Kelly Part 2

Of course, because of the frequency and consistency of our phone calls, Kelly and I ended up in some serious and personal conversations. When she finally did talk about her attractions to women, it kinda felt inevitable. I felt, in a ridiculous straight-girl snobby way (yep, homophobic, you might say), sort of smug about it. My suspicion was confirmed. Yup, I knew I had been right about her. Well, duh.  

What I wasn’t prepared for was her past relationships with women. I was shocked. I was naïve. I had no idea she’d even had experiences, let alone relationships, with women. I loved having the confirmation that she was indeed gay but this, along with the knowledge of her past experiences, terrified me. This thing for her was real. This being-gay thing. It was not speculative or unsubstantiated for her. She had experience to back-up her proclivities for the fairer sex. And this thing between us, it was turning into something, materializing into something beyond friendship and flirtation.

I did not know what to do. 

It wasn’t too long after Kelly’s confession, in one of our marathon drunken conversations (me, drunk), we admitted our attraction and our feelings for one another. I instigated the whole thing. Told her how I felt, made it clear that my feelings for her extended beyond friendship, beyond anything platonic. Even as I said the words, I could not believe they were coming out of my mouth. That I was actually articulating the words out loud to her, conveying not only how I felt attracted to her but that I wanted her. I felt bold. Daring. Empowered. It felt like a kind of purge or purification. I was finally coming clean, being baptized in the truth of my words and set free in the telling, in the communicating to her. These things I had felt for her for years, the desires and the attractions and all the feelings, everything that had been off limits and taboo, it was out, all cards on the table. It was thrilling.

Until…

The next morning. Ugh, the damn morning. Reality body-checked me. The lucid clarifying sobering sensibility of morning. I have always felt guilty when I have a hangover. Not only have I poisoned my body and made it sick (I’m sorry liver; body, please don’t give me cancer, I promise I’ll do better), I usually have said too much, laughed too loudly, and behaved too…just too much. But on this day, my hangover guilt was exacerbated by my gay guilt. A line had been crossed. I had crossed it. Me. I had willingly stepped over it. Even eagerly. The eagerly part had been alcohol’s doing. What had felt empowering and cleansing the night before, now felt dirty and covered in shame in the light of the blasted morning. Everything I told Kelly was true. Something deep down in me wanted and needed her to know, to hear me say I cared for her, even if she already suspected. I knew I would not say these things without the robust red. Heck, I knew I would probably not even be phoning her without the wine. But, even I was surprised when I said all the things. 

Did I really want her to know? Not the next morning. I wanted to backtrack, hit the rewind button. I was scared. All I could think was I AM Sinning. Big-Time Sinning. The familiar cloak of dread felt suffocating. What I desired most I could not have. How was I going to live the rest of my life this way? If I was born this way, how could God put me between such a rock and a hard place? I was doomed. If God did not make me this way, but I was a product of environmental and/or social factors, why didn’t God heal me?

Like all closeted Christian gays, I prayed and prayed for these attractions to go away. 

I had succeeded in making myself more isolated and more alone than ever. I had this huge secret. And I couldn’t talk to anyone. The one person I had felt comfortable discussing the questions I had about sexuality had become the person I was attracted to and had tangled up in my messy desires. I was ashamed of me, of her, of us.