Binge Page 6

  While many of my castmates planned to study acting or musical theater professionally after high school, I decided that I’d give just one last performance before retiring from the stage. At my school’s graduation ceremony, I was chosen to speak. Among a litany of other sophomoric clichés, I spoke about how “all the world’s a stage.” I had no clue how prophetic my speech was to become for my own life.

  the gay chapter

  COMING OUT IS A PROCESS, AND NO LGBTQ+ person is ever done doing it. Although it gets easier to do every time, most of the world is pretty heteronormative and assumes that people are straight by default. Well, newsflash world! I’m (spoiler!) gay.

  My mom and stepdad always knew. Instead of using words such as girlfriend or wife, they’d use significant other or partner to casually let me know that it was okay if I ended up someday riding dick. Not until I was eleven did we ever acknowledge it out loud. That day, my mom and I were in line at the bank. She looked at me and asked if I was gay; I said yes, grabbed a handful of free suckers at the counter, and that was it.

  Coming out to my friends was a different story. Going into high school, I knew I was gay, but I had never told anyone outside the family. I kept it to myself for years despite how supportive my surroundings were. My school had a gay-straight alliance club, many out and proud teachers, and plenty of openly gay students, but I just wasn’t ready.

  When I did come out to my school, it wasn’t by choice, and I was far from prepared.

  I was nearing the end of a high school production of Grease, and the months of long nights of rehearsals meant plenty of free time spent with Eric Maier, a new friend of mine, who was smart, funny, sang well, and was on the soccer team—and I was infatuated. He said he was straight, but sexual speculation was a popular pastime at Okemos High, and I hoped it wasn’t true.

  Over my freshman year, I began to tell a few friends one by one, but the person I most wanted to tell was Eric. One friend I told was Suzi, who took the news a little too well. She was giddy at the thought of playing matchmaker between Eric and me, but I forbade her to say anything. I wasn’t ready! And he could be straight! And she needed to mind her damn business! She assured me that I had nothing to worry about, which I was dumb enough to believe.

  The next day was the school preview of our production of Grease. It was the Thursday before opening weekend, and we had a midday assembly to do a highlights version of the production, which we hoped would entice the student body to buy tickets. I was in the greenroom caking on some last-minute stage makeup when Suzi rounded the corner, beaming. I scrutinized her suspiciously before returning to my mirror. I opened my eyes as wide as possible and began applying eyeliner. Suzi sat behind me and was outwardly giddy.

  “Five minutes until places!” our director called from the other room.

  “What mischief are you up to?” I whispered.

  “He knows!” she squealed.

  I stopped applying my eyeliner and looked at her hard in the reflection of the mirror. “What?” I snapped.

  “Eric knows!” Suzi grinned.

  “You are unbelievable,” I fumed, shaking my head, putting my makeup back into my Ziploc bag. In less than twenty-four hours, Suzi had betrayed my trust and told the one secret I wasn’t ready to share to the one person I feared telling most.

  “Wait, are you mad at me . . . ?” she began, as I rushed out of the makeup room.

  Around the corner and back into the greenroom, I was surrounded by the entire cast of the musical, and a moment away from bursting into tears. As I began to make my way to the door, Eric turned the corner. We made eye contact and my stomach dropped. I brushed past him and opened the auditorium’s backstage door.

  “Wait, Tyler . . . ,” he called, just as the door closed behind me. I was now backstage, in pitch-black darkness, tears streaming down my face. I made my way to center stage and listened to the people chattering on the other side of the curtain, trying to pick up something, anything, that any of them might be saying. Were they talking about it yet? Had their friends texted them the news?

  Keep it together, Tyler. Get through this, and you can cry when you get home, I thought, as I wiped my tears from my cheeks. I focused on my breathing until, finally, the curtain began to rise. With all eyes on me, I grinned through my pain and began the musical with the opening monologue.

  As soon as the preview was done, I skipped the final bows and ran from backstage through the auditorium door. I slipped into the greenroom and stuffed my clothes into my backpack. Feeling as if I were suffocating, I had to get out of there before the rest of the cast returned. I burst through the school doors and broke down into tears as I crossed the parking lot to my friend’s car. She would be giving me a ride home that day, and I sank down against the door of her car, face in my hands, sobbing. As I heard the final bell of the day ring, I wiped my tears as people began to pile out of the school toward the parking lot. When I heard the doors of the car unlock, I stood up and saw my friends approaching. I faked a smile as they congratulated me on the performance, and we drove toward our neighborhood.

  As soon as I stepped into my house, I let the devastation of the day sweep over me. Eric knew my secret, and he was never going to speak to me again, I was sure of it. I was a disgusting faggot who had been lying to his friends, and soon the entire school was going to know. I lay on the bottom bunk of my bed with my phone in my hand, trying to work up the courage to call Eric. After about an hour of crying and weighing my options, I opened my flip phone and dialed his number. My hands shook as the phone rang.

  “Hey . . .”

  “Hey . . . ,” I started, voice shaking.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Suzi told me she told you,” I said quickly.

  Eric said nothing.

  “And I’d rather you hear it from me. . . . I’m gay.” Even though I knew he already knew, saying it myself felt final and gave me a sense of relief. No matter what he was going to say next, it was done, and the burden was off my shoulders.

  “I know . . . ,” Eric began, and the two of us said nothing for what felt like hours, but was probably just seconds. “And, ummm, I think you should know . . . I’m straight. But, like, nothing changes between us. You’re still my best friend.”

  It wasn’t the answer I was hoping for, but it was for sure the answer I needed. I thanked him and told him I should probably get back to my homework, and I hung up.

  The next morning, I walked into my school, terrified of what might happen. As I walked down the hall, I saw Eric turn the corner and begin walking in my direction. My heart ached and raced and felt like it could burst as we approached each other. As soon as he saw me, a huge grin covered his face, and all doubts left my mind as he opened his arms and hugged me. It was tight and warm and lasted long enough for me to get the message: we’re good.

  From that point on, coming out was simple. My favorite way to come out was to join a discussion of common lust for hot guys in our classes. Nothing takes a friendship to the next level like a shared thirst. As I told more people at my school, it got easier and easier, until finally I just changed my MySpace and Facebook profiles to say I was interested in men. Just like that, the deed was done. The last thing I had left was to come out to my dad.

  My dad is an interesting case. Growing up, I hated him. He was probably the most stubborn person I’d ever met, besides myself, and we fought constantly. He was closed-minded and made it known to me that he wouldn’t accept homosexuality in his house.

  Catholicism was a huge part of this attitude, and my dad and stepmom worked endlessly to make sure God was always on my mind, instead of dick. Every Tuesday in elementary school, I’d attend Confraternity of Christian Doctrine class, or CCD for short. We learned the Ten Commandments, how to confess our sins, and all the major prayers—but I never bought any of it. When we went through the Lent curriculum, I couldn’t believe how many liars were in my class. One kid even had the audacity to claim that he had given up throwing rocks into
the river for Lent. I rolled my eyes in between bites of my p[ą]czki and sneered, “You have to actually give up something enjoyable, idiot,” which earned me ten Hail Marys.

  The only reason I put up with CCD was so that I could see my crush every Tuesday, a boy whose name I no longer recall, but whose bangs had me mesmerized.

  When my dad and stepmom switched from Catholic to New Age Hip Christian, their crusade continued. As part of their attempt to assimilate me into heterosexual teenage-boy culture, they got me a subscription to Breakaway—a magazine for teen guys published by the antigay group Focus on the Family. It featured Christian guys talking about their intimate relationships with God and had in-depth articles about how to deal with the temptations of sin. I eagerly anticipated every edition, but only for the fitness section: hot Christian guys showing workout techniques. I definitely sinned every month to that page. Ten more Hail Marys!

  By the time I got to high school, I no longer gave a fuck. One day, my dad called and told me he was in town and wanted to grab dinner, and I remember feeling that something was weird. I hadn’t seen him for a month or so, and when I walked into Quiznos, he looked noticeably different. It was over a decade ago, but I still remember so clearly the moment he looked up at me as I walked in, seeing his gaunt face and a sad, tired expression. He dove right into the conversation.

  He told me someone from his church had found my MySpace page, and how it said I was interested in men. He asked if it was true, I told him yes, and my mind began racing. I was so overwhelmed that I only remember snippets of what he said to me, things suggesting that this was my mom and stepdad’s fault, how I was doing this for attention, how this was just a phase, how it was a sin, how he was concerned because I was living a dangerous lifestyle, how it was a choice.

  What stuck with me most was his saying he had enough money to fix it. Did he think somehow sending me to therapy could perhaps make me straight? I will never forget his saying that—because it wasn’t just the words that were ridiculous, but the tone of it all. It sounded so full of genuine care, said not with anger or disgust, but with love—and this is why homophobia is a terrible evil: it disguises itself as concern while it is inherently hate. I was lucky enough to know this, but so many queer and questioning youth aren’t, and almost all homophobic people will outright deny it. No person, no matter how important society deems their relationship to you, has the right to denounce you for who you are.

  After that, we never discussed my being gay again, and our relationship was even more nonexistent than before. I saw him at major family events and holidays, but for the most part, we did our own thing. My being gay didn’t come up again until several years later while I was in college. I was a couple years into making YouTube videos, and living with a boyfriend at the time, and we were figuring out our holiday plans. As both of us had parents who were divorced and remarried, he and I had four Christmases to attend, and trying to coordinate them all was almost impossible.

  When I texted my dad to see when his family was celebrating, I casually mentioned that both my boyfriend and I would be coming. In an instant, the mood switched, and my dad went off. He sent a volley of texts about how I was not allowed to bring that lifestyle to his house, how my YouTube channel was disgracing the family name, and how I’d never get a job. I told him to never text me again unless he was ready to not only accept me for who I was, but proudly embrace everything about me.

  We didn’t speak or see each other for three years, which was the best thing that could have happened to us. By putting my foot down and saying no to bullshit parenting, I moved on, lived my life to the fullest, and didn’t take anything less than the respect that I deserved. I’m lucky that I had a support system in place for me when my dad wasn’t there, but not everyone has that. Many LGBTQ+ kids have nobody to turn to and are kicked out to become homeless. Recognizing the privilege of my situation makes my involvement with the Trevor Project that much more of a personal necessity.

  So, yeah, I’m gay as fuck. Have been since birth, and the moral of the story is I love it. If you don’t, you can literally go. Homophobic people are outdated and life is too short to put up with them. My dad didn’t get it immediately, but thanks to the time apart, he was able to grow up—something that may not have happened had I put up with his behavior. Nowadays, we both thank God I didn’t.

  high school camp counselor

  IF YOU WERE WATCHING ME FROM THE OUTSIDE, my walk to the principal’s office may have seemed slow and calm, but I felt that I was about to shit myself. It was my senior year, and I was sure that this meeting was going to ruin my chances of graduating. There was no other explanation—I must have been found out, and I was finally going to be held accountable for my actions. How did I get into this mess, anyway?

  It all started a week prior. I arrived at the middle school’s parking lot at 6:00 a.m., bundled in winter gear from head to toe, with a duffel bag heaved over my shoulder. I was about to spend a week in a cabin with ten seventh graders, and I couldn’t be more terrified. Every year, the entire seventh grade class of my school district went on a pilgrimage to Spring Hill, a campsite up north in the middle of the woods. The district’s high school seniors applied to be camp counselors for the event, and somehow I was chosen. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

  When I was a seventh grade camper, I was starstruck by my counselor. Since I was an aspiring drama club member, his being a leading male in the musicals and plays turned me to mush. Whatever he said went, and I was happy to follow his rules. Unfortunately, my own campers five years later were less than impressed with my ability to get bit parts in the plays and musicals. I was definitely going to have to work for their respect . . . or at least bribe them.

  In preparation for our trip, we were given a list of things to pack—scarves, hats, gloves, the usual—but one thing stood out: candy. We were instructed to bring not too much and not too little. Just enough to make your campers think they’d got an edgy counselor. Campers themselves were forbidden to bring any candy to the camp, so it was the teachers’ way of letting us be cool in the campers’ eyes. Knowing my own pushover tendencies, and that most of the seventh graders were already my size if not taller, I knew I’d have to pack a ton of candy to get them to do what I said. The night before we left for the trip, I went to the grocery store and stocked up. As I wandered the candy aisle, I realized times had changed since I was a seventh grader. Like . . . caffeinated gum? I mean, sure, why not, but . . . really? I felt old and had no clue what the kids were into, so I just bought everything.

  On the first day, we settled into our cabin, and my campers were already antsy. We had a bit of free time before the first activity, so I decided now was the time to assert my power and break out the goods. Before anything else, I laid down a few ground rules—no bragging to other campers about what I’d brought, and no eating anything outside of the cabin. Then, with each lanky prepubescent huddling around my luggage, I unzipped my bag and revealed the contraband. Gasps all around. Then they reached in and claimed what they could—from chocolates to gummies, sweets to extreme sours. I was their dealer, and they were hooked.

  My campers rationed their candy supplies throughout the week, but they saved the majority of it for the final night. Taking place on the last night of camp, the dance was the biggest event of the week, and the sugar would help hype them up for it. After seven days of activities such as horseback riding, swimming, sledding, arts and crafts, and various games, the last evening was a chance to let loose. With a resident DJ blasting the hottest hits of 2006, campers stood around awkwardly, gathering the courage to approach each other. About thirty minutes into the event, the high school counselors were to make their grand entrance.

  While we waited for our time to arrive, the rest of the camp counselors and I sat in the room adjacent to the dance hall. We were exhausted from the week we had all just endured. As we exchanged horror stories about our campers and their bizarre tendencies, I saw a few of the guys huddled near a
snack table in the back. Never one to pass on free food, I got up and made my way over to them.

  “Dude, you want some?” Jimmy Aikens asked. Jimmy was a super-popular guy who was involved in a lot of school activities. He was cool.

  “Yeah, sure, totally,” I replied. He handed me a quarter of a brownie. I ate it in one swift bite, wondering, Why so stingy? Demonstrating how generosity should look, I helped myself to substantially more of the free food. With a full plate, I returned to the circle of counselors sharing horror stories. Jimmy tried to get my attention from the other side of the circle, mouthing something I couldn’t quite understand. I tried to decipher his pointing at me and making a face with wide eyes, but I had no clue what he was going on about.

  The camp advisers made their way into the room to let us know it was time. Throughout the week, the other counselors and I had rehearsed our grand-entrance routine, designed to wow the seventh graders. Clad in all pink and red clothes and accessories to go along with the Valentine’s Day theme of the dance, we lined up behind the door.

  Jimmy made his way over and looked me in the eyes, grinning. “Do you feel it yet?”

  Before I could ask what he meant, the doors of the banquet hall swung open. This was our cue to run in, screaming and jumping to hype up the teenagers, with Sean Paul’s “Temperature” as our sound track. As I leaped in the air, I started to feel a bit weird. Each leap felt more and more majestic, and the transition into “Buttons” by the Pussycat Dolls made me feel woozy and slow. I looked around and felt my neck swiveling incrementally, millimeter by millimeter, and my stomach dropped as I realized what was happening. Those were pot brownies.