Secrets of a Gay Marine Porn Star. Rich Merritt
we had together. “I was just wondering…have you heard who the editor is going to be for next year’s Academian?”
Kathy avoided my eyes at first. “Well, yes. That was decided a long time ago, actually. The editor has to take certain classes…”
I was crushed. But…“What about the staff positions? Surely those all haven’t been decided. I mean, Mr. Delaney had to wait to see who was going to get student body positions.”
Kathy sighed and raised her eyes to mine. She was sweet, but direct. “Richie, I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me about this…several of us recommended you…but Mr. Delaney said absolutely not.”
I was shocked. “I…I didn’t even think Mr. Delaney knew me that well! What…what…”
“Apparently he thinks you’re too full of yourself. He talks to Mr. Panache, you know. They’re friends.”
It was a conspiracy! I stormed out of the room, too angry and fearful I was about to shed tears over this to continue talking to Kathy. Was I really this big of a…a…jerk?
At least Mr. Monroe liked me. I was still going to be the president of my literary society the following year and reported to him for approving the activities I had planned. He was my German teacher and we got along well. But even he had some news for me…
“Richie,” he began, after calling me in to his office for a serious discussion. “You were the most qualified person on that ballot for any office. Do you know why you didn’t get it?”
I was upset. Where was this headed? “Um, because Mark Parker got more votes than I did?”
“This! This…sarcasm…this know-it-all attitude you have sometimes…is exactly what I’m talking about, Richie! No one likes that, and do you know why?” He paused, but it was clear I was not to say anything. I’m not sure what I would have said at this point to anyone. I was stunned.
“Because you’ve gotten to be too arrogant. You’re a smart aleck. You come across like you think you’re better than everyone else.”
My emotions were like a typhoon. I wanted to throw something, to storm out of the room, to shout and to cry, all at the same time. And this was a teacher who actually liked me!
“I don’t know what to say,” was all I could manage. “I’m…I’m…I’d say it’s the opposite…I really don’t think I’m good enough…as good as everyone else. If that’s what they think, they’re…about as wrong as they could be.”
Without hesitating, I stood up and left the office. Now I did have to go home and cry.
I got talked to a lot by teachers and once even the principal. It wasn’t over the usual high school stuff, like causing trouble, bad grades, or skipping classes. The principal was concerned that I didn’t seem happy, although he didn’t call it depression. The American history teacher was angry with me because she said I demonstrated a lack of respect for other students. My Spanish teacher said I should be getting better grades (I was getting a B+) because she knew my IQ.
Mr. Monroe was also upset because there seemed to be a budget deficit for my literary society. The problem was that I had a let a friend, Lucas, talk me into overspending for soccer uniforms. Our uniforms looked the best, but now we were in the red. And we’d had to forge a signature to get the invoice approval.
How was all this happening? I wondered. High school students weren’t supposed to be worrying about budget deficits and accusations of being “power hungry.” Yet this was my life. I continued battling the sadness, too, but was determined not to let my mind go back to suicide. That just seemed too…too final. And what if…what if…I wasn’t ready to go to heaven? That would suck. Kill myself and then go to hell for eternity. No thanks.
In the face of all of these problems, I turned to God. He would take care of me.
Each year religion became more and more central to my life. I never missed my daily devotional period—a personal time of quiet prayer, Bible reading, and meditation. People began to notice the improvement in my attitude. I was a very good kid and people were starting to have very high expectations of me that I wanted to live up to. That meant being very religious: going to church, going to Sunday school, keeping all the rules. I read the Bible cover-to-cover, Genesis to Revelation five times. I never used bad language. If I had a negative thought I would immediately ask God to forgive me.
I was trying to cleanse myself, to use God’s power to cleanse me, and it was a constant process. Once they get you started on this you pick it up yourself—they teach you that. They tell you everything to believe, but then they add, “We can’t tell you what to believe. You’ve got to do that yourself.” Once that seed gets planted it just grows like wildfire.
Not all my male teachers were against me. Even though I really sucked at almost all sports, Coach Lawrence saw that I had physical potential. Each year I did the most pull-ups in my class and track was the only sport at which I excelled.
“I tell ya, Merritt, I’m going to teach you to have hand-eye coordination yet!” Coach would send the other boys to do basketball drills leaving my jock classmate, Chuck Suthers, in charge. He’d take me aside and try to teach me basketball skills. I knew it was hopeless, but I appreciated his effort.
Coach also had unique insights into gay men.
“Don’t be calling these faggots names, now. They’re not the limp-wristed milquetoasts like they used to be,” said Coach to our gym class of eleventh-grade boys. “No, these queers have been working out! They’re strong and fit and they’ll kill ya if ya call ’em names. No, leave the fags alone.”
5
LIFE IS A STAGE
At last it was time for the junior-senior banquet. Every minute of my free time—and many minutes when I should have been studying or in class—went into planning this play. The closer we got to the evening of the performance, the more and more classes I skipped to work on all aspects of the show. The adviser gave me a permission note, of course. I had never skipped classes in my life as that was strictly forbidden. Working on this production had been the most exciting thing I’d ever done, so I didn’t mind.
I rewarded my friends with the lead roles. I also insisted that all of the Rockefellers be blond and all the Vanderbilts have dark hair. My tall, blond, handsome buddy Frank played the romantic lead part of Ronnie Rockefeller. His mother was played by my good friend Melanie Runyan.
I fully intended to “get away with murder” as I liked to think of it, but my plan was a secret. The plan had come to me while watching the movie Deathtrap with Christopher Reeve and Michael Caine on the Movie Channel. I’m not certain my parents realized that the Movie Channel had been part of the package they purchased when they signed us up for cable, but once it was in the house, Jimmy and I protested when my mom threatened to cancel it.
Deathtrap involves a has-been playwright (Caine) who drinks too much and is on the verge of ruin. He goes to his country house to be with his wife. He also teaches writing at a small college near the country house. A student (Reeve), who has written a brilliant play, better than anything Caine’s character ever wrote, shows up late one evening. As it turns out, the two men are lovers and Reeve is there to try to scare Caine’s wife to death. The first time I ever saw two men kiss was Michael Caine and Christopher Reeve in that 1982 movie.
I watched the movie over and over. The movie was fascinating in a train wreck sort of way. It was a negative portrayal of gay men, but at least it was a portrayal. I craved the image of two men in any relationship, especially watching them kiss—even if the image involved a coupling as awkward and odd as Reeve and Caine, and even though I was unable to admit the nature of my craving.
The first time I watched Deathtrap I was confused by the ending and drew a mistaken conclusion about it: Ah-ha! That will be my ending and I can still have my murder. I rewrote my script based on my error and got it approved by the powers that be.
On the evening of the