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In class that week, Serena was playing Maggie from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, asking her character's husband, Brick, why he won't have sex with her. "It will be impossible to sleep," I said. All that unexplored life beneath my feet. The dance beats were blasting through the floorboards, seemingly more powerful than ever. In fact, the whole room seemed to be shaking. We were in love, and countless songs and movies told me that was all we needed. In that moment, it was as if all of New York went silent. Related: What I've Learned About Being A Man, From Being Born Female But one night, when the music was so loud neither of us could sleep, we sat tangled on the couch piecing together the night's sordid events, and I decided to test myself.
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Couldn't love transcend gayness? Couldn't my heart have a heart-to-heart with my anatomy?Īfter most parties, she and I would fall asleep spooning, wearing earplugs to drown out the relentless noise of The Cock. I had no idea what I was other than in love with her. Maybe I was bisexual, maybe I was trisexual, maybe I was a tricycle. Serena knew I was gay, but as we became more enchanted with each other, I privately began to use less and less obvious language to define my sexuality with her. Cleaning off my Duckie Browns in the bathroom, I'd think, why not like that? Why can't I love her like that? Not like that." And then they would throw up on my shoes. And much to my surprise, she'd told them all about me.Ī familiar scene began to play out: People would saunter over, eight vodkas deep, and slur, "Serena loves you, you know that, right?" I'd reply, "I love her, too." They'd get really close, the kind of close that calls for breath mints and/or restraining orders, and say, "Not like that, you don't. These events attracted a who's who of I'm-beautiful-and-have-a-potential-drinking-problem types. She ran with a fast and fabulous crowd, hosting decadent parties at her parents' East Village loft, which sat right above The Cock, a seedy gay bar. One day I was alone the next, there was Serena. She looked like Grace Kelly in a wind tunnel. My eyes went straight past my hot male classmates, all presumably very gay, to Serena, with her lion's mane of golden curls, her mischievous grin, her chic style. She was one of 16 strangers in an acting class I took my first year after college. Finally, I felt free, empowered, and, for the first time in my life, like I truly knew who I was. Suddenly, the female relationships that had been oddly tense due to my inability to consummate anything more than a "cuddle party" were remedied by three simple words: I. Related: What Matthew McConaughey Has to Do With Why We Lie OnlineĪt 22, I made a fresh start, sleeping with every man in Manhattan (Hi, Mom and Dad!) and coming out to anyone who cared to listen. Before I came out, I tried desperately to force my organs to align, even losing my virginity to a girl who, as I boasted to my (straight) brothers, "looked just like Barbie!" (The only thing gayer than losing your virginity to a girl who looks like Barbie? Losing it to a dude.) And the problem with that is I've made it a problem for everyone else, too.įor most of my life, my heart and my penis have been on strained speaking terms, like separated parents too religious to divorce. For me, there's been a significant gray area between loving women as a gay man and just plain loving women. It's like dancing three feet apart at a seventh-grade sock hop: They're touching, but at arm's length they're slow dancing, but he knows all the lyrics to "Greatest Love of All." Yes, there is obviously some sort of attraction at hand, but the impossibility of ever crossing that line-sex-means they can bask in their magical love bubble with no sense of impending doom, or heartbreak, or binge eating.īut here's where my problem becomes a problem. In each other, both parties find a supposed emotional haven. Of course, according to public perception of a gay man's official responsibilities, loving women is just my bedazzled cross to bear, the GBFF phenomenon being well documented, if only in its most base terms: Let's go shopping! You are so skinny right now, like, I'm nervous for you! But that cliché-gay men and straight women, soul mates of the surface and silly-oversimplifies a complex web of unspoken needs and desires.
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I know it doesn't sound like a problem: "You're a man and you're obsessed with women? Have you considered running for president?!" But as a gay man, genetic emphasis on gay, my devotion to the opposite sex has occasionally verged on the extreme.