Faggo
I didn’t really want to see Nick again.
Aimee was more forgiving. She had dinner with him first. Said he was the same as ever, and convinced me to meet up with the both of them for their next reunion meal. We were all best friends in high school. In the last bit of it, at least. Nick, Aimee, and I. Apparently Aimee thought Nick and I went to a lot of parties, but that was barely true. There were a few, and even then usually it was just Nick and I, in our own little world in some little corner, getting high and laughing at each other’s company.
Sometimes I’d wonder why we never hooked up, Nick and I. He wasn’t my type, but it just seemed logical that one of us would have made a move. You know, teenagers, and getting high and all.
At prom I’d flashed him my breasts, maybe I was drunk and maybe I wasn’t. He thanked me in this nervous way. I supposed it was always awkward when ‘things’ happen between friends. And then we went to Santa Cruz together, and I saw him maybe once, maybe twice. After a while, I just gave up on calling.
And now, 5 years later, I was still angry enough to never see the guy again.
I got to the restaurant first, they were driving together, he and Aimee. It was this sushi place at the end of the promenade. I slid both the menus to the other side of the table, to be sure he wouldn’t sit next to me. I swear, it didn’t seem immature at the moment, alone and nervously waiting.
When they arrived he insisted I stand up to hug him, then slid in next to me and grabbed for the menu, just like that. I didn’t really feel mad anymore, anyway. I didn’t really feel anything. He says he's sorry to hear about Michael and I. I say yea and we talk about the drink menu, cold or hot. We decide on cold. Decide on sushi. One Sake in, Nick says it.
“So I hooked up with this girl at work,” he starts, and then, “oh, but you guys know I came out, right?”
“What?” I ask, and look across the table at Aimee. She shrugs, sincerely at that.
“You knew, didn’t you?” he asks, leaning in toward me, “I mean… in highschool, you always knew, right?”
“What?”
“I thought it was understood.”
“Well,” I say, “my mom thought you were gay.”
“Your mom is cool.”
“So you’re gay?” I wonder out loud.
“I thought it was understood.”
“I did think - I was telling Aimee this the other day - I always wondered if your girlfriend ‘Ashley’ actually existed.”
“Oh,” he smiles, “that was Mark.”
That was Mark? This wasn’t like Nick had just been wondering if maybe he was gay in highschool, he knew, he knew to the point of having Mark, and he still hadn’t told me. And now he was looking at me like he was the loneliest man in the world for realizing Aimee and I hadn’t always just been pretending not to know. Loneliest man alive. I can’t be mad at him for lying. Fuck, I can’t even be mad at him for ignoring me in college. The guy was grappling with issues, you know.
A few days later the three of us are out at The Gaslite, one of Santa Monica’s dim-red-light dives. Aimee and Nick have mixed drinks, I have a beer, and we’re all eating popcorn.
“You’re such a guy,” Nick giggles, “your Newcastle and all.”
“I’m the only guy at the table, faggo.”
He jingles the ice-cubes of his drink with the little red straw.
“This,” he starts, getting more effeminate by the sip, “coming from you right while looking at her.”
“What?”
“You know.”
“I think I might know her,” I sigh, taking another swig of my beer.
“Who?” asks Aimee.
“The singer,” says Nick, “and no, Tanya, you don’t ‘think you might know her’.”
He’s using the term ‘singer’ in the most casual sense. The Gaslite, apparently, has karaoke on Wednesday nights.
In highschool, at one of the few parties Nick and I went to, our friend Blythe got really smashed on rum and coke. Nick and I used to talk about how hot she was, since Nick was pretending he liked girls and all. Anyway, while Blythe was drunk at this one party, she leaned into me and she slurred;
“Tanya, I don’t like girls like you do, you know? Yeah. I don’t like girls, no, but lemme tell you something? Okay, yea, all the girls I have liked have looked just like you, you know?”
That story actually gets funnier, but that’s not the point right now. The point is that Nick and Aimee both knew the story quite well, and so when it came to the girl singing karaoke I took another swig of my beer and I said, “Look, I don’t like girls, but the girls I do like look just like her.”
“You don’t have to do that,” says Nick.
“Do what?”
“Make that little Blythe joke. Why do you do that? I already came out, why don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I guess I’m not sure. I mean, not sure if I like them or not.”
“Yeah, right.”
I didn’t used to be like this. I was a proud bisexual. Maybe somewhere down the line I stopped believing in bisexuality. Maybe Juliet Difranco soured me on ‘all of them’. Maybe it was the dumb threesomes, all of which I was one drink away from telling Aimee and Nick about, all of which made me feel a whole lot of things except turned on. Either way, something was making me very nervous about the idea of outright saying why I was looking at the karaoke singer.
“She is blonde,” says Aimee, who stopped drinking a while ago.
Shit, why is it that my friends know my type and I am trying to block it out? I was a proud bisexual once. Did I really focus all of my fretting energies on my gender? This is terrible. Nick is now ahead of me in the ‘figuring it all out’ game, and Aimee doesn’t even have to play. Christ, I really hadn’t wanted to see Nick again.
The karaoke singer turns out to be one of the cocktails waitresses. She comes by our table once I’ve told them all my threesome stories, and touches my shoulder as she asks us if everything is alright.
“I guess I don’t know her,” I say, shy, as she walks off.
We all walk out and Nick bums a cigarette, flushed and flirtatious, from a guy standing (maybe lonely) outside. I start to feel really kind of happy.
I still do.
Aimee was more forgiving. She had dinner with him first. Said he was the same as ever, and convinced me to meet up with the both of them for their next reunion meal. We were all best friends in high school. In the last bit of it, at least. Nick, Aimee, and I. Apparently Aimee thought Nick and I went to a lot of parties, but that was barely true. There were a few, and even then usually it was just Nick and I, in our own little world in some little corner, getting high and laughing at each other’s company.
Sometimes I’d wonder why we never hooked up, Nick and I. He wasn’t my type, but it just seemed logical that one of us would have made a move. You know, teenagers, and getting high and all.
At prom I’d flashed him my breasts, maybe I was drunk and maybe I wasn’t. He thanked me in this nervous way. I supposed it was always awkward when ‘things’ happen between friends. And then we went to Santa Cruz together, and I saw him maybe once, maybe twice. After a while, I just gave up on calling.
And now, 5 years later, I was still angry enough to never see the guy again.
I got to the restaurant first, they were driving together, he and Aimee. It was this sushi place at the end of the promenade. I slid both the menus to the other side of the table, to be sure he wouldn’t sit next to me. I swear, it didn’t seem immature at the moment, alone and nervously waiting.
When they arrived he insisted I stand up to hug him, then slid in next to me and grabbed for the menu, just like that. I didn’t really feel mad anymore, anyway. I didn’t really feel anything. He says he's sorry to hear about Michael and I. I say yea and we talk about the drink menu, cold or hot. We decide on cold. Decide on sushi. One Sake in, Nick says it.
“So I hooked up with this girl at work,” he starts, and then, “oh, but you guys know I came out, right?”
“What?” I ask, and look across the table at Aimee. She shrugs, sincerely at that.
“You knew, didn’t you?” he asks, leaning in toward me, “I mean… in highschool, you always knew, right?”
“What?”
“I thought it was understood.”
“Well,” I say, “my mom thought you were gay.”
“Your mom is cool.”
“So you’re gay?” I wonder out loud.
“I thought it was understood.”
“I did think - I was telling Aimee this the other day - I always wondered if your girlfriend ‘Ashley’ actually existed.”
“Oh,” he smiles, “that was Mark.”
That was Mark? This wasn’t like Nick had just been wondering if maybe he was gay in highschool, he knew, he knew to the point of having Mark, and he still hadn’t told me. And now he was looking at me like he was the loneliest man in the world for realizing Aimee and I hadn’t always just been pretending not to know. Loneliest man alive. I can’t be mad at him for lying. Fuck, I can’t even be mad at him for ignoring me in college. The guy was grappling with issues, you know.
A few days later the three of us are out at The Gaslite, one of Santa Monica’s dim-red-light dives. Aimee and Nick have mixed drinks, I have a beer, and we’re all eating popcorn.
“You’re such a guy,” Nick giggles, “your Newcastle and all.”
“I’m the only guy at the table, faggo.”
He jingles the ice-cubes of his drink with the little red straw.
“This,” he starts, getting more effeminate by the sip, “coming from you right while looking at her.”
“What?”
“You know.”
“I think I might know her,” I sigh, taking another swig of my beer.
“Who?” asks Aimee.
“The singer,” says Nick, “and no, Tanya, you don’t ‘think you might know her’.”
He’s using the term ‘singer’ in the most casual sense. The Gaslite, apparently, has karaoke on Wednesday nights.
In highschool, at one of the few parties Nick and I went to, our friend Blythe got really smashed on rum and coke. Nick and I used to talk about how hot she was, since Nick was pretending he liked girls and all. Anyway, while Blythe was drunk at this one party, she leaned into me and she slurred;
“Tanya, I don’t like girls like you do, you know? Yeah. I don’t like girls, no, but lemme tell you something? Okay, yea, all the girls I have liked have looked just like you, you know?”
That story actually gets funnier, but that’s not the point right now. The point is that Nick and Aimee both knew the story quite well, and so when it came to the girl singing karaoke I took another swig of my beer and I said, “Look, I don’t like girls, but the girls I do like look just like her.”
“You don’t have to do that,” says Nick.
“Do what?”
“Make that little Blythe joke. Why do you do that? I already came out, why don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “I guess I’m not sure. I mean, not sure if I like them or not.”
“Yeah, right.”
I didn’t used to be like this. I was a proud bisexual. Maybe somewhere down the line I stopped believing in bisexuality. Maybe Juliet Difranco soured me on ‘all of them’. Maybe it was the dumb threesomes, all of which I was one drink away from telling Aimee and Nick about, all of which made me feel a whole lot of things except turned on. Either way, something was making me very nervous about the idea of outright saying why I was looking at the karaoke singer.
“She is blonde,” says Aimee, who stopped drinking a while ago.
Shit, why is it that my friends know my type and I am trying to block it out? I was a proud bisexual once. Did I really focus all of my fretting energies on my gender? This is terrible. Nick is now ahead of me in the ‘figuring it all out’ game, and Aimee doesn’t even have to play. Christ, I really hadn’t wanted to see Nick again.
The karaoke singer turns out to be one of the cocktails waitresses. She comes by our table once I’ve told them all my threesome stories, and touches my shoulder as she asks us if everything is alright.
“I guess I don’t know her,” I say, shy, as she walks off.
We all walk out and Nick bums a cigarette, flushed and flirtatious, from a guy standing (maybe lonely) outside. I start to feel really kind of happy.
I still do.