And You Say He's Just a Friend
“So, if someone were to ask…”
“We’re just friends,” he answers without needing me to the finish the question.
“Oh, ok.” I say, nodding my head too quickly.
He says that my face always betrays my emotions. That he can read how I feel just by looking at me. I know that he noticed how I flinched. I am sure he saw how I averted my eyes. And, he must have seen that distant look I assumed for a moment.
“The church looks like the one from Kill Bill, it’s so small,” he says after a few moments of silence.
“Oh yeah,” I say trying to abandon my current thoughts. But still, the phase, “were just friends” echoes in my head. “Well hopefully their won’t be a shoot-out”.
Earlier in the day, while he was out picking up his suit from his tailor and I went out to buy a wedding card and dress socks, I had begun to compose an alternate starting for this post. Something to the effect of: I’m so proud of my boyfriend; he has come such a long way. I was then going to elaborate on how for us to steal a kiss at Union Station when we’d first started dating had been such ordeal. We would wait for that fleeting second, when no one was passing by, so our lips could say goodbye. I then planned to discuss how we navigated from such a place of fear, to him now taking me as his date to a wedding. We have grown daring as of late; the public kiss or holding hands not being a moment of panic and self-consciousness.
But being out in public, on downtown streets and hip establishments, at times can almost be anonymous; as mainly the audience and spectator is a random individual, whose opinion doesn’t matter. And, after all, our parents and family live in the suburbs, they don’t come downtown.
“You can take your mother, I wouldn’t be mad, I would totally understand.”
“No, when Fancy Pants first asked me to be his best man, I was like okay, I am going to ask Dutty to come with me,” he declared solemnly.
“People are going to know though, do his parents know about you?”
“No. You’re just my friend.”
“But dudes don’t take dudes as dates.”
“I want you their with me.”
This is progress for us, in fact this is monumental. While I might just be a “friend”, my boyfriend is openly inviting speculation. He knows that it will be curious that I am his date at the wedding, but yet he is willing to bear such a consequence, to have me by his side. I attempt to placate myself with this final thought. But while I am lying in bed, with him fast asleep to my side, I whine at the situation in my head. I imagine myself at a table, surrounded by strangers, with the inevitable question arising, “how do you know the bride and groom?” And, I would then glance over at the head table, and say, “my boyfriend is the best man”. Like a child I want to demand a right to have that moment.
The next day, I sit in his SUV, while Mr. Honey Tongue and the wedding party obey instructions barked by the photographer, my emotions stewing during the hot July afternoon. The photo shoot lasts almost two hours and I have time to let my anger roll to a boil. I imagine myself making snappy retorts if he was to say something cute to me, “but, I thought I was just a friend”. Or be even harsher and declare, “how can we talk about getting married when you aren’t ready to say to people that I’m your boyfriend”.
“What’s wrong?” he asks once all the photo taking is completed.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s fucking hot today,” I say, deciding that I don’t want to make an issue at this moment.
Later at the reception, I’m having a post-meal cigarette with my boyfriend and an acquaintance of his from high school. They are playing “when’s-the-last-time-you-saw?” exclaiming loud “ohhh’s” and “I haven’t seen them since” each time the other scored a point.
“Yeah, the last time I saw her she was very happy, she had come out of the closet,” says the old high school mate. This turn in their conversation draws me in from the periphery and I stare at Mr. Honey Tongue for his reaction; he just nods.
“I always had a feeling she was…you know how some girls just seem like dykes. But she finally came out and you could tell she’s happy. Why should anyone have a problem with it, who cares who you wanna fuck?”
“Yeah, it shouldn’t matter” my boyfriend responds. He is holding a poker face.
“If anything, if someone has a problem with someone being gay, that speaks to them and their insecurities,” I state.
“For sure, I don’t care man. I love gay people. I love pride.” I give him a good laugh at this.
“Pride is the best party ever.”
“I felt nervous about bringing him,” my boyfriend starts pointing to me. “But, I was like I didn’t care what people think, he’s the only one I wanted to bring.”
“But you’ve been out for awhile now haven’t you?”
“No,” both me and my Mr. Honey Tongue shake our heads in the negative.
“Oh, cuz Fancy Pants had told me a few years ago that you were gay.”
“We’re just friends,” he answers without needing me to the finish the question.
“Oh, ok.” I say, nodding my head too quickly.
He says that my face always betrays my emotions. That he can read how I feel just by looking at me. I know that he noticed how I flinched. I am sure he saw how I averted my eyes. And, he must have seen that distant look I assumed for a moment.
“The church looks like the one from Kill Bill, it’s so small,” he says after a few moments of silence.
“Oh yeah,” I say trying to abandon my current thoughts. But still, the phase, “were just friends” echoes in my head. “Well hopefully their won’t be a shoot-out”.
Earlier in the day, while he was out picking up his suit from his tailor and I went out to buy a wedding card and dress socks, I had begun to compose an alternate starting for this post. Something to the effect of: I’m so proud of my boyfriend; he has come such a long way. I was then going to elaborate on how for us to steal a kiss at Union Station when we’d first started dating had been such ordeal. We would wait for that fleeting second, when no one was passing by, so our lips could say goodbye. I then planned to discuss how we navigated from such a place of fear, to him now taking me as his date to a wedding. We have grown daring as of late; the public kiss or holding hands not being a moment of panic and self-consciousness.
But being out in public, on downtown streets and hip establishments, at times can almost be anonymous; as mainly the audience and spectator is a random individual, whose opinion doesn’t matter. And, after all, our parents and family live in the suburbs, they don’t come downtown.
“You can take your mother, I wouldn’t be mad, I would totally understand.”
“No, when Fancy Pants first asked me to be his best man, I was like okay, I am going to ask Dutty to come with me,” he declared solemnly.
“People are going to know though, do his parents know about you?”
“No. You’re just my friend.”
“But dudes don’t take dudes as dates.”
“I want you their with me.”
This is progress for us, in fact this is monumental. While I might just be a “friend”, my boyfriend is openly inviting speculation. He knows that it will be curious that I am his date at the wedding, but yet he is willing to bear such a consequence, to have me by his side. I attempt to placate myself with this final thought. But while I am lying in bed, with him fast asleep to my side, I whine at the situation in my head. I imagine myself at a table, surrounded by strangers, with the inevitable question arising, “how do you know the bride and groom?” And, I would then glance over at the head table, and say, “my boyfriend is the best man”. Like a child I want to demand a right to have that moment.
The next day, I sit in his SUV, while Mr. Honey Tongue and the wedding party obey instructions barked by the photographer, my emotions stewing during the hot July afternoon. The photo shoot lasts almost two hours and I have time to let my anger roll to a boil. I imagine myself making snappy retorts if he was to say something cute to me, “but, I thought I was just a friend”. Or be even harsher and declare, “how can we talk about getting married when you aren’t ready to say to people that I’m your boyfriend”.
“What’s wrong?” he asks once all the photo taking is completed.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s fucking hot today,” I say, deciding that I don’t want to make an issue at this moment.
Later at the reception, I’m having a post-meal cigarette with my boyfriend and an acquaintance of his from high school. They are playing “when’s-the-last-time-you-saw?” exclaiming loud “ohhh’s” and “I haven’t seen them since” each time the other scored a point.
“Yeah, the last time I saw her she was very happy, she had come out of the closet,” says the old high school mate. This turn in their conversation draws me in from the periphery and I stare at Mr. Honey Tongue for his reaction; he just nods.
“I always had a feeling she was…you know how some girls just seem like dykes. But she finally came out and you could tell she’s happy. Why should anyone have a problem with it, who cares who you wanna fuck?”
“Yeah, it shouldn’t matter” my boyfriend responds. He is holding a poker face.
“If anything, if someone has a problem with someone being gay, that speaks to them and their insecurities,” I state.
“For sure, I don’t care man. I love gay people. I love pride.” I give him a good laugh at this.
“Pride is the best party ever.”
“I felt nervous about bringing him,” my boyfriend starts pointing to me. “But, I was like I didn’t care what people think, he’s the only one I wanted to bring.”
“But you’ve been out for awhile now haven’t you?”
“No,” both me and my Mr. Honey Tongue shake our heads in the negative.
“Oh, cuz Fancy Pants had told me a few years ago that you were gay.”
posted by dutty brown boi at
1:59 PM
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