Shattered Glass(7)

And finally, being gay would seriously piss off my dad. Something I enjoyed immensely. The fact that I was debating if I could possibly be gay, and not driving over there to watch him keel over in shock as I announced it—another tick for ‘not gay’.

That settled that, then.

“I’m not gay,” I told my ceiling.

Taking a deep breath, I crawled out of bed and grabbed a pair of track pants. After getting dressed, I tried to avoid all internal discussions and zoned out watching ESPN while running on the treadmill. That plan was shot to shit the moment I turned on the TV.

There was no way gay men watched as much ESPN as I did—another check to the 'not gay' column. My confidence was returning; that made five ticks in column ‘not gay’, zero ticks for column ‘gay’. I felt immeasurably better. Until I entered the shower.

Why were men, who weren’t me, figuring in my fantasies at all? That was the first question that popped up in my mind. My subconscious, not-so-covertly, slipped into my head, You’ve cheated on every woman you’ve been with.

Yes, but with other women, I answered it.

Because you didn’t want to get married, it said.

The relationships weren’t working.

Shut up.

I didn’t even need my subconscious to argue why the relationships weren’t working: Sex.

It had never been exactly perfect. I had never felt that burning sensation in my stomach when I was around women or when I met someone new. But I was twenty-six. Kids got that feeling, not adults.

Mitzi. That was the last time I had felt that sensation. She was a girl.

That was your first kiss, though, and twenty-some other kids were watching.

Stop thinking about this! Easy to say, impossible to do.

That wasn’t the last time, now that I was thinking about what-I-wasn’t-supposed-to-be-thinking-about. I paused in the middle of soaping up my chest.

It wasn’t Mitzi. It was Jesse Chambroy, and I had been fourteen. I exhaled sharply and collapsed against the tile wall. After standing under the spray, in shock, for a good ten minutes, I climbed out of the shower, carefully, and braced my hands against the counter top, dripping onto my bathmat. I stared up into the mirror. My stunned brown eyes staring back at me.

Jesse Chambroy, the captain of the varsity football team. Muscled jock who’d had a smile like Tom Cruise. How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten him?





Austin or Alex or Idiot

“I’m not gay.” That wasn’t what I meant to say. At least not so bluntly. It had just become a mantra as I drove across town. Repeated over and over so many times that, by the time I stood in the diner, confronted once again by this visceral attraction to a perfect stranger, the words tumbled out.

“Congratulations. Would you like a medal?” Bunny Slippers asked.

“I already have a medal. For bravery, not for being gay. I think you made me gay.”

“I made you gay?” He set down the napkin he was holding. “Is that better or worse than the person who made you stupid?”"

“Worse,” I answered automatically. Then I computed what he said. Ouch. “I have a degree.”

“What are pointless and obtuse bits of information, Alex?”

“Austin,” I corrected.

“Right now, you’re Alex.”

“What?” This conversation wasn’t going at all like I planned.

“This is Jeopardy, right? You give all the answers, I tell you the questions?”

“You’re confusing,” I answered. Confusing and beautiful. Jesus. So beautiful. His eyes were bright and angry, framed by thick copper lashes. Another white t-shirt wrapped itself tightly against his chest and stomach, showing off his lean body. I might have drooled.

Bunny Slippers watched my appraisal for at least a full minute before clasping his hands and resting them on the table. “You stand in the doorway, clothes sticking to you like you just got out of the shower and didn’t dry off.” I hadn’t dried off actually. “Your hair is wet like it’s been raining, but it’s near ninety outside. You glare at me for a good ten minutes before you come over. Sit across from me in my booth, without an invitation. Don’t introduce yourself. Don’t say hello. You announce you’re not gay, but that I made you gay, and I am confusing you?”

Well, when he said it like that. “I’m not gay. You just made me think I was gay,” I clarified. I was frustrated and needed answers. Somehow I figured he had them. Logic: not one of my finer points today. Considering the last twenty-four hours of intense internal debate, I thought it understandable that I was being confusing, and feeling confused. I just wanted to stop thinking about him. Then I could go back to being not gay.