'Til The Cows Come Home

The Big Question

The WYSIWYG Talent Show folk have outdone themselves yet again. Last night's show, “I Love A Parade: Even Gayer Tales of Extremely Gay Gayness!”, was perhaps the best WYSIWYG show I have ever seen...and it's pretty damn hard to top this year's "Spawn of Worst Sex Ever!" This was my third time (and hopefully not my last) performing for this group, and I've never been more proud to have been involved.

The talent assembled last night was phenomenal. Please, please, please go and check out these other amazing writers:

Hanne Blank (misia.livejournal.com)

Emily DePrang (pigeoninthesun.blogspot.com)

Joe Jervis (joemygod.com)

Bradford Shellhammer (bradfordshellhammer.com/weblog.html)

Jane Vincent (educatedslut.blogspot.com)

Joel Derfner f/k/a Dr. Faustus (searchforlove.blogspot.com)

Dan Fishback (cheeseonbread.com)

A tremendous thank you to everyone who came out to support the WYSIWYG Talent Show and last night's performers. I hope you had as much fun as I did. And, without further delay, below is the piece I wrote for the evening. Enjoy.

THE BIG QUESTION

“Are you sure that you’re gay?”

That’s what I call the “The Big Question” and ever since I came out of the closet, it has followed me everywhere. Employers, classmates, relatives, just about everyone I’ve ever met has asked me that question at one time or another.

I’m not talking the “Are you sure that you’re gay?” that I get when I casually mention that I can’t stand The Wizard of Oz or that I’ve never seen What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? No – I’m talking about the “Are you sure that you’re gay?” that calls into question my desire to lick Chris Meloni from top to bottom and everywhere in between. The answer to that question is, of course, a huge resounding “YES!”

Oz and Baby Jane aside, the mountain of evidence is irrefutable. I can work a Golden Girls quote into any conversation; I’ve attended a Kelly Clarkson concert; there is more porn on my computer than I could masturbate to during an entire lifetime; I have a bachelor’s degree in Musical Theater; and I’ve slept with Faustus. So yes – I’d say I’m pretty damn gay.

The first time I heard those six words was February of my senior year in high school. It was just days before my eighteenth birthday. My high school sweetheart had broken up with me, and I should still have been recovering from the devastation and loneliness. After taking an extra-long shower that included an elaborate fantasy starring the varsity soccer team, I was hit with the realization. I stepped out of the shower, wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror and met my blurry reflection.

I looked at myself for a long time, asking the question over and over in my head. Each time, my inner voice replied, “No, you’re just in a phase. It’ll pass. Stop thinking about it. Wear your black sweater today – it’s slimming.”

But then something happened.

“Are you sure that you’re gay?” I asked myself…out loud. My reflection looked stunned for a moment, and I leaned in to stare deep into my own eyes. After what felt like an eternity of soul searching, I watched myself say what I’d wanted to say for years, but was terrified to admit.

“Yeah. I am gay.”

In my fantasy world, the soccer team leapt with joy and took me back into the locker room for a private celebration. In reality I got dressed for school where I would still be a little terrified, but also a little more confidant.

Like most gay high school boys, I was enormously popular with the girls. It was good for me because it was a great way to play it safe in suburban Ohio. It was good for them because I was cute and non-threatening and they could tell me anything. Then their world was shaken up by word of my homosexuality, and suddenly The Big Question was everywhere. In most of those cases, the popular follow-up to “Are you sure that you’re gay?” was “Because I always thought there could be something between us one day. Couldn’t you be attracted to me? We just click so well.” Well of course we do, because I’m gay. I was always fascinated when a girl took this approach with me, as if it would make me reconsider everything and run back to them saying, “Why didn’t you SAY so? We’ve wasted so much time being platonic! How could I ever have thought Jason Priestly was hotter than you? Let’s go have us some sex!”

In my early coming out days, very few people accepted the news of my sexual orientation without asking The Big Question. There was a girl in high school who, upon hearing the news of my gayness, said to me, “Look, I know it won’t mean anything and I don’t expect you to be good at it, but if you want to sleep with me just so you can say you’ve done it with a girl once, I’m cool with that.” I didn’t know what to say, except that it probably wouldn’t be necessary and I thanked her for her, uh, hospitality.

Then there’s the day that my sister wandered into the kitchen to find my mother and me in a heated argument over whether or not I was leaving the house to meet my boyfriend. My sister didn’t officially know that I was gay yet, and I pounced on the opportunity to be let her know.

“Don’t you dare say anything to her about this,” my mother hissed as I turned to my sister.

Defiant and ready to make a scene for the sheer pleasure of being dramatic, I said, “Look. I’m gay. And that may come as a big shock to you, but you’re going to have to deal with that. Okay?”

My sister shrugged, said, “Sure, whatever,” and started rummaging through the fridge for a snack.

My mother and I stood there in shock, both of us thrown by her utter lack of reaction.

“Is that all you have to say to him?” my mother said.

“Yup,” my sister closed the fridge door and barely looked at us and she left the room. “I’ve seen enough Oprah to know how to deal with this.”

And that was that.

But it should come as no surprise to anybody here that the ultimate Big Question incident involves…my mother. Now let me say this up front – those of you who read my blog on a regular basis already know this – that my mother is one of the coolest and most open people I know, has been tremendously supportive through my entire life. Sometimes to legendary proportions, as I am about to share with you.

In the spring of my freshman year in college, out of the closet for a full year, I went to the senior prom with one of my best girlfriends. What gay man hasn’t been drafted as a prom date at least once in their life? It’s our duty, and our way of saying “Thank you for being you and not being mad when you found out that the reason I was at your house all the time was because your brother is hot.”

One afternoon, as the prom drew closer, my mother picked me up on campus and we set off to the local tuxedo outlet to pick out my formalwear. She moved into the passenger seat to let me drive.

“T.’s mother and I are so excited that you are taking her to the prom,” my mother said as we drove, warming me up for the conversation to follow. “We still hold out hope that one day the two of you will get together.”

I tried my best to explain that, while it was a nice thought, it just wasn’t going to happen. And since The Big Question was part of virtually every conversation we’d had at that time, I knew what was coming next.

“But, are you sure that you’re gay?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m absolutely certain of it.”

“But how do you know? Have you ever fucked a girl?”

I slammed on the brakes with such force that it’s a wonder I don’t have seatbelt burns across my chest to this very day. My shock at that phrase emanating from my mother’s lips was only amplified by the fact that she said it with such casual nonchalance, as if she were asking me which pair of shoes best matched her summer dress.

“I can’t believe you just asked me that. Using that verb.”

“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” she said. “So…have you ever fucked a girl?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I haven’t. Nor do I have any interest in doing so.”

“Well, see? How can you judge it until you’ve done it?”

I didn’t have any desire to carry this conversation further than it had already gone, so I moved to end the conversation with a statement so clear and profound that nobody else could have the last word.

“Because it’s something I’m not interested in, and you should understand that. When you fuck a girl, I’ll fuck a girl. That’s the end of it.”

I put the car back in gear and started driving, proud of myself for wrapping that up with style and integrity. Until my mother said, “What makes you so sure that I haven’t?”

That Big Question remains unanswered to this very day. And that’s just fine.

Posted by mak at June 22, 2005 10:36 AM