For a 12-year-old boy growing up in a religious Montana prairie town, sex was a forbidden monster knocking at the door. So the day I was at my friend Frankie’s house and we happened across a book called, “The Joy of Sex,” I felt like I had just won the lottery. We ruffled through the sacred pages and I was delighted to see it even contained pictures—most notably pictures of female body parts. And even the sounds of the words made me quiver. Words like “vulva.” I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I felt I was on the brink of a life-changing discovery.

Eventually, we came across a chapter called “Homosexuality.” I’d only vaguely heard of this concept and it seemed to throw everything out of whack. I looked at Frankie and thought Would I ever want to do anything in this book with Frankie? After pondering this a moment, I thought, Hell no. I didn’t want Frankie or any other boy for that matter. I much preferred the vulvas.

After I went home that day, I thought a lot about that book, and a week later I returned to Frankie’s house, begging to borrow it. After he reluctantly agreed, I smuggled it home and snuck up into our attic to read it. But after opening it up, I noticed all the pages were bent and worn in the homosexuality section, with the rest of the book still looking new. It puzzled me why Frankie apparently wasn’t more interested in the female body parts, but I shrugged it off.

In the days that followed, I noticed Frankie was often lost in thought—as if he were harboring a secret he didn’t know how to deal with. And as time went on, it became apparent that Frankie was different than the other boys in our town. The rest of us loved to play hockey and football, and go hunting and fishing. But Frankie preferred to stay home and do art work, which he did exceedingly well. Despite our differences, Frankie and I were inseparable friends. He had so many deep ideas about life and we could sit and talk about them for hours. I valued Frankie’s friendship and couldn't imagine life without him. 

But by the time we got into high school, the other boys were calling Frankie a “homo” behind his back. At first I defended Frankie, assuring the other boys that he was attracted to girls like the rest of us. But one day two older boys approached me and one said, “The way you keep defending Frankie, we think you might be a homo too.”

In that little town, in that day and age, being accused of that ultimate “sin” was like being condemned to hell. I soon buckled under to peer pressure and resolved to have nothing to do with Frankie. Finally he confronted me and said, “What’s going on, man? We were best of friends. Why're you avoiding me?”

I looked Frankie in the eye, and mustering up all the defiance I could, said, “Frankie, it’s because I’m a real man and you’re a queer.” Frankie stared at me until I had to look away, and then he walked off without another word.

After that day, Frankie was pretty much friendless. He mostly kept to himself and did his artwork. Meanwhile, I’d play hockey and go hunting and fishing with the other boys, but I felt something vital was missing from my life. Nevertheless, I just couldn’t risk being seen associating with Frankie. 

After graduating high school, I joined the U.S. Army and served for three years until 1982. On my first day back in my hometown, I ran across Frankie’s sister, Jill. She said Frankie had moved to Seattle to become an artist. She also said there was a strange new virus going around in that area, and that the men in Frankie’s community all seemed to be catching it, and they were dying. She told me she was pretty sure Frankie had it too.

I stood there feeling numb, thinking about all those countless hours I’d spent with Frankie and how deeply I'd treasured his friendship. Most of all, I anguished over that moment I rejected him. Then Jill said, “Y’know, I think Frankie wouldn’t mind it if you were to give him a call,” and she gave me his phone number.  

I went home, and as the days went by I kept inventing lame excuses for not calling Frankie. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and I called my old friend. Frankie's voice was weak, but as soon as I heard it, tons of memories came flooding back to me. And right then, he wasn’t gay Frankie. That didn’t matter anymore. He was my childhood friend Frankie, plain and simple. 

Toward the end of our conversation, I started trying to apologize for being such an utter jerk to him. But Frankie cut me off and said, “It’s not you, Erik. It’s the world. The world won’t let two guys on different sides of this fence just reach across and be friends.” After a pause he said, “But why not? Tell me why not?”

In the next couple of months, I talked to Frankie a few more times, but before I could go see him, Jill called to say Frankie had just died of AIDS. Then she said something I'll always remember. She said Frankie told her that when he and I reconnected, he felt a missing part of his life had been restored. 
 
Ever since then, if I meet a guy who happens to be gay, and I want to be his friend, I just reach across that fence to be his friend. And when I do, I have a feeling that somewhere out there, Frankie is smiling down on me.