You screamed don’t go when he made to leave. But he sat up and left. He didn’t hear you. No one heard you; thanked god they didn’t. The scream happened in your head, a psychic eruption to force the will of another, only to be stopped by a fear that doing so would be to reveal more than was allowed.
It seems like an odd sounding thing to receive. But, every once in a while, for us men with feminine dispositions, our ears become receptors to a mildly irritating question: why are you acting like a girl? Sometimes, it’s a benign question; the intent of the questioner is fueled only by curiosity. Other times, it’s a weapon, stained with the poison of malice; the questioner wields it as a medium to break our spirits. It is easy to reflect on this question in moments of sorrow, posing it at ourselves, to query the fundamental nature of our beings. The resulting conclusion always comes down to one point: we must be flawed creatures unworthy of the title human.
Life moments exist when one meets a stranger who comes across as something else. You both fall into an existence where it feels like you have known each other since the moment you were born. Your conversations flow with glorious synchrony. One thought, I have definitely found my soulmate, becomes the only statement worthy of the label truth. It’s insignificant that you can count the total number of encounters you’ve had with this person using only the fingers of your right hand, ringing from the truest aspects of your being is the possibility that you and this person can be, will be, and are now in fact, one.
We’re taught to expect grace from the church. But somewhere along the line we meet this expectation, which serves to bind of our faith, dishonoured. We realize deserving the church’s grace demands living within conditions we, given the nature of our beings, can never come to be. Seeing this, we let go. We embrace a dark premise: the church celebrates its tenets in a way that fails to cater to the needs of all its members. The church has failed to cater to our needs. So, we chop off the one bit of self that serves to keep us centred. We let go of our ability to believe. We let go of our faith.
Love with the right person lies at the heart of our deepest needs. In moments when we least expect (or want) it, we find this need properly satisfied by a person who, but one minor feature, makes the perfect candidate. We, as gay people, fall for the person whose sexual and emotional interests rest exclusively on people with genitals we ourselves fail to possess. Despite this feature our love for this right person burns amok, hoping to shift the nature of what reality reveals to what lies within the realms of our dreams.
It started around age ten or eleven. Or maybe a bit later at sixteen, it’s hard to recall. Despite all you felt and heard about its wrongness you reasoned giving it a go couldn’t be so bad. You had seen your mates do it so casually within the high walls that protected your boarding school from the rest of the world. One go. That would be it. No harm would come from experimenting. So when you arrived at a place you thought was most private, your room at home, you let down your pants and began to pump until a creamy goo brought with it an undescribable pleasure.
“Gay is such a good word for such a bad thing”, someone had said to me during a commute. I was startled, because I had singled out this person as one of the “enlightened” ones. Continue reading