By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
After I heal from a breakup, I find it hard to plunge back into the dating pool. It's like getting up from a comfortable chair where you've found the perfect positionyou stretch your legs and reluctantly look for a different place to sit. Many years ago, after ending a two-year relationship, I was happily professing to everyone that my new sexual orientation was not queer or bi, but simply first come, first served: Whoever had the guts to approach me, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, would get me. Sure, I was single and randy, but more importantly, I was flexible.
At a queer writers' event, a gay guy I knew introduced me to his ex-boyfriend. We clicked immediatelysoon we were watching movies, going shopping, and having marathon meals where we'd tell each other about our sex lives in exquisite detail. I loved hearing about man-on-man action, and he was clueless about what dykes do in bed, so it provided endless entertainment for us. He was charming, funny, and hot, and while I've got a thing for fags, this fag definitely liked boys. He never even hinted about being attracted to women. Although I am confident that I can persuade people to play for the other teamI think everyone's sexuality is a lot more fluid than they think it is or would like it to beI was content with our friendship.
Months later, he made a pass at me, kissing me deeply on the lips. Startled, I broke the embrace (not before getting a little tongue action) and said, "Um, what are you doing?"
"Kissing you," he said, smiling broadly.
"But you're gay!" I retorted.
"So are you," he returned, unflinching. "You of all people should understand that sometimes our desire isn't stuck in one place, Miss Don't Fence Me In. I seem to recall someone claiming that she was first come, first served." I scowled, but he did have a point. He touched my hand, and said, "Do we really need to talk about this? I think you're sexy and I want to kiss you, OK?"
"When was the last time you were with a woman?" I asked (already knowing the answer from a previous conversation).
"Um, like eight or nine years or something, but don't worry, it'll come back to me."
"That's not what I mean! I mean . . . " He cut me off with another delicious kiss, and I decided to shut up.
The first time we had sex it was like being dropped into one of my favorite gay porn movies starring him as the hunky leading man. The way he undressed me, the way he moved into my body, the way he held his cock in his hand were confident, defiant, seductive. And that dick! The first time I saw it, eyes popping out of my head, I blurted, "Wow, the gay boys must love you!" All the fag personals I'd ever read had dick size featured prominently, and his dick was, well, prominent. That virgin encounter was definitely a fag smut flick, but then, what did that make me?
In high school and college, I was a total fag fucker (not always literallythink star fucker). Many of my crushes were on boys who fucked boys or boys who wanted to fuck boys. No surprise: Lots of dykes and fags are attracted to each other before they come out; we are drawn to one another by what we assume is desire, but it's really the connection of being queer, which is buried or still unknown to us. My attraction to gay men had another significant element to it: My dad was gay. The reasons I was into fags didn't take thousands of dollars of therapy to unravel, and I can hear the collective yawn of Freudian analysts everywherebeing with my gay boyfriend was a way to directly enact the father fantasy. Fuck the unconscious, let's wake her up and really do this!
When we got together, I thought, "Finally, perfect, a fag. We'll have so much fun together!" Well, it turned out he wasn't even my kind of fag. He didn't like musical theater. He didn't get all the fuss about Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand. I let go of his lack of interest in old-school gayness because I thought, "I'll be getting all the anal sex I could ever want!" And not nice, well-paced anal sex, but throw-'em-down-on-the-bed-and-fuck-'em-like-you-mean-it anal sex. (Clearly, I had watched way too much gay porn.) But his first instinct was not to throw me down on the bed and fuck my ass with unimaginable aggression and fury. I begged him to fuck me in the ass, and he always replied, "I can do that with the boys; your pussy is what I want because that's the rare treat."
Besides my pussy, one of my gay boyfriend's favorite things to do was have anonymous sex. He trolled gym locker rooms, public rest rooms, and bathhouses looking for lust. He was always safe, so I didn't worry about him. He'd come home late at night, smelling clean from a recent shower, and crawl into bed with me. I would make him tell me all the details of his encounters. What was his body like? Did he have a big dick? Did he talk dirty? What did he say? Who made the first move? I lived vicariously through him; his adventures were my thrill. Sex with him after one of his tales was always a little bit nastier and more frenetic.
No one knew exactly what to make of us. People assumed he was gay and I was his fag-hag friend or they'd read us as straight, which freaked us both out.
"Oh, so you're both bisexual," people would conclude.
"No, he's gay and I'm a lesbian." I would usually introduce him as my fag boyfriend, and I could see everyone trying desperately to process that phrase and then respond appropriately. We met a guy at a party once, and after we explained our situation, he was mesmerized.
"Wow, that is so cool," he said. "You're the future!" Apparently we were the very near future, because we took him home that night.
Eventually, we went our separate ways. As a poster girl for polymorphous perversity, I never thought my own assumptions about gay men, gay sex, and gay non-monogamy could be challenged, but having a gay boyfriend did just that.
Visit my Web site at www.puckerup.com