The first time I read On the Road, I kept waiting for Jack Kerouac and Dean to have sex. Here was the perfect love story—two young rebels journeying across the heartland of America looking for themselves, no worries, no inhibitions. Jack was so in love with Dean I just wanted to scream at them, "Do it and get it over with, you two closet cases!" But no matter how many times I read the book, it ends the same way: Dean and Jack, best of friends. Gag.

I guess you could say that’s what initially inspired me to write Body and Soul. Not On the Road, exactly, but the whole collective heterosexism in art—in every movie, in every book, in every song. When a Man Loves a Woman certainly did not apply to me. Thelma and Louise never did the dirty deed. And Jack and Dean never fucked. Sometimes there’s no justice.

I grew up with all of my heroes being vaguely transformed figures from literature. I loved Holden Caulfield, but he was never gay. A Separate Peace was always so wonderfully tragic and queeny, but Phineas and Gene never took that extra step. Cyrano was always in love with Roxanne and never Christian. Every book I read, every film I saw, every song I listened to until the age of 16 was about a nice, straight, heterosexual couple who ended up living happily ever after. I could not relate. I always wanted the hero to end up with his right hand man. It always seemed to me that Batman was always overlooking Robin for that Catwoman slut. No justice.

Anyway, that was the birth of Body and Soul. I wrote it in one three week period so intense that even my lover, Brad, sent me outside to finish; I had to type in the shack in the back yard. Body and Soul was and still is the most important thing I have ever written. In its pages lie my desire. In its pages lie the dreams, the love, the magic that I missed. In its pages lie me.

That’s why It hurt so much when I got the letter. That’s why I made such a big production. It hurt because they asked me to change myself. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I finished Body and Soul and took it to my editor the same day. He had no idea that I was even writing anything, much less a 357 page novel. I know all writers always say they don’t care if their book ever sells, but with this one I really didn’t. Body and Soul was more of a purging of my soul than a writing assignment. That’s the only reason that it worked.

Body and Soul isn’t an autobiography. I still don’t know if things like love at first sight and the good always defeating evil really do come true. The world is just too crazy for that to happen. The people you really love all have flaws. Sometimes the asshole you hated the most makes it really big. Life isn’t always a triumph.

Body and Soul gave me the opportunity to make it real, though, to make it my way for a change. It was my world to create, and in this one, James and Mike are the two people most in love with each other in the world. They fell in love at first sight in my world. And in my world, Jack and Dean would have had sex.

My editor called me the next day. "Brilliant," he called it. "You’ve been holding out on me this entire time." I was shocked. Paul is an ultra-conservative 57 year old embittered straight balding man with one leg in the grave and the other in his never-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. It never even occurred to me that he might actually like it. I had taken it to him as more of an act of rebellion than for anything to advance my career. He sent it to the publisher the same day.

I told Brad when he got home from work. He feigned interest for the correct amount of time, then asked me what I was going to start working on next. I love Brad, but he just doesn’t get it sometimes. He is always worried about being the breadwinner and me the flaky writer. He doesn’t understand that when I stand looking out of our big bay window with my eyes glazed over that I’m actually working. Inspiration is sometimes hard to come by. Brad does little to encourage me, although he is supportive of my efforts.

I went to the gym and met with Greg. Greg is a great guy to talk to because he has been HIV positive for five years and I can tell him anything. He understands how important this is to me. He understands how precious even meager attempts to change the world are. He understands my passion. So much wisdom, so little time.

"He liked it."

"Who?"

"Paul. My editor. He really liked it."

"I thought you said he was straight."

"He is, and he still liked it."

"My god, girl, you’re good."

"Thank you, thank you," I said as I curtsied.

"You didn’t expect him to like it, did you?"

"No. Not really. I mean, there is always some part of your mind that you can hope, right?"

"You’re a very lucky man, Alex. You have done something very important for yourself. Never forget what you are feeling right now. Never forget yourself. Never lose this. It is too important. I should know." We both laughed, a sad laugh. I couldn’t look him in the eye now that he had brought up the subject.

"I won’t," I promised. My conviction was not all together there. I felt so weak compared to this man. I felt like he had been to a place I would not see for a very long time. So ironic that a man, soon to be crippled with a deadly disease, was stronger than me. Only sometimes did he make me this sad.

A week passed, and my initial excitement for the book died down. I wished I had never given Paul the manuscript. I wished, more than anything, that I had the foresight to have kept a copy for myself. My whining fell on deaf ears.

Then the package came. I had almost forgotten about the publisher. I was immediately excited. That package reminded me of the college replies: a big package, good news; a small letter, bad news. This was a big package. It felt like 358 pages.

I opened the package like it was Christmas.

Dear Mr. Garrett,

We are very excited at Dell Publishing about your newly written book, Body and Soul, presented to us by Mr. Paul Scoal. We feel that your work is a step above your previous writing, and would like to increase our advance copies of the hardback for Body and Soul to a total of 50,000. Your initial advance will be for $100,000, and, as discussed with Mr. Scoal, you will receive royalties for each copy sold.

With this offer comes one change, one that we hope we can all come to agree upon. In the best interest of yourself and our readers, we would like to expand the demographics to which your book appeals. Specifically, we would like to tone down the homosexual aspects of your book. We would like to make the suggestion of changing "James" to "Jane."

With the best intentions in mind, we have included a copy of your manuscript with the aforementioned change. Without these changes, we would regrettably be forced to turn down your offer to publish Body and Soul.

Everything I had hoped. Everything I had dreaded. Everything I had feared. Everything I hated. All in this letter.

I called Brad at work. No answer. Lunch time. Fuck.

Still carried on my wave of fury, I went to the gym. I was crying as I looked for Greg. Sean saw me first.

"Where’s Greg?," I demanded.

"You didn’t hear? He collapsed yesterday on the Stairmaster."

I ran to my car, then back home. I could not handle this tragedy, too. I left a note for Brad—I’ll be gone for a couple days. Don’t worry. I love you.

I got in my car and started driving. I ended up two hours later at the Mexico border. What the hell, I thought, I’ve never been to Baja.

Mexico’s Highway 1 streamed under my tires. Peter Gabriel blasted on the stereo. Every time the odometer flipped another mile, I tossed one page of the polluted manuscript out to join the Dr. Seuss-like desert. NO BASURA, no littering. All I though about was Greg. Greg would understand.

My car finally ran out of gas on old Mexico Highway 1 about 330 miles into Baja California. I still had 27 pages left in my hands. Instead of flagging someone down, I walked to a beach I saw on the horizon. I just sat there all night. I sat there with those 27 pages in my hand. I sat there because I knew that nothing I could do would change the world. Nothing I could do would let me have the world I created. There would never be a Mike and James. There would never be a major motion picture for all to see about the splendor of love between two men because that would be perverted. Jack and Dead would always just remain friends. And at that moment I understood why. I understood why the creativity of a thousand generations had been slain. I knew that night why Walt Whitman had changed all of the masculine pronouns in his poems to feminine ones.

The next morning, cursing myself for my romanticism and my lack of foresight, I flagged down a corrupt police officer and bribed him to give me some of his gas. I made it back to Los Angeles in seven hours. A different world, only seven hours away. I got home and hugged Brad and I knew what I had to do.

I signed the contract with Dell. James became Jane. Jack and Dean remained friends.

I can’t say that I like what happened. Its hard to look $100,000 straight in the eye and still maintain your conviction about artistic integrity. Body and Soul is still a work of art; I am still in its pages. The contract was a compromise. And I believe that one day I can write another book, another good book about my desire, and sell it to some small time, independent publishing company that will sell 1,000 copies worldwide.

Paul gave back the original manuscript, the only one still left with the name James on it. I keep it in a box underneath my bed and once every two years or so I read it. I think of Greg, who’s dead now. I think of the promise I made to him that day, never to forget.