Seeing More Than Gay

She was the love of my life for six plus years. I am queer because of my love for her. I was no longer gay because I loved the feel of her smooth, supple body next to me -- the way her breasts pushed against my back. She was not the first. She was the catalyst. I am forever indebted to her for showing me so much more than gay.

Now I Am...

There was a time when I was gay. There was a time when I was straight. Now, I am queer.

The First Coming Out

  
I came out as gay when I was in seminary. I remember going into seminary already questioning myself. I was attracted to boys/men at a very young age. In fact, I can't remember a time when I didn't like boys. All of the social stigma that still exists around being LGBTQ existed then, and I knew I couldn't say anything. Sure there were glimpses of my latent homosexuality -- I called 1-976 numbers when I was in 8th grade from my grandma's phone thinking I wouldn't get caught. But that didn't mean I would verbally admit to those attractions.

Coming Out Again, and Again, and Again

  
I came out at 18, but also at 8, 13, and again at 23. Each time, I found a new piece of myself and lost another. It was a constant opening and shutting of doors, of answering different people's knocks in the early morning hours. Partially, it has been about me and my identity. Partially, it has been about conforming to others' constructs. It is a vacillation between breaking free and being bound. In reality, I am still coming out. I always will.

First Grade Fondle

   
We first fondled each other when we were in kindergarten or the first grade at a sleepover when everyone else was asleep. I was excited. He was excited. It felt good.

We continued fondling each other through the eighth grade. Then puberty stopped it. It was no longer childhood innocence and exploration. It was sex and sin.

We ended up at the same college. One afternoon, he knocked on my door and asked to talk. He wondered if what we did as children made him gay. I said, "No. It was just childhood innocence and exploration." He smiled and asked me not to talk about it ever again. And we never spoke of it or to each other again.

My First Gay Kiss

 
He wasn't my first boy-boy kiss. He was my first gay kiss. I was researching a project on LGBTQ discrimination for a sociology class and ended up at the queer center at the University of Minnesota. He was the receptionist or something like that.

We sat on the couch in the lobby surrounded by windows passionately making out. In retrospect, our degree of making out on that couch was tacky. At the time, it was hot. We were both exhibitionists.
We exchanged numbers, and eventually I went over to his house to continue our passion. I mistook passion for love.

He opened the door and led me upstairs. We immediately picked up where we left off. Suddenly, he was on top of me, condom over his prick, my pants around my ankles, ass in the air.

"No. No! NO!" I screamed.

He didn't listen. My ass burned. It was my first time.

I wish I turned and slapped him.

"and we're in love"

She came out to her parents.

"What? Isn't he gay," they asked.

"No," she said. "He's queer, and we're in love."

The Apology

 
He pulled me in to his office.

"Jason," he started, "you can't volunteer here or be a part of this church any more because you're gay. It isn't the message we want to send the youth."

"But I've been raised in this church. I went to school here. I teach Sunday School."

"I'm sorry. You can't do that any more. That's all I have to say."

Years later, he emailed an apology.

I still don't visit that church.

May Day Is for Kisses

 
I was in the park celebrating with friends on a beautiful May Day as the puppets danced and the protesters cheered. I saw him down the hill, his skinny black jeans, knee-high combat boots, and tousled  hair recognizable from a distance. I hadn't seen him in years. We both grew distant after our ninth grade year filled with horror movies and questions. I wanted to kiss him then, but thought better of it. He left for art school in the eleventh grade.

He saw me too and approached smiling. I walked towards him distancing myself from my friends hoping for privacy in the crowded park. His smile faded, and he raised his hands in greeting, threw them around me, and squeezed -- an action he never would have done in high school. I melted and sighed.

"It's good seeing you. It has been too long. What've you been up to?" I asked trying to start a conversation.

He didn't respond verbally. Instead, he looked at me, leaned in close, and kissed me. The blood rushed to my face, and I felt warm, almost sun-burnt. I kissed back.

We walked hand in hand around the park that afternoon for about half an hour in mundane conversation between waited for kisses.

Then, it was over. He kissed my cheek and said good-bye. I didn't want it to end. It wasn't supposed to be more than a kiss and a confirmation.

I still occasionally  search for him.