Even Though You Didn’t Call…Thanks for Calling
The first time I saw him, twenty years ago, Brandon and I were walking past Sheldon Art Gallery and his black combat boots were stomping straight toward us. Bowl haircut, shaved underneath, purple. Round, Lennonish shades that were still cool. Long trench trimmed with one million safety pins. Tall. Black eyebrows, black stubble. Scowl planted firmly.
The gay male brick shithouse circa 1989, like a little prayer. I went home, savored Madge’s patchouli scented liner notes, and and ached for him. What do you mean it’s not in the computer?
Brandon and I realized our shared orientation when we simultaneously craned our necks to watch him pass. Horny whiplash.
Living in my folks’ right-wing Christian household while negotiating my same-sex romance with a college boy when I was still in high school taught me more deviance than a library of REsearch oversized paperbacks. How can something so wrong…well, fuck. Exactly.
The romance was brief, and we only ever kissed. Maybe that’s why we’re still friends, and why I’ll always love him.
9 out of 10, your best bet is…
