Guessing Gay
Never once in my life have I felt a raw, animalistic attraction toward a male. That shy, googly-eyed thing that happens to people when they’re crushing—I’ve had it for girls, but never for the other side. Nonetheless, there came a point for me where I worried about the what ifs. What if I hadn’t given guys a fair shot when I dated them before? What if I’d never experienced a boy I had things in common with or found aesthetically attractive? What if there was something about the boys in my high school, the boys of Long Island, that didn’t turn me on, but I could feel feelings for guys with more substance from more interesting places? I never doubted my interest in girls, but since I was newly single and challenging my mind to be wide open, as it were, I figured why not put my sexuality back on the table.
Shortly thereafter I was approached in the campus library by a suave Visual Arts major named Craig. Craig was by far the most attractive member of the male species that had ever expressed interest in me; he was tall with a medium build, sandy hair, and proportionate facial features. He was focusing on metal sculpture at the time, which meant he welded metal with a blowtorch into sculptures as tall as he was (pretty badass, I thought). Craig hit the mark with the way he introduced himself to me, too, with a well-executed blend of humor and swag. Yes, he will do, I thought. I will try him on for size.
I went to Craig’s dorm room a few times after that, and we made out to the soundtrack of Elliott Smith. We went out to dinner, seemingly had conversational chemistry, and talked about everything under the sun. Craig was intelligent, deep, and interesting—all the things I thought I “should” find attractive. And yet, each time he kissed me, I felt nothing but the stubble on his face. When he pushed himself against me, both of us fully clothed, it felt more forced than intimate. I felt no urge to pull his shirt over his head—no desire to expose his hairy man body.
Within weeks of Craig, my friend Tristan, a philosophy major, confessed that he had feelings for me despite my telling him from the time we met that I was a lesbian. Tristan and I had something sweet—the weather had turned cold by then, and so we’d spend many late nights together sitting on the dryers in the basement of my building, engaging in heated philosophical conversations until three in the morning. I could always tell Tristan was charmed by my ability to debate with him and keep up with the complicated theories he liked to throw at me. But I never expected he’d spill his heart to me the way he did. On this particular evening, Tristan and I had decided to hike up a small hill that was tucked alongside the campus. He waited until we’d made it to the top, then when we were finally sitting down admiring the view, still panting from the climb, he told me he loved me, with genuine tears behind his eyes.
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