I'm Not Gay But My Girlfriend Is

She is from a small town in a flyover state. I am from the same state’s largest metropolitan city. She came out to her parents after college. I, after years of making out with my friends at sleepovers, I didn’t realize I was even in the closet, let alone know to step out of it. What I did know is that I was different–to keep my mouth shut, and hope, pray I didn’t slip while intoxicated. I remember time and time again, waking–startled, as if from a bad dream–heart beating, mind racing–trying to recall the fuzzy events of the previous evening. Going through the mental post-mortem to make sure…make sure I didn’t embarrass myself–be certain I didn’t show myself.. My drunken kissy-faced dabblings and clumsy gropings…well, that was just pretend–it didn’t mean anything and you certainly didn’t discuss it by the light of day. Discuss it? (insert snort) It didn’t exist by the light of day. But I digress… 

She attended a private, liberal arts school where individuality and creativity were encouraged. I attended a private, parochial school were the actual religion was football and the cool girls dressed alike. Post-college she, guided by the Gods of Karmic-intervention, moved to the Twin Cities. It was the early 90’s and Minneapolis was a burgeoning lesbian mecca. Purple Rain? Big time. By contrast I was toiling in marriage number one, spending time with the Joneses and calming my sexual disquiet with retail therapy and Amstel Light on ice.

So why she and not me? Here are some of the protestations I’ve used:

• I had a sheltered upbringing. True, but not by design and by open-minded parents who would have accepted me.
• No one I knew was  gay. Again true, but what, they were hosting gay pride parades in the middle nowhere where she grew up?
• I didn’t know enough to recognize it, let alone verbalize it. All true, but how was she so self-aware, so early?

The naysayers will tell you, ”It’s because you’re not really gay.”  Nope. The ugly, naked truth is that I was chicken. Forget about taking the road less travelled, I was riding in the fast lane of Interstate straight. So what makes me a nut that took years to crack and she a fruit that dropped off the vine: Fight or flight response.

She is in law enforcement. Cops make me nervous. She runs toward an altercation. I make an excellent witness. She doesn’t mince words. I avoid confrontation. Admitting to living a life in fear of (most things) is, well, scary. Scarier than coming out at 39? Sure. Saying “I’m gay!” was surprisingly easy after taking almost 40 years to come to terms with it. But the identification of why continues to be a far more daunting task.