When I looked at her profile, I hesitated. She had no photo, which was usually a bad sign. I wouldn’t consider myself shallow, but I did want to have a shot with someone and yeah, sexual attraction was a big part of that for me. I thought about all those teenage movies where boys had virginity pacts and how that would be supremely embarrassing to me and pretty much every girl I knew. I still felt that pressure, though, to be able to talk about the experience of having been with someone in that way. Like pretty much everything about sex, all my ideas about what it would be like came from movies, so I had this image in my head of me confessing to Marley that I’d finally done it while we were both wearing pajamas and having a sleepover. When I told her, I’d clutch a pillow to my chest and get this dreamy expression, like I was seeing the whole event playing out in front of me and was mesmerized by the memory. The reality would probably be more awkward, or at least anti-climactic.
Sex had always been the most uncomfortable part of being gay for me. I knew that when I was with someone, she’d be female, but it was just so shrouded in mystery. It wasn’t like my mom had had the same kind of talk with me that my classmates had likely received: the one where she sat down on my bed and explained the mechanics of the act in vague floral language that would also leave me confused. Or maybe no one had received a talk like that and I was basing both my perceptions of the talk and sex itself on teen movies featuring girls like Molly Ringwald (who never seemed to have sex in movies) and Winona Ryder, which would suggest that not only did I need more knowledge about sex, but a more current library of films.
Also, I never knew what to say when kids my age talked about sex. It was my worst nightmare that people outside my friends group would know how naïve I really was, but opportunities to reveal my inexperience kept on presenting themselves. It really started in sixth grade. I was already out at school and people were starting to talk about sex in that innocent middle school way kids do. That was the closest I had ever come to Lennox’s experience in Columbus: a scrawny, long haired kid named Ben Parsons started asking me all kinds of questions about how I would have sex if I was gay.
“Do lesbians really scissor?” he asked me, leaning across the aisle so far I thought, no hoped, his desk would tip over.
I could feel the other kids eavesdropping on his rude questions even as I actively avoided looking around. No one deserved the satisfaction of seeing the shame in my face. God, why did my face have to be so much like a canvas with every single emotion painted so clearly across it? Why couldn’t I be better at hiding my reactions? I whipped my head around to face Ben and my braids smacked me in the face from the force of my movement. With what I hoped came across as anger instead of shame, I hissed at him to be quiet with my teeth clenched.
“Why don’t you ask your mom?” Jake answered the scissoring question. Jake and I had grown up a few houses apart and he had been part of the reason I had come out to everyone at school: a friend had mentioned to me that Jake was thinking of asking me out. After that I became slightly more open about liking girls and it didn’t take long for the whole place to get the memo.
I shook my head in an effort to conjure the present and, for the most part, it worked. Sex could wait, both literally and in a more philosophic sense. The message was still there in front of me, haunting my screen and it wasn’t something I could let myself put off because if I did, I would probably never answer. I really did like the simplicity of the message. Was a black box instead of a face really such a deal breaker? That’s why people dated, to see if there was chemistry. If she had a profile picture, I could still show up and meet someone boring with halitosis or something. Determined, I readied my hands to respond.
Hey, I typed, I’m not going to lie, I almost didn’t respond to this because of your lack of profile pic. I’m not like shallow or anything; just playing out scenarios where you are one of my best friends getting ready to punk me, lol. What do you do for fun?
Cringe worthy message, but if you can’t be generic and awkward with your internet blind date, who can you be generic and awkward with? With a shrug, I clicked the “Browse Profiles” tab, fairly certain that I’d blown my shot with my secret (too secret) admirer.
Less than five minutes had passed when I heard a ding indicating that I had a new message. I went to my mailbox and there she was again: Heh. I guess I’m old school about the picture. I figure if we hit it off, then you can see me when we meet and we will know if we have chemistry. I’m not in the closet, but I also don’t want just anyone to see me on here. I guess I’m kind of private.
What do I like to do for fun? Hmmm. I like to bake. I made a three-tiered cake for my mom for her last birthday. It didn’t turn out like the picture, but it tasted good, and she joked I should go on one of those baking competitions. I’m pretty shy, though, so that’s never gonna happen. I like true crime podcasts. I play the piano. I have taken lessons since I was four years old, but now I just play to relax.
It occurs to me that this message makes me sound like someone’s grandmother. If you are into geriatrics who can feed and entertain you, I’d love to hear from you again.
I snorted at the last line and had to fight to resist the urge to immediately respond that I was totally into grandmas just to get a reaction. I frowned when I re-read the line about not wanting people to see her picture on the site, though. I understood the desire for privacy and I didn’t blame her for being protective of her personal life, but how could I be sure this wasn’t just going to be a Lennox 2.0 situation where I put effort into this great, soul sucking blackhole?
With my fingers threaded in my lap, I swiveled my chair and stared off into space. It could be a Lennox 2.0 situation. There was absolutely a chance that it would all be a huge waste of time where I put a bunch of time and feelings into a relationship that turned into nothing because my girlfriend didn't want to be seen with me in public. There wasn’t any actual way to avoid that possibility. It could also be the opposite. We would hit it off and it would turn out that she was just a shy person who wassn’t embarrassed or ashamed of her identity at all. It could all be great. And I hated myself for letting my thoughts circle back to Lennox, but I couldn’t help it: how could I sit there and condemn her for focusing on the negative and refusing to take a chance if I wasn’t even willing to take my own advice?
With a firm command to myself not to babble or be boring, I put fingers to keyboard and took a chance.
Chapter Sixteen
Lennox
“Mom, Dad, I’m sick of pretending to be something I’m not. I’m gay,” I said to the full-length mirror hanging on my door. “Mom. Dad. You are just going to have to suck it up and realize you can’t always get what you want.”
My door was a great conversationalist. Not a single time did it flinch at the mere mention of the word gay. Not a single time did it say the word “Hell” or mention “brimstone” in response to my revelation. It had just stayed there, mounted to the wall, being chill. There was no way my parents were going to cooperate that well.
Not for the first time, Noah’s situation popped back into my head. I didn’t have to tell them. I could keep my secret safe at home and be myself the rest of the time. I could date Hannah, but just tell my parents she was a friend. It was like meeting myself halfway.