From my earliest memory, I wanted to be near girls because there was nothing that interested me half as much. Each of us wanted to know what it was like to be kissed by two people at the same time, and so we simply did it. Another thud sent us clutching at our faces as we dropped our cigarettes and headed for the door. It was a tag that made me stood out, and it was an odd moment in history, where in northern New Jersey there was something daring, something exciting, and maybe, if I was lucky, something cool about coming out. And alongside it was the strong and compelling understanding that we were not supposed to be asking those questions. Mostly I remember two pretty girls saying they wanted to have a threesome to which the moderator asked for volunteers. Oh, I wanted to be different, and I even wanted to be bisexual. Everything would be okay, and we were the ones making it happen.
Because for a moment, I sat there on the floor while two beautiful people leaned in, kissed me gently on the neck, and then pressed their lips against my ears until I felt like the world might explode. From my earliest memories, I loved women, wanted to be close to them, and wanted to touch them. When was that moment when I realized not that I was different, but that I was interested? I knew we were liberal, but my god was that unexpected and how quickly I froze! I went to the meetings, hell I helped organize one of the largest queer college conferences in the country, and yet still I doubted everything. There were late nights of kissing on beds and groping with hands and mouths alike, but they were spread far between, and what did it matter? Oh, I wanted to be different, and I even wanted to be bisexual. Once while back campus a group of teenage boys ran past before stopping and turning to face me. And in college that street cred meant all the difference. We both drifted back to the party, and it would be more than ten years later before I bumped into him again, this time both of us adults, and this time both of us with more time to see what we might do. And that made it easier, because I understood women, or thought I did. But that night, as fateful as it might be, feels mostly unrelated. My heart beat faster as I imagined everything that might happen over and over again until it nearly burst. Everything would be okay, and we were the ones making it happen. Queer kids get attention from adults for a million reasons, but one of them is that we welcome any sort of guidance at all because otherwise the world is a terrifying place. There were older men who took me to parties, and friends who fell in love with me. A few months later, standing out front of the one gay bar in Richmond Indiana smoking a cigarette with the acapella band we had brought in for the conference, I heard a thud next to me. But there, in the dark, with boys my own age, we looked at dirty magazines, compared our tiny cocks, and when we were the most daring, we reached out in those dimly lit closets and touched one another. While I never doubted how much I liked women, being even slightly gay in straight spaces meant someone might try to kill me. What does she feel like? In the middle of it, I turned and kissed Molly, her lips soft and gentle, the lips of a bird or a mother. But I worked seven days a week, I partied until two each morning, and I sailed out to the lighthouse in my few hours off. It was awkward, it was fascinating, and it was brief. She watched and she moaned, and she told us there was nothing prettier in the world than two men who wanted each other. It was a tag that made me stood out, and it was an odd moment in history, where in northern New Jersey there was something daring, something exciting, and maybe, if I was lucky, something cool about coming out.
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