It never occurred to me while getting a blow job from a guy in my high school dark room that I was gay. And the subsequent men who blew me there and elsewhere in my pre-college days didn’t do a stellar job of convincing me about my sexuality, either.
When two guys blow each other, it isn’t love. (Unless they are actually in love) So naturally, I didn’t think that my lack of fireworks anywhere else but my cock was indicative of having emotional connections to other men. It was just a thing guys do. We were growing up, and though I wasn’t exactly pre-pubescent, I still had some figuring out to do.
That’s probably why I had a girlfriend. And because I was attractive but not overly popular, she was from the next town over, along with all the friends I accumulated my junior and senior years because my high school was a mating pool for upper crust suburbanites already filled with pre-loaded regret for the mistakes they had yet to make. I found the kids in the less privileged town next door to be more welcoming. I came from a less privileged family, and these people didn’t instantly think I was gay. They just thought I was full of personality. And anyone beyond the age of 19 knows that straight guys typically don’t have personality.
What I think I liked best about the folks from across the river was definitely that they didn’t question my sexuality. At least not to my face. And I came to realize that they felt this way not because I was doing a good job of appearing straight (like I genuinely thought I was) but because they had a rainbow and glitter covered pillar to compare me to. Let’s call him Matthew. (The names are changed to protect the deceiving)
Matthew was on FIRE. And if he wasn’t burning, then his face sure was shiny as though it were a thousand degrees inside, but he didn’t break a sweat. He wasn’t an obvious musical theatre gay, but you could likely sense him from the other side of a brick wall and still be positive he was gay. If the Kardashians were a thing back in 2001, I suspect he would have known everything about them. He was an “Extra” US Magazine kind of queer. Only, he wasn’t a queer. No. He was straight. And he dated every girl with low self esteem he could get his hands on. Poor girls.
Not that I was doing any better.
I was convinced though, along with all of America, that Matthew was in the closet and ready to bound out the doors at the first three chords of “Rose’s Turn” the second he got to college. Only, he had been in college a year ahead of me, my friends and my girlfriend. And yet somehow he hadn’t come out as gay.
He had, however, put his balls inside the mouth of a young lad who had passed out. This resulted in him almost losing his privileges as a resident advisor at his college. This was also the “thing” we had all heard of him since he left for college. It was his legacy, and a way to know he was still doing…well.
I was so sure Matthew was gayer than Easter. And I had a night to prove it. Prom night. He had a new
beard girlfriend, and his girlfriend was friends with my girlfriend. We were sharing a limo. The limo was a closet with a bunch of straight girls stumbling in. And with Matthew loudly arguing over the exact lyrics of a K.C. and JoJo song, the limo was also turning into a war zone. But it was an opportunity to prove, without outing myself, that there was a GAY IN THE LIMO TO THE PROM!
Of course, I didn’t reveal in a murder mystery solving kind of way just how Matthew had straightened out the lyrics “I’m goin’ crazy (crazy, crazy) just a’ thinkin’ about you, baby” and thus had shown us all that women don’t attract him. I did use cherry tomatoes impaled onto the end of a knife during dinner to mock his previously mentioned act. But the real moment of truth came after the prom.
Post-prom, the attendees were shuttled to an all-night lock-in designed to curb underage drinking and hold onto controlling these kids just one more night. It was six hours of no sleep after the parade that was the prom, and for someone who cares a lot about dark circles under his eyes, I was not thrilled with the idea of not sleeping for 23 hours.
Somewhere in the night, delirious from a lack of sleep, I was able to corner Matthew, who looked as shiny as a freshly waxed mannequin. Blatantly, I asked about the lowering of his junk into the cavity of a passed out youth.
He responded with “I could put my balls in your mouth and you would never know it” before turning on his heels and running away.
This could have been a dig at me. This could have been him insulting himself. It certainly was confusing. But it definitely gave me the satisfaction that I flustered the shiny faced liar. Should I have felt victorious and satisfied? Maybe. But it didn’t matter much.
I felt like crap.
I was in the closet, and so was he. In subsequent months and years, I would come out, be very openly gay, have boyfriends, almost have a husband, and I would sing thousands of musical theatre songs. I assumed the same for Matthew, and I was happy to think that he found happiness in the form of someone’s seven inch circumcised cock somewhere in the universe.
Then came Facebook. And we became “friends” not too long ago, but I didn’t do much to check in on him. The flash seemed to bounce off his forehead in his profile picture, and he looked well enough for me not to inquire further. Then with Christmas, an update appeared on my Facebook news feed. Matthew was engaged…to a woman.
We are 30. A dozen years ago, it didn’t seem comprehensible to hurt a woman by dating her if the connection wasn’t there. We were kids. And kids don’t think about those things. But today, as grown men who may have had our hearts broken from time to time and have more experience under our belts with interpersonal communication, the incomprehensible act now is this person marrying a woman. Of course, this woman has to either be open minded or daft to go on a date with someone who acts like he belongs in a John Waters film.
But what do I know? I came out. I’m gay today. It’s great. He may achieve orgasm while naked with a woman in bed. Or he may be saving himself for marriage. In which case – to be a fly on the wall THAT night…