I intended to write about college, but I received so much positive feedback that I decided to expand on my high school experience further.
Like I said, this was a time when there was a constant barrage of new boys. I’ve written about Caramel Eyes, but I have yet to weigh in on Curly. I encountered him for the first time during a basketball game, he at least four or five years older. He was beautiful, with bulging biceps, olive skin, and wavy black hair. I figured he must be straight. He was on the basketball team, and all the athletes were straight (if only I knew what I know now). He never seemed to have a girlfriend, either, but that doesn’t mean anything.
To this day, he and I have never spoken, but in high school, I admired him from afar. Throwing caution to the wind, I even gushed about him (on multiple occasions) to one of my high school friends, who gladly reciprocated.
As we sat in the bleachers at a game, I would say, “He’s so cute.”
“Oh my gosh, I know!” they said.
“Those arms.”
“Right? I would date him in a heartbeat.”
I would never admit to desiring a relationship. I would say things like, “I’m not gay, but if I was, I’d go for him,” and “His arms are so big. I bet he’s in the gym every day.” All this as I sat, mouth watering, to stare at his and the other athletes’ full chests, nipples pressed against sweaty jerseys, pit hair on full display.
This high school friend had undoubtedly guessed I was gay but never pushed me to come out. Looking back, I wasn’t as grateful for them as I should have been. When so many were still figuring out who they were, this friend stayed by my side, on the fringes. We don’t talk anymore, but they made high school bearable.
It was also around this time that guys started noticing me. Alas, none of the athletes I admired came forward to profess their love. In other words, none of my fantasies came true, but if they had, I imagined them going as thus:
I would be at my locker, after-hours, grabbing a book I had forgotten, and A (for Athlete) would walk up beside me. “Hey,” he would say, in his deep bass voice.
“Oh. Hi.”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting a book.”
Breathing hard, he would move in closer. “I can’t get you out of my mind.”
“But I thought you had a girlfriend.”
“She doesn’t matter. I want you, more than anything.”
“We can’t.”
He would pull me against him, sweaty from basketball practice. “Kiss me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Well, okay.” And then we’d go at it for hours, making our way into the Home Economics classroom and ending on the principal’s desk, one of my all-time favorite fantasies.
And then I would go to the altar on Sunday and say something like, “But Jesus, have you seen him?”
And Jesus would say, “You’re right. I’ll give you this one.” And we’d live happily ever after.
The attention I got was from theatre gays, and though most couldn’t dribble a ball, it was still refreshing. Some of them were attractive, but I was still a closeted homosexual. When I heard things like, “So-and-so has a crush on you,” I would brush it aside, knowing all the while that I was the straight Christian who did no wrong. But let’s be honest. Like most gay men, I still loved the attention, and all publicity was good publicity, right?
So instead of pursuing my first toxic gay relationship, I pursued girls — which was unhealthy but necessary for surviving in the South. After all, we were expected to at least strike up our first serious relationship, date a bit, break up, and then go to college. But not even I could do that. So I searched, pursuing girls who let me down easy. Over. And over. And over again.
It was fucked up. If I had been comfortable enough to discuss my feelings with anyone, I might have avoided heart ache. Instead, I was fed lies. And since homophobia is so enmeshed in Southern culture, I was to dig myself out of a hole of lies — a hole I didn’t know was being dug in the first place.
Luckily, through the support of other queers, I dug myself out. Unfortunately, others are still trying to save themselves — some consciously, some unconsciously — while other queers get further and further from the truth, never to be saved.
I’m glad I made it. But it is because each queer’s situation is so precarious — some make it while others don’t — that I must be that much louder. I must shed light on my experiences, not only to awaken the buried queers but to inform allies (I see you) as to what it’s like to be marginalized.
There’s one thing that evangelicals and I agree on — God doesn’t make mistakes. Shouldn’t it follow that since God made me, He intended me to be queer? Agree or disagree, it’s not really anyone’s business to decide. It’s not my business to judge certain straight people for their sheer disregard of marriage, just like it isn’t straight people’s business to judge me for wanting a same-sex relationship. Let’s stop judging and start appreciating the differences that make us unique. Believe me, it makes everything so much easier.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I appreciate the time you’ve put aside to read about my big gay life. In the next blog, I will actually discuss college and my ex-girlfriend (Yep, I had one. It’s probably because I’m so butch). Until next time. Kisses.
