Who Would've Thought?

I grew up collecting My Little Ponies, playing Cinderella with my mom (who, at my behest, always played Prince Charming--God will bless her) and singing showtunes including "Think of Me" (which, by the way, I sang much, much better than What's-Her-Name Brightman) and anything recorded by Judy Garland, Julie Andrews or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

I watched the old, black and white Tarzan films with my father, inching closer to the t.v. to examine the intriguing yet unsettling bulge under Tarzan's loincloth.  I tended to gravitate toward friendships with girls rather than boys and preferred the swings, balance beams and gymnasts' bars to soccer, base- or foot- balls at recess.

I sported a New Kids on the Block backpack (I remember my cousin, McKenzie, sticking up for me while we waited in line for the school bus and some kid was making fun of me) and pink pajamas in first grade.

I was in love with The Little Mermaid (read: supah-crush on Prince Eric) and told my preschool teacher she needed a dress-up like this:

Needless to say, when I finally did come out about four years ago, nobody was surprised.

For a Boy I Remembered While Sitting in the Hospital with a Girl I Love

I hope this isn't too weird, but I was reminded of you tonight as I shared a hospital bed with a good friend of mine (hopefully, I've remembered it all correctly!). She is dying from liver failure due to years of intense alcoholism. I haven't seen her for quite a while and I was shocked at her condition. She doesn't look good, her eyes jaundiced and her skin fevered. She's experiencing a lot of pain. It was difficult to watch her and I, the healthy one, winced any time she moved. I wanted to do more, but I could only sit on the edge of her bed, talk, try to rub the ache out of her hands. I looped my fingers through hers, rubbed my index finger in the webs between her fingers, the ridges of her tight, hard knuckles, remembering how you did the same to mine one night in Ogunquit, ME.

Rubbing her palms, I told her that you were the first person I noticed that evening when I walked in the door of the Main Street Bar, that I thought you were exceptionally handsome, and that I didn't think I'd have ever get a chance to snag your attention. I told her how surprised I was when you appeared at my side to tell me you thought I had great hair and offer me a drink. She smiled when I explained that--caught so off guard by your flirting with me--I didn't know how to respond and fled. I bought my own drink, but I still watched you as you eyed the eye-candy and laughed with your friends.

I told her how later that night, accompanied by showtunes and power ballads, I saw you at the piano bar, uncertain about how I should respond to your attention. I shared with her the thoughts, the insecurities, the questions and the plans the prospect of you-in-that-night inspired. I told her you traced my hands with your fingers and said you thought I had beautiful eyes; I wasn't sure if I believed you, but I wanted to. I told her that while walking on the street to our friends' cars, you invited me to extend the evening at your place. I remember feeling flattered and happy and drunk and so goddamn inexperienced; I was a little scared about what you would've thought (or not thought) of my range of talent. Ever practical and responsible, I told you I didn't have a car and rehearsal would come bright and early the next morning.

She asked if I kissed you goodnight. I replied that although I really should have, I didn't. She asked if I saw you again. I told her we shared a few text messages, that I looked for you whenever I was in Ogunquit, that I have wished I could have seen you more often than not. She wanted to see a photo of you, so we looked you up on Facebook. I must admit, I agreed when she said she thought you were gorgeous. I told her that--still, how many months later?-- I regret the fact that I didn't go home with you. I wonder how, if I had, the paths on which we walk might be different. I told her that I wonder if you ever think of me and that I hope life is treating you well, bringing you some success and happiness.

And so, trying to avail her some bit of comfort, I rubbed my dying friend's hands and gave her something I find beautiful: the memories and dreams I made of you one summer night in Maine.