More moments in Coming Out history…

When I was 14, my parents sentenced me to live five days a week at a high school seminary, save summer and holidays. I still haven’t asked or figured out why. Personally, I think they thought a school where they manufactured baby priests was sure to de-queerify the sullen nancyboy who was eating their food and stomping their floors like a hormonal 13 year-old – imagine that! I felt rejected and reacted accordingly. At church on Sundays, I was the dutiful altar server and we put on a happy show for all of the folks who thought I was some sort of saint-in-training. In reality, I barely spoke to my parents on the weekends, did my own laundry and made plans to hang out at friends’ houses to avoid any incidental contact. At church on Sundays, I was the dutiful altar server and we put on a happy show for all of the folks who thought I was some sort of saint-in-training. And at school, I was bullied and pushed around, picked on, talked about and just plain miserable.

The bright spots were a few friends who didn’t judge me and found me funny. Like many an outcast, I found solace in being the class clown. I imitated faculty brilliantly and told dirty jokes in their voices to anyone who would listen. And I had mad crushes on almost every boy who paid me positive attention. If John Hughes had made a movie about a despondent gay boy trying to learn independence through co-dependency, I was living it without the cool 80s soundtrack or Duckie. (I’d have called it Pretty In Twink or Some Kind of Fabulous, by the way…)

A sea change occurred over the summer between freshman and sophomore year. When I came back that September, I suddenly popular. The boys who had bullied me exchanged simple a “Hi!” in the hallway instead of pushing me into a locker or socking me in the arm when nobody was looking. It was all so surreal, since my hair was overly curly, my skin was in full-breakout mode, and I had just gotten braces on. I’d been waaay cuter the year before. But I was willing to take what I got. Some of the guys even got oddly flirty with me. I didn’t think much of this. Guys, especially the teenage variety, have to flirt with something, after all. It was either me or one of the nuns who taught us English. Braces, acne, and curls were still cuter than a stern vow of chastity.

One Thursday a friend (we’ll call him Logan cause I feel like it) and I wandered the halls after computer class, talking about nothing. We’d flirted all day, in every class we shared. I knew something was up, because usually, we’d be shooting pool or listening to music loudly in the dorm. Instead we ended up behind the stage of the auditorium. Conversation hit that lull that it always does just before something’s gonna give. My heart was racing. And then he kissed me.

We made out until the dinner bell rang. (Yes, our lives were that regulated.) I floated through the early evening in a happy daze. After study hall (I told you life was regulated), we snuck away and made out some more. I was never a great student, but I did even less than usual that Friday in my classes. Before school let out and our parents picked us up, I slipped a note into Logan’s bag before he left. Not an hour passed before I got a phone call at home. One guess as to who was on the other line.

“Um, Jay?”

Barely containing myself: “Hi Logan!” (Surely this was where he was going to ask me to meet him at the mall or go over his house to make hang out.)

“I got your note about how you know, um, love me and stuff…?”

Me, still not getting it: “Yeah?”

“Um, I just needed to let you know that what happened yesterday…well, I was just really horny…and I don’t think, um, I don’t think it’s gonna happen again.”

Sinking in: “Oh. Kay.”

“Still friends, right?”

Lying: “Sure! Of course. Yeah.”

“Good - see ya Sunday.” Click.

I'd love to tell you I learned my lesson from that one. But I repeated the mistake of jumping in, tongue first, several times over the years before it sunk in.

Thanks for tuning in.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Naked Baby Photos Committee.