was empty as was most of the dorm on this cool, gray afternoon. Juliana looked at the beret-clad Che', a black headshot against a red background. She blinked, surprised it hung over Chad's bed. "Chad, what's a conservative guy like you doing with a poster of a radical leftist revolutionary?"

"It does seem incongruous, doesn't it?"

"Slightly."

"Like I said, I respect people of conviction, people willing to put their bodies on the line in support of their cause. Che' is one of those people."

"Okay, but so was Martin Luther King, and so are those black students demanding a black studies program."

"Oh boy, here we go again." He climbed on his bed, back against the wall, hands folded atop his head. "Those black students I'm not too sure about but you're right about King. I think he got too pushy at times, but he showed the courage of his convictions, no question. But so did George Wallace when he stood in the schoolhouse door at the University of Alabama and faced down federal marshals."