Your Eyes Remind Me Of A Sexy Cat

Teenage romance is a mess.  High school is supposed to be when kids start pairing off with one another, forging relationships as heated as Harlequin romance novels.  Hormones are raging, heightening the animalistic urge for sexual encounters, and class periods become exercises in flirtation. Attention spans are limited to the length of notes passed back and forth, planning weekend debauchery or highlighting the latest failed relationships of people sitting two desks away.  So is the life of the typical American teenager.  By definition, I fell out of the “typical” category the moment I came out of the closet at the beginning of my sophomore year.  But there was a time—a tumultuous nine months when I walked the locker-lined hallways hand-in-hand with my girlfriend, Ashley—I was susceptible to scrutiny as unforgiving as the fluorescent lights above my head; I was typical.  Well, almost. 

Ashley was in my orientation group on the first day at arts boarding school.  She caught my eye immediately when we gathered on the lawn, trampled by the more masculine boys playing Frisbee as a collection of shirts and skins, in front of the two brick dormitories separating the sexes.  Her red hair and strong jawline seemed to emit their own angelic glow, perhaps brought on by years of pampering in Beverly Hills, the land from which she had journeyed.  I, on the other hand, was a strange pubescent creature: all neck, recently shaved mustache, and baggy t-shirts.  I blamed Montana. 

Any information regarding academic policy or snack bar hours floated above my head, because the only thing on my brain was the creature in front of me, each curve of her body accentuated by designer clothing or a strategically placed piece of Tiffany’s jewelry that made the rest of our group look like peons in comparison.  I was a living cliché: the gay man fascinated by the strong female drowning in attitude.  Only, I wasn’t willing to admit my burgeoning homosexuality to myself.

Instead, I forged a bond with the lost cast member of 90210, accompanying her daily to the cafeteria across campus from the dance studios where we spent our mornings.  We were inseparable. Our interest in each other made itself apparent through late night games of Truth or Dare in unused classrooms, as we would tentatively ask each other questions to bolster our confidence in the fact that the other was interested.  I signed in to visit her dorm room for viewing parties of romantic films like the neo-Nazi American History X, during which I was sure not to break any of the rules instituted by our Resident Assistants, like keeping one foot on the ground at all times and always having the overhead light on.  If our feet were off the ground with the lights off, then we surely were dating, and this early in the year we most certainly were not.  We were friends.  I knew this because every time one of the juniors, Sean, a flimsy, argyle-wearing gay teenager with hair as spiky as his words, came up to my locker in an effort to persuade me to “embrace the fact that I liked dick,” Ashley came to my defense.  Then I told her how amazing her hair looked and we headed to class.

(Follow the link!)

This pattern continued for a few weeks, as I did my best to provide a shoulder to lean on when Ashley’s roommate began showing her darker side, becoming combative at the prospect of Ashley finding success in the dance program, and, I suspect, envying our blooming relationship. I was slowly becoming a “we.”  Despite my penchant for double taking when changing with boys in the locker room, I was genuinely attracted to a female for the first time in my life.  Her mix of valley-girl slang with a sense of worldliness was a magnet from which I couldn’t repel.  She made me want to break the rules.  And she made me want to conform.  She made me believe I was straight. 

So we began the mating rituals of 9th graders across the country: spending every class period we had together parked side by side, getting rides to the movie theaters from nervous parents, and making out.  All the time.  Until then, the only girlfriend I’d had was a fellow outcast in the sixth grade named Tracy; I was an outcast because I tried to bring bootcut jeans to a student body that believed you needed room for three extra limbs in each pant leg; she was one because of her weight.  We rode the bus together and sent messages to each other through a convoluted web of go-betweens, who mangled our words like in some drunken game of telephone. (He said he wants to pee on you.  No.  I said I’m free at two.) All the while, we never made out, in fact I started perspiring in a new place every time we came close to touching. 

With Ashley, all nervousness began to subside.  At least for a while. Along with the perk of having a companion to spend all my time with came the reality that things were expected of me, and the fact that there was someone analyzing my every move. 

In our second month of dating, Ashley took me aside during Environmental Science class and asked me to write a few words on a piece of lined paper.  Ever the attentive student, I reminded her we should be out locating algae specimens in the pond behind the building.  She placed the pencil in my hand, and my hand on the paper, before resuming a series of text messages on her leopard print cell phone.  After scribbling a few lines of gibberish (Your eyes remind me of a sexy cat.  Sometimes they peer into my soul.), she removed the paper and began scanning over it.  “You’re lying,” she said.  “Your letters never touch the lines on the paper, which means you aren’t telling the truth.”  Environmental Science?  More like Psycho Girlfriend: 101.  Perhaps she was catching on to the fact that my hallway assailant, Sean, was carrying a bit of truth with his words. 

Unfortunately, I was still unsure what to make of Sean’s accusations. People all around were trying to tell me I was gay, but I knew I liked Ashley, and that had to count for something.  There was only one thing to do: increase the intensity and frequency of our make-out sessions. 

(Hanging out on my 22nd birthday.)

One night, after finishing a series of rehearsals for an upcoming performance, we decided to get a little daring and take both feet off the dorm room floor.  We loaded Janet Jackson’s latest CD into the stereo—at my insistence—and started kissing as the buzz of the overhead light mingled with Janet’s equally robotic voice. 

By all standards I had no clue what I was doing.  The last time I’d touched boobs was when I’d prodded my aunt’s in line at a cafeteria when I was about three years old; I wasn’t sure if I was to knead Ashley’s like dough or scrutinize them like rolly-pollys recently unearthed from beneath a rock.  I did my best, finally coming up for air just in time to lip synch the words of Jackson’s latest radio hit. 

As we initiated a conversation about a California deli she missed—one that could never be replaced by the southern fried food on our cafeteria menu—the phone rang.  I sat on the bed, shaking my legs in anticipation of the information being conveyed to her from the other end; if her stifled laughter was any indication, the night was about to take an exciting turn. 

“Look outside,” she said, as she hung up the receiver.  We walked to the only window, centered over the lawn on which we’d met.  Scattered across the grass were groups of students eating popcorn and staring directly into the room.   Our arrival in the window was greeted with cheers, as if we were elected officials addressing the commoners from the balcony of our mansion; apparently our make-out session had become an evening peep show for bored musicians and painters.  Now I knew why the rules required us to keep the lights on.   

Embarrassed as I was, there was a sort of relief that came with the discovery of our discovery; now the general public of the school had seen me not only attached to Ashley during the day, but engaging in “typical” heterosexual behavior just as teen romantic comedies taught us.  Wasn’t embarrassment just another part of the bargain?  It was one more step in becoming the straight man society told me I should be.

The days of our courtship piled up, and we went through the unexplainable breakups and makeups that plague even the most charmed of early romantic conquests.  I was always riding a fine line; at times feeling like Ashley was the only person around who I could be myself—only to realize incrementally that our relationship was based around an untrue part of my existence. 

There was no denying our friendship was deepening as the year progressed.  There was confusion, however, over whether it was a friendship or a romantic relationship, as no matter how much I thought I wanted to, I could never quite convince myself to take things to the physical level our peers were bragging about on bus trips to the mall. 

By the time prom came around, for which Ashley and I had procured a couple of tickets due to our popularity with a member of the senior class, she looked so exasperated with me I thought she might stick her stilettos through my skull, or at least use them to trample my worthless penis. 

On the night of the dance, we stood on the lawn as friends crammed into limos, while my mom photographed the happy couple.  It was the first time I’d been in a suit, and I felt uncomfortable; to be fair, at this point I felt uncomfortable in just about anything I wore, even my own skin.  Each time the camera flashed, I struck a pose out of a fashion magazine—concave back, protruding collar bone, and beveled foot. Ashley stood, arms slack at the sides of her form-fitting red and gold dress, looking at the lens with vacant eyes and one corner of her mouth upturned. 

Despite all of the forced merriment, each of us had a hard time smiling for the remainder of the year.   Like many in the throes of young romance, the idea of more than a day apart seemed blasphemous, which made our three-month summer separation cause for a breakup shortly after prom.  It was then I got my answer about the nature of our relationship, because even though we took away the label of “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” hardly anything changed. 

At the same time, everything changed.  I went away to New York City for the summer and began falling for another person while sitting on a bed in a dorm room listening to bad pop music, only this time it was a boy.  The same boy, to be precise, who had offered his extra prom tickets only a few months before.   

Some days I’d sit with my back against the wall outside of his room, looking in as he organized his desk or folded laundry, and gush on the phone to Ashley about how exciting the City was, with its rumbling subways that could whisk one away to any destination desired…even a boy’s heart.  Every impulse in my body wanted to tell her of the summer’s developments, my realizations and acceptance, but I knew the phone was no way to share such important news. 

Instead, I waited until my arrival on campus for the start of sophomore year.  I crossed the lawn, looking at groups of students gathering for orientation meetings, and reveled in the fact that I was an entire year wiser, and an entire year gayer.  The grass was suddenly a disco floor, each footstep illuminating a light beneath my shoe as I made my way to tell Ashley the news. 

When I finally found her, roaming the halls of the dance building, I took her to a walkway at the top of a campus theater, and sat her on the carpet, which was as thin as my machismo had been the year before. The vivaciousness that had drawn me to her twelve months earlier had drained out of her eyes.  For the majority of the conversation she never lifted them to look at me.  Instead, she feigned support of my revelation and assured me, just as any best friend would, everything would be okay. 

That’s the thing with young love; sometimes it isn’t okay.  No matter how immature we were, the emotions involved in our courtship and subsequent unraveling of, were real, and I could see I had hurt her.  I wondered if she felt like a test tube project from our Environmental Science class, something I’d feigned interest in to make the grade. For a moment even I wondered if that was the case. 

“You know, I really do love you,” I said.  “I was just confused.” 

It was the only comfort I could give her.  And the only explanation I could offer myself.

Comments

[steven]

I can relate to this on so many levels Beautifully written. Thank you.

[Pippin]

what a great walk down memory lane. you two were totally the "hottest couple" of our freshman class. but possibly the only couple as well. haha. anyway it was great hearing all that again. well said.

[Valerie]

Nicely written. Thanks for sharing this.

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I stumbled onto your blog from my brother's (Sam Rogers) and finally had to comment...best "figuring out your gay," story I've read. :-) You're a wonderful writer!

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