Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(31)

“Why? I’m on the list,” he said. The bouncer handed him the clipboard. “Right here, Truvy Jones.”

“Steel Magnolias,” I said. He clapped like I’d learned to roll over. And I realized then he had just as much to lose as I did. But he didn’t seem at all scared. I put down Ouiser Boudreaux on the card, filled out the address for the local carpet company with the annoying radio jingle, and Papa John’s phone number on the line for driver’s license.

I sat at the bar waiting for the bartender to finish wrestling with the little airplane bottle of Jack—another oddity of South Carolina’s liquor laws. And I watched the room through the mirror behind the glasses. Truvy was nowhere to be seen. I’d hoped he’d come get a drink. We’d talk about Steel Magnolias. He’d be impressed with my vast knowledge of Dolly Parton trivia. We’d bond and maybe become friends.

   We did, eventually. This was Jay, who’d become my best friend. I’d learn he loved Reba more than Dolly, and we’d fight about it. But I’d forgive him because he could quote 9 to 5 by heart. I’d learn he’d been raised by Pentecostal nutjobs who prayed in tongues over the phone when he told them he was gay. I’d learn he wasn’t all that different from me. But that wouldn’t happen for another year—some of it would take a lot longer.

Seemed like everyone at the bar knew everyone else. Everyone was divided into factions. The younger lesbians owned the pool table; the older lesbians occupied the tables outside. As I walked by, they all stared like I’d walked into their private house party and changed the music. A few older gay men took turns on the poker machines. The gay boys held the dance floor. I didn’t belong here. That I was used to the feeling didn’t make it any more comfortable.

I left early that first night, feeling defeated. But I kept going back every weekend after that. Each time I went, I felt no less out of place than the first time. I didn’t know how to talk to anyone, much less flirt with a woman. If I’d planned this better, I’d have worked off a list. Step 1 would’ve been learning how to socialize and make friends. Step 47 would’ve been flirting and getting laid. Instead, I approached gay bars with all the social awareness of a homeschooler. Offering to buy someone a drink seemed like something people only did in movies. Introducing myself seemed awkward and left me way too open for rejection. I’d been trying the method I’d later watch from behind the bar—stand against a wall, avoid eye contact, focus on peeling the label from my beer bottle. The bartender could’ve helped me out, but he didn’t.

   So I’d have a couple drinks, then drive back to Sumter and sit on the hood of my car facing the highway. Just past the highway stood the fence surrounding the base, and just past that, the runway. The runway lights never went out, but no one was flying on weekends. I’d lean back against my windshield to see the sky. I’d always search the sky when I felt alone. I’d look for the constellations my mom taught us when we were little. I don’t remember the stories she told about Cassiopeia or Andromeda. I only remember how to find them. But in the South Carolina lowlands, there were no stars. The damp air was too thick and glowed a sickly yellow from the lights on the runway and the sodium lights on the highway. I could see the moon, but barely.



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There’s probably a manual on how to come out, but I’ve already covered the issues with this being 1998 in Internet history. I hadn’t even chosen an AIM handle. It had, for a time, been easier to just date guys.

Guys were easy. Didn’t require words half the time. All I had to do was show up to a dorm party, look in a guy’s general direction or stand near him long enough to drain the jungle juice from my Solo cup, and he’d assume I wanted him.

“Wanted” was a stretch. If you ever want to feel like a piece of meat, fuck a lesbian who’s trying to figure shit out. The last time I’d gone back to a guy’s room, he came so fast I’m not even sure it counted as sex. So I’d gone back to the party, the cluster of airmen drinking at the picnic tables between dorm buildings, and got another one. Back to his dorm, kicked out his roommate who’d been happily playing video games, got half undressed, and he threw up. He still wanted to fuck. But even I had standards. So I went back to the party. The last one fell asleep in my bed. I sat in the stairwell, chain-smoking and wondering what the fuck was wrong with me, after I finished myself off.

   It wasn’t their fault. Some of them, god bless them, actually tried. Some of them, I’d fake an orgasm to spare their feelings. But I couldn’t come. I know this isn’t a rare problem and likely had a lot to do with their fucking like they were worried if they didn’t hurry it up, I’d leave. Might’ve been because if they didn’t hurry it up, I’d leave. I was always worried if I opened my eyes, I’d laugh or throw up.

These are not the reactions you’re supposed to have to sex. I was pretty sure about that. Everyone from Oprah to Loveline to the books I blindly grabbed as I walked past the gay-and-lesbian shelf at Barnes & Noble to quickly skim in another, safer part of the store, they all agreed sexuality wasn’t a choice. But they also agreed women existed somewhere along a spectrum. That a spectrum has two ends is probably something I’d have learned in school. But I didn’t. I’d been busy learning how people like me, women who were attracted to women, were abominations. I could mostly ignore all that shit. Mostly.