OK with PDA

I’m sixty but I’m still working on perfecting some moves I should have figured out in high school. 

 

My family moved from Ontario, Canada to East Texas just before the start of my tenth grade year. To say I experienced culture shock is an understatement. The social scene seemed to be on steroids. It was expected that students participate in sports, clubs and dating. Only weeks into the school year, I began feeling the pressure to ask a girl out, if not to one of the Friday dances that followed every home football game, then most certainly to the homecoming game and dance. 

 

Egad! Bigger but not
better homecoming
corsages in Texas.

The notion of a homecoming game in high school seemed particularly ludicrous.  Did people really return for a fall football game after graduating? (I think the answer may have been yes, but I had enough to focus on just trying to keep up with expectations for sophomores.) Let me offer what should be an obvious reveal: I did not get a date for the homecoming game in tenth grade; same for eleventh; and twelfth. I may have earned straight As in classes, but I failed where it truly counted. 

 

So no homecoming dates. No dates, in general. No “going together.” No exchanging class rings. No letting a girl wear my letter jacket. I did land a prom date after a couple of rejections, but we didn’t even last for the entire prom much less the after-parties (that I wasn’t invited to). 

 

Somehow I survived high school. And, no surprise, I’ve never returned for a homecoming game or any of the reunions. Just glad all that’s in the past. 

 

Even if being gay had been a thing back then—it most certainly wasn’t; NO ONE in my graduating class of 350 students was any form of queer—I would not have been dating. I was two years younger than my classmates, extremely introverted and blissfully immature.

 

The fact I never dated meant I never held hands with anyone in the cafeteria during lunch. I never sat on one of the benches in the school courtyard, my body pressed up against someone else like we’d had a Super Glue accident. I did not get caught kissing beside the smoking pit. I demonstrated no public displays of affection (PDAs). My roll-on deodorant would never have held up to that kind of test. Pit stains would have spread to soak my entire Izod shirt. 

 

When dating finally began many years later and far beyond East Texas (in Los Angeles), I still didn’t engage in much PDA. Dancing in the gay bars was always to fast-paced songs like “Vogue” or “Escapade” so the only touching on the darkened dance floor involved the occasional grope from a complete stranger. (The dim lighting hid my red face.) Between songs, our hands usually stayed apart, at our sides. Our lips only made contact with our drinks. The most public gesture between us tended to be eye contact which was hard enough to sustain. 

 

Outside of the clubs, the chance of PDA was even less. Whether we were spilling out of a club on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood or Davie Street in Vancouver, my boyfriend of the moment (moments albeit few and far between) seldom held hands, walked arm in arm, hugged or—gasp—kissed. I knew we liked or loved each other. I told myself we didn’t have any need to convey this to passing strangers. Public displays of affection were for the needy and the desperate. 

 

Look at us!

We’re SO MUCH in love! Can’t you tell?

 

Really, who needed to extend all that showiness of high school? Rings. Letter jackets. Clinginess.

 

A bigger factor in my restraint, I’d like to believe, was safety. Even in the gay zones, or perhaps especially in them, there was always a chance some straight guy or guys would react negatively to two men holding hands or—puke—kissing. Just walking by myself or with gay friends, I’d experienced plenty of drive-bys, windows rolled down, someone yelling, “FAGGOT!” or “DIE, QUEERS!” We knew not to laugh. Often, the shameful—shamed—response was to pretend nothing had just happened. Keep walking. Try to continue the conversation. And subtly scan the area to ensure witnesses were present in case the car looped around the block for round two, whatever that might look and sound like.

 

Maybe I should have gone to Pride parades more often whenever I was partnered. Generally, I figured I didn’t need to go under such circumstances. I had a boyfriend. Why not go for a hike, a weekend road trip or go to the nursery in pursuit of shade-loving perennials? Why stand in a crowd under the hot sun, craning our necks to clap for the gay swim team (in Speedos!) or the float with water bottle-toting go-go boys (in thongs!) throwing free condoms in our faces?

 

What I failed to consider was the fact these crowds were practice fields for PDA. Hand-holding, hugging and kissing didn’t carry any sense of danger when we were immersed in blocks and blocks of thousands of queers and allies. 

 

Hold my hand.

Hug me.

Kiss me.

Drape your arms around me.

 

We are SO MUCH in love…and this is a place to express that. Joy!

 

With most of my long-term boyfriends, we did find moments in public to show our affection. And, yes, I imagine it might have felt like tenth grade. Oh! My! God! We are holding hands! Still, these moments were few. Even more so, they were brief. The giddiness was more often expressed in my mind as, We were holding hands. Past tense always came quickly. 

 

Then along came Evan…

 

Evan is not an in-the-shadows guy, not in any environment. He has a distinct style. He always gets noticed based on what he’s wearing. Holding my hand is just something extra. And, yes, he considers it extra special.

 

I can learn from Evan. I do learn from him. 

 

On our first date, we sat opposite one another in a booth at a Mexican restaurant, sharing stories, laughing aplenty and feeling an undeniable attraction. At some point, he got up to use the restroom or grab us another margarita and, when he returned, he scooted into my side of the booth. 

 

Yes, two men sitting on one side of a booth, the other side empty. That definitely said something. For that evening, World, we were together. For longer than that? Hopefully.

 

Sitting there, side by side, that was our first clear PDA. One hour into knowing one another. This relationship would be different…if I allowed it to be.

 

Three years later, I am still a work in progress when it comes to public displays of affection. The whole reason for PDA is different from high school. In adolescence, there is a desperate need to be noticed in the right ways. I’m dating. I’m cool. I’m not going through this angst-filled developmental stage alone. I’ve got me someone. Whew.

 

The PDA between Evan and me is not “Get a room” PDA. It’s tasteful and loving, that’s all. If there is anything performative about PDA now with us, it’s more a celebration of progress made, not as a couple but as part of a movement toward normalizing gay relationships. Some straight couples rarely show affection; some regularly do. Same for gay couples now. 

 

More than that, the physical affection is for our own sake. We happen to be a couple that likes physical closeness. Evan initiates far more often than I do. There have been times when I have flinched…regrettably. We both read certain environments as potentially unsafe. I happen to have a broader concept of unsafe than him so my flinching or all-out pulling away is jarring to Evan. My mistake, perhaps. I do want us to make it home unscathed at the end of each day. My realm of the unsafe is shrinking. We have each other. We love each other.

 

Of course, we should be able to hold hands when we want. Same for sharing a hug. Same for a kiss. Our PDA is becoming more spontaneous. It’s genuine affection. It’s between us. It’s for us. Thankfully, it just feels right.