Binge Read online

  When I did see those gay characters, I also saw the ridicule they received, both in the shows themselves and from the people in my own life making comments. I learned quickly that a lot of the world was bothered by their very existence as homosexuals, and that displaying the stereotypical attributes of a gay person was not something to be celebrated. Minimization and blending in seemed to be a gay person’s safest route.

  Luckily, my close friends, family, and the majority of my high school couldn’t care less about gender identity or sexual orientation. I was taught that being myself was not only okay, but encouraged—and by being unapologetically yourself, you thrive and inspire others to thrive. I guess that was why I created my own YouTube channel—as a place for me to be unapologetically genuine, and to express myself despite how anyone else might view me, or what people might say about me.

  Being on YouTube, though, exposed me to a much larger population, and I was subjected to opinions outside the circle of my close friends, family, and community. By now, I’ve read every nasty thing a person can say about someone else—all directed at me. One of the strangest things I’ve read was that I embellish my stereotypically gay mannerisms for more views or attention. While I do enjoy a good marketing strategy, this couldn’t be any further from the truth.

  One day, I read a criticism of myself aloud to my friend Korey. I went through a list of all the faults this person found in me. Arrogant, self-centered, blah blah blah . . . the usual, normal complaints. Hey, if I weren’t self-centered, I wouldn’t have a YouTube channel. Do you think any well-adjusted person would ever think to self-produce a broadcast of his own face to the entire world? Who does that? But then . . . I saw it—the final criticism, an accusation that simply went too far: for views, I faked having a lisp.

  “Can you believe that? Let’s start with the fact that I don’t even have a lisp.”

  Korey’s brow furrowed as he glanced in my direction. With a tilt of the head, he asked, “Are you being serious?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I’m being serious. Are you being serious?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know that you have a lisp . . .”

  Wait. This was dire. It’s not that I have a problem with lisps, it’s just that I never thought I had one. It’s like when I was in sixth grade and this kid told me in the hot-lunch line that I had a hook head. When I asked what that even meant, he said that the back of my head jutted out like a pirate’s hook, like I’ve got a big brain or at least a sizable tumor going on. I had no clue whether it was true, but he had planted the seed of doubt in my big hook head. To this day, you will never catch me profiling my silhouette.

  But back to the alleged lisp! I couldn’t believe that with years of filming myself and editing my own videos, I could have even subconsciously chosen to ignore the defect in my voice. Even before I made videos, I had spent much of my childhood calling our local radio station, K105.3 FM, every morning on the way to school, to request songs just to hear myself on the radio. Could I have been so repressed that I ignored every broadcast of my own voice? Then again, “Tubthumping” by Chumbawamba doesn’t have an s in it, so who knows . . . maybe if I’d been requesting the Thpice Girls, I would have heard it?

  Or consider the time when I spent an entire five-hour drive on a family trip to a theme park in Ohio memorizing Alanis Morissette’s classic “Ironic.” This laid the groundwork to record my own cover on a cassette tape in the sound booth for $5. Surely, if I was developing a lisp back in 1996, I would have heard it in my vocal stylings of Alanis’s lyrics? Yet, despite my own flawless, pitch-perfect vocals in my headphones, I don’t recall ever detecting any hint of a speech impediment in the recording. Isn’t that ironic?

  I’ve heard it said that if you were to run into yourself on the street, you wouldn’t even recognize that it’s you because your self-perception is so distorted from what others see. Maybe the same is to be said about our own voices. Fearing the worst, I did what any levelheaded, potentially self-loathing gay would do—I sent an emergency text to my friend Millie, who was a speech-pathology major, telling her I needed to see her immediately, in perthon.

  Millie and I had been friends for a while, and she never once brought up my alleged issue. In hindsight, maybe she was just being polite? In the same way that if you’ve got a friend with a lazy eye, you don’t mention it because they must know already? Actually, I’ll be right back. Let me find a mirror.

  Okay, I’m back, I don’t think I have a lazy eye. Which is good, because I sat down with Millie on that fateful day and forced her to look me dead in the eyes—both of them, at the same time—and tell me the truth.

  “So . . . is it true? What they say about me?” I prompted dramatically. “Do I have a lisp?”

  Millie looked at me long and hard. “Yes.”

  She began to explain the mechanics of the condition, but my mind wandered and her words became muffled in the background. My worst fears that I’d never considered had suddenly been realized. Was this it? I thurely wath not a pothethor of a lithp—I would have known by now? Someone would have told me. Do I have no real friends? Has my entire life been a lie?

  I cut her off. “Maybe it’s just an extended s?”

  “Yeah, no.” Millie said bluntly, as if to shut down my bargaining stage of grief. “Are you self-conscious about it?”

  “No! Obviously not. Why would I be?” I snapped. But was I?

  Days went by, and it was the only thing I could think about. When asked if I wanted milk with my grande iced coffee, my request for a little bit of thoy milk became an issue. Requesting Lady Gaga’s “Applauthe” at the local gay bar was a whammy, as well.

  I slowly began to realize that maybe I was self-conscious about it. Sure, I was obviously openly gay, and I had been for over a decade, but was my refusal to accept my speech impediment something deeper than a lack of self-awareness? A hint of some type of self-loathing, internalized homophobia caused by a culture that taught minorities that if they wanted to be accepted, they had to blend in? That they must be straight acting, normal sounding, not wearing anything that makes them stand out too much? Was my refusal to acknowledge my lisp—even when brought to my attention—a conscious, last-ditch effort to tell myself that I had been blending in all along?

  So what if I did have a lisp? Some people do fit some stereotypes. Is that going to be the end of the world? In every community, some people will fit every stereotype, and some people will fit no stereotypes, and both are valid representations for that community. No one person can be the end-all representation, and expecting any one person to represent a huge group of people puts them on a dubious pedestal and likely to be toppled.

  So maybe the moral of Witches Don’t Do Back Flips only applies to some witches, and that’s okay. Maybe finding examples of people who break stereotypes doesn’t erase the existence of those who fit them. Because obviously, some gays have lisps, and some don’t, and fitting that stereotype isn’t good or bad, it just is.

  Being a part of a community isn’t about being or even avoiding being society’s preconception of that community. It’s about trying to be your best self, whoever you are. I in no way think I am “the voice” of any community; all I can do is try to be a voice and show people that they can also be a voice. I fit some stereotypes, I don’t fit others. And that’s okay. I’ll never be a gay that every other gay can relate to, but if by being myself, lisp included, I’m a gay that one lonely twelve-year-old gay in the Middle of Nowhere, with his parted bowl cut and inadvisable zip-up vest, can identify with and thus feel less alone, then I’ve done my job. And that makes me feel fantathtic.

  the one that got away

  “I THINK I MIGHT NOT BE STRAIGHT,” Adam said.

  Smiling and tilting my head, I looked up from my Scrabble letters and into his hazel eyes. Hazel is how you describe the color of someone’s brown eyes when you’re in love. Hazel is the dreamy kind of shit-colored you could get lost in forever. “Oh?”

  I could see
the weight lifting off his shoulders, as if now, having said those words out loud, he was finally, literally unburdened. This is no surprise—that’s typically the feeling gay people experience once they come to terms with their sexuality. For me, the surprise came instead from the fact that he was saying these words to his boyfriend of six months. But I guess I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.

  “I’m straight,” Adam said.

  Frowning and not tilting my head, I looked up from my computer screen. Who does this twink think he’s fooling? I thought.

  “Oh?” I replied. I turned to our two female coworkers and gave them knowing looks.

  They grinned, convinced that they had found for themselves a straight, eligible, athletic, charming guy with ambition and the perfect amount of chest hair (judging by his Facebook pictures, which all three of us had already stalked). “Told you,” one of them whispered, as she put her headset back on.

  I rolled my eyes and returned to my shift as a telemarketer, my relatively new job of calling alumni to ask them to donate money to the university. As I dialed my phone, I spaced out. I was distracted and annoyed that the one guy I had a crush on at work identified as straight. There’s nothing worse than sitting across from a charming, hot, straight boy. Nothing. Except maybe being a telemarketer.

  After my shift, I walked home bundled up against the cold, shuffling across campus back to my dorm room. I thought about Adam. From the little curls in his hair, to his dumb, monotone voice, to the arch of his eyebrow when he’d tease me and my coworkers, to his brown eyes that were almost more of a hazel? This boy was cute.

  As the semester went on, Adam became my work bestie, the person with whom I shared most of my inside jokes and sideways glances. In between calls, we’d lean over the divider separating our adjacent cubicles to eavesdrop and distract the others from their work. Despite his tragic sexual orientation, we treated each other like work boyfriends. Yet, despite their surprisingly transparent efforts, none of our female coworkers surrounding us seemed to be exactly his type. His charm attracted them into constant orbit, but his attention always wandered back to me.

  “He’s beeeeeeeeeeeautiful,” sighed my best friend, Ilana. I had just spent a full minute scrolling through Adam’s Facebook profile pictures, before deciding the perfect one to show her.

  “Right?! And he says he’s straight, but he’s so playful with me, and I don’t know, it’s just, like, why would he give me so much attention if he was straight? Also, he’s in ski club, and how cute is that?”

  “That’s great and all, but is he Jewish?” Ilana was in the market for a nice Jewish husband. I could relate because my first boyfriend in high school introduced me to the culture, and ever since, I always dreamed of someday having a Jewish mother-in-law.

  “I don’t think so?”

  “Well, feel free to invite him on Monday, regardless.”

  Due to the school’s colors (green and white) and obsession with drinking, one of the biggest holidays at Michigan State University was, not surprisingly, St. Patrick’s Day. Between drinking green beers and green Jell-O shots and green vodka, all while wearing green wigs and hats and shirts and leggings, MSU did St. Patty right, and this Monday would be no exception.

  Because it was a holiday, Ilana and I decided to branch out from our typical plans of partying in the dorms to attending a real-life frat party. I knew no men in frats, so obviously we went Ilana’s route, and we prepared to attend the Jewish fraternity’s annual St. Patrick’s Day party. What if I met someone? What if I met . . . the one? I could see it now: we’d all be sitting in the dark, wood-paneled, strangely musty basement, chasing our Popov shots with cherry Smirnoff sips, complaining about professors and asking each other our majors, when all of a sudden, he’d arrive. The one. We’d fall in love, and his parents would like me more than him, and we’d fight over who had to lint-roll the couch after I let our golden retriever lie on it from time to time, and we’d grow old together, all because of one chance encounter in a Jewish fraternity’s drunken celebration of an Irish saint. A quintessentially American love story.

  After the next day’s classes, I went into work, sat down, and logged in to get started with my calls.

  Before the first ring, up popped Adam, practically jumping out of his cubicle, wide-eyed and grinning. “Hey, boy. Whatcha doin’ on St. Patrick’s Day?”

  I held up a finger as the alumna on the other side of the call answered. I went into my memorized script as Adam slumped down, leaning onto the divider, never breaking eye contact, making faces at me with his head resting on his folded arms. The boy was going to be the death of me.

  Adam’s eyes widened as he began to hear the surprisingly high volume blasting from my headset, as the alumna screamed at the top of her lungs, demanding to know if I appreciated how much student debt she was still in. As I tried to talk her down, I was cut off midsentence by a dial tone. She was done with me, and I could get back to Adam. “I’m going to the Jewish frat. They’re having a big party. Will you be around?”

  “Yes. Let’s pregame at your place,” Adam suggested with a smirk as he picked up my long-outdated flip phone, glanced back and forth between it and me, clearly judging both phone and owner, before putting his number into my address book. Well now, it seems a boy just gave me his number. I was so heart-eyes emoji, and this was before the heart-eyes emoji even existed. Monday night couldn’t come quickly enough.

  As I meticulously adjusted the objects on my dorm-room desk just so, as to appear both effortlessly organized and yet lived-in, I heard a knock on the door. Decked out in all green, I leaped toward the door, eager for my night to begin. With his flipped hair and a huge grin, Adam bounced into the room. His monotone voice seemed especially silly as he attempted enthusiasm, yelling, “Yaaaaaaaaaay.”

  We did shots until we heard another knock, and Ilana peeked into the room. As she hugged Adam hello for the first time, she looked at me over his shoulder, and her wide eyes communicated her approval. Adorable, she mouthed. I know, I mouthed in reply. The three of us continued to drink for a bit, then—clad in all green—we made our way downstairs and hailed a cab.

  We pulled up to a broken-down mansion, vibrating from the loud music playing inside. This was the home of the Jewish fraternity, so we made our way through the crowd. Ilana knew the mother of every Jewish boy in the frat, so we had the VIP status to skip the line and make our way to the beer keg.

  “So what’s your type?” Ilana yelled, asking Adam between gulps of beer, nudging me and with her eyes saying to me, I’m asking for you, if you couldn’t tell. Hopefully he says boys with glasses and a pathological need for attention. Yes, her eyes said all of that.

  “I’m not sure . . . I’ll know when I see her.”

  Oh, so we’re gonna play that game still? Okay, well, if you’re identifying as straight for the night, I’m identifying as straight-to-bed, because daddy needs dick and he’s gonna find some, regardless of whether it’s you, Adam.

  Adam and I slumped onto a couch in the basement and did a “Cheers” with our drinks, but my real attention was on scanning the crowd for Mr. Right (Now). The scene was exactly as I’d imagined, wood-paneled walls and a musty aura—except my soul mate didn’t seem to be walking down those stairs. I turned to Adam, annoyed, and made conversation.

  We told each other our majors and complained about professors. Eventually, we both concluded that we had gotten a little too drunk prematurely, and we were nearing blackout. We agreed that we should probably make our way back toward the dorms and call it a night. I sighed as I walked up the stairs, admitting defeat as we made our way outside to hail a cab.

  We climbed into the backseat, Adam scooting all the way over and me following in after him. I leaned forward to slur to the driver, “We’ll be making . . . uhhh, two stops pleasssssse. Wilsssson Hall, first.” As I leaned back against the seat, my arms braced at my sides, holding me up. I closed my eyes and felt myself almost spinning. Maybe all that alcoh
ol wasn’t my smartest move.

  Frustrated and beating myself up over my failed tactic of finding a boyfriend at the party, I decided, Fuck this, I’m done searching for a guy. If a guy wants me, that’s his choice. I need to chill the fuck out and just enjoy life, and that’s when someone’s going to come along and sweep me off my feet. My head spun, I closed my eyes, and I began to drift off to sleep. Suddenly, my eyes shot open and I snapped back to sober reality.

  I looked down between Adam and me. What I thought might be happening was indeed confirmed to be happening. Adam’s hand had slid its way under mine, palm down, so that I was now holding it between us. I looked to my left and saw his eyes were closed. Was this an accident? Did he forget I was a guy? What’s happening?

  Just to test the waters, I gave his hand the softest squeeze, and he flipped his hand around, palm up, to hold mine. This can’t be happening. I closed my eyes again as his fingers slowly interlaced with mine, his thumb gliding over my palm. I opened my eyes again and looked in his direction. He was already looking my way, smiling. This isn’t happening. I smiled back. Without a word, he scooted his body slowly my direction, never breaking eye contact, until his face hovered an inch away from mine. Yep, those eyes are definitely hazel.

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  “Hey,” he whispered back, grinning.

  I melted, and with that, he leaned toward me, closing the gap. His kiss was full, and his hands were ambitious, and he only pulled away for a second to make one request.

  “Driver, please make that one stop.”

  When I’m hungover, I usually wake up uncomfortably early, head pounding and unable to fall back to sleep. This morning, my hand involuntarily smacked my forehead, cooling it and shielding my eyes from the sun beginning to blaze through the blinds of my window. I groaned quietly as I peeked through one eye. It was no dream: there he was.

  It was March 18, and I couldn’t believe the previous night had actually happened. Chin up, mouth agape, eyes closed, and completely naked, Adam was sprawled across my bed. This wasn’t happening. I mean, it was, thank God, but how did it happen? I closed my eyes again and began to piece together the night before, a jigsaw with missing pieces and no discernible borders.