because she and I were new to it, and we were always drunk, and we weren’t comfortable with each other.
After Dave and I happened, at first it seemed like this eureka moment—Oh yeah, the reason sex with Avani never clicked was because I was gay!—except it never really clicked with Dave either.
I tried talking this through with Mari, but she was all like, “Hmm, do you think you might be asexual? You can still be with Dave if you’re asexual! You could be a biromantic asexual, you know. Or you could be a demisexual!”
And no offense to Mari, but I changed the topic pretty quickly. Because all that stuff just felt like words. Whenever I tried to talk about what was actually inside me, I felt as if the world’s answer was Well, if this is what you’re feeling, then here’s a word for that!
But I did want to have sex. I did look at porn. I did masturbate. (And when I did I mostly thought about women.) Except with Avani, the sex wasn’t good. And she was hot! And I hadn’t been able to make a move on Hen. Maybe I hadn’t liked him? But with Dave everything had come so easily! And when I thought about him, it was hot too. Except when we were actually together, I could only get off by thinking about Avani!
Now maybe if I looked online I’d find some sort of word for that, but did that matter? I didn’t need words. What I needed was to know: Is Dave the right person? Or should I try to sleep with Hen? Should I do other sex stuff? Or keep doing the sex stuff I’ve been doing? Or not do any sex stuff at all?
And at the same time there was this other question: Who do I want to be?
Because I did know that having or enjoying sex wouldn’t mean anything to me if it turned me into an outcast. Back in the, like, nineteenth century there were guys who openly had sex with other guys, and they risked getting beaten up or killed for it. And there were probably lots of other guys who were kinda willing to try it, but they were afraid, so they kept those feelings pent up forever, until they died. And I knew, without question, that I would have been one of those latter guys.
If getting with Dave had entailed even a small risk of being bullied or abused, I wouldn’t have done it. I’m not saying that today is perfect. There are lots of places where a gay kid can still get murdered or at least thrown out of their house. But that wasn’t here, now, this town, my school, my home. Here, at this very particular moment in a very particular place, being queer was sort of cool.
And part of me wondered if that was why I’d done it.
This summer I’d been Pothan’s lackey and Avani’s former hookup. But if I came out as queer, I’d be somebody entirely different. I’d be able to come to a party alone, without feeling out of place. My queerness by itself would put me into a separate category. I’d be able to text anybody, talk to anybody. Sometimes the thought occurred to me that maybe I could become the premiere person in the Ninety-Nine: a Pothan without the douchebaggery; an Avani without the drama; a Hen without all the sneering irony.
Already, Avani and Jess and Mari and Hen treated me differently. The moment he learned I was queer, Hen became my buddy. Mari now spent plenty of evenings texting with me or hanging at my place. And Avani and Jess had finally cut me into their group chatting (which was mostly complaining about Carrie, but whatever, I was down for complaining).
I was pretty sure if I came out, everything would change for me. My role in the world would be so different. Not to mention that maybe the sex thing would change too! Maybe the reason I wasn’t enjoying it was because I was anxious about coming out. Or maybe I actually was queer, but I wasn’t attracted to Dave.
Except even that didn’t feel right. Because sometimes, especially when we weren’t in our houses, like when we made out for hours in his car, I’d get flushed and excited and filled with crazy, wonderful emotions that I couldn’t put into words. One Saturday night I laid my head on his chest and murmured, “Thank you,” again and again.
His voice