We were three boys in a bed–me, my friend Jay, and Jay’s ex-boyfriend, Paul. Paul was passed out. Jay was not so sleepy. I was nervous. An hour before, crashing at Jay’s house seemed way safer than a wee-hour trek back toward home. But there are reasons why 25-year-old boys rarely do slumber parties, especially when one boy is straight, two are gay, and all three have been dancing cheek to cheek to cheek for most of the night.
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On the one hand, I am. For whatever reason–some cuddling deficiency in my formative past?–I like my friendships physical, and it’s not hard to see how that can lead people on. On the other hand, whatever blame there is goes far beyond me or any one individual. This shit is collective. We’re all–some of us more than others–mired in this bipolar world of straight and gay, lovers and friends. We’re all assigned these simplistic labels. The labels blunt our inner complexities. But social creatures that we are, they also help us get along.
Guys who grew up like me will understand–the jock thing. It shapes you. You learn not to tolerate thrown elbows on the basketball court, slower cars in your lane, or anything else that might make you out to be a chump or pussy. That night I made a scene–tipped beverages, mumbled insults, an embarrassing display. And a few semesters later I dropped out and moved away.
But by noon each day I’d have to bus the tables–it was my job, after all–which meant I’d have to mingle. This did not start out as a fun thing. It started out sucky. All the long stares and chatty small talk and “accidental” brushes of skin when pouring refills or making change–these things made me squirm.
Nearby conversations would drop off a cliff. My suitor’s eyebrows would climb his face. “You’re straight? You don’t look straight.”
So many tales, so few boundaries. Here was a world without obvious restraints. Here, it seemed almost anything could be said or done. In a word (an admittedly tired word) here was freedom.
