My first queer relationship started on the toilet.
She was on the toilet, not me.
We were hanging out at a shopping center that featured a Jamba Juice, GameStop, Rubio’s, Rite Aid, and McDonalds. All the stores were positioned around or led to the movie theater, where most high schoolers worked. So, as a teen, pretty much everything you needed was in one place.
We went to the bathroom so she could pee. I had stolen a rose from the grocery store. I got down on one knee on the bathroom tile and asked her if she wanted to go on a date. She said yes. I don’t remember the date or what came of it.
My second queer relationship technically never ended. That one started in the jacuzzi. I know that the word “jacuzzi” automatically gives it a sexy vibe, but I promise you it was quite platonic.
For about one year in high school, I had a small group of friends who were very loyal, tight-knit, intimate, and funny. We called ourselves “The Family.” So, this relationship stemmed from that group. We were all hanging out in the jacuzzi one night, and somehow, it led to me and one other member being “girlfriend and girlfriend.” We may have kissed on the lips to seal the deal.
After that, I quickly went on a holiday with my family, and by the time I got back, we had both either forgotten or moved on to another subject. So, therefore, we never broke up. And even though we don’t talk anymore, that is my longest relationship.
I watched The L Word, I searched lesbian and queer sex scenes on YouTube, and I cut out photos of androgynous models in magazines. But I didn’t really think about it, and I didn’t question what I was. However, I did keep it to myself.
My first “real” queer relationship was in college. She didn’t think I was queer, and so when we kissed for the first time, she said, “mistake?” I laughed and replied, “Not a mistake.” I still remember where I was walking and the feeling in my chest when I realized how deeply I felt about her.
I consulted close friends and an old mentor about coming out to my mother. After a lot of reassurance, I did it. We were in a French restaurant on Clement Street in San Francisco. She asked me not to tell my dad or siblings and not to share it online. She said she couldn’t see evidence of it being true based on my childhood. She was disappointed I wouldn’t be able to have children. She was worried I would never get a good job. She asked me not to “look gay.”
I grieve for the relationship I had with my mother before this moment, and I grieve for the future that could have been. I spent the next ten years readjusting, untangling, setting boundaries, redefining self-reliance, learning to mask and dissociate, and working through the guilt, anger, and sadness. However, a part of me is stuck in the restaurant with my mother, and it impacts my queer identity, my role in my family, and my relationships.
Last week, I had a cathartic conversation with a friend about queer and bisexual visibility. We are both happily married to cismen but struggling to express and assert our queerness as we navigate the veneer of heteronormativity. The conversation was honest, loving, understanding, and validating.
June is pride month in Los Angeles, and all I’m trying to do is keep having conversations like that. Conversations that honor my identity and remind me that my baby gay self is safe, whole, loved, and never wrong.
