Hopscotch, 4-square, jumprope and tether-ball must have signaled something to my elementary teachers, but not me. I never liked my mom's hose and still road-killed my sister's barbies with trucks, but I also took over directing all the home plays (coming up with a great I Dream of Jeanie talcom powder puff of smoke when she exited her bottle) and on that fateful day, finding my dad's Playboys, gravitated toward the couple of Hustlers. Not because they were more graphic, but because they had MEN in them.
"Gay" didn't attach itself to "Me" until Jr. High when I noticed becoming aware of a jealously toward the little ladies stealing away the attention of my buddies, and them in turn pointing out that this or that one liked me, "in that way." I liked them too, but not one of them in "that" way... Uh oh! DING-deep bells, whistles, those broadway arrows appeared over my head flashing SISSY! HOMO! Damned FAG HERE! and I discovered pot...(cue gurgleing bong water sounds- Aahhhhuhhh whewwww. Gay? Me? Nuh Uh... and the drugged up denial begins.)
The first time I said "I'm gay" to another soul (my hag before I knew what one was) was about half way through my senior year in HS. The gut wrentching, painfully delayed confession was immediately followed with a resounding, melodic "well Duhhh. We know that." She said, as if it were common knowledge, affirming all the suspicions of behind my back gossip. The innocent, ridiculous thought "well why didn't you tell me?" sunk in unspoken. It was not the response I expected or wanted... I had been hiding it so well... Things change, we had had joy we had had fun we had had seasons in the sun... Now for the family...
