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.                                                                                                                                               

WHOSE ANNIVERSARY IS IT ANYWAY?

WARNING: Grumpy old-ish man post. 

Sometimes I know I shouldn’t but I do anyway…

 

 

 

I suppose public displays of affection have always been a struggle for me. My family is repressed and I spent my adolescence and college years in Texas during the late ’70s and the ’80s. Gay. Closeted. Any public expression of affection—words, actions, the slightest glance—was not within the realm of possibility. Affection itself, even in private, was not part of my world.

 

I hated Valentine’s Day. Still do…especially after this year. 

 

I think I’ve grown some. Seeing a couple hold hands as they take up the whole sidewalk is cute enough to keep my annoyance in check while stepping into the curb to pass them. They have a dog on a long leash and a baby stroller, too. Still holding hands. Kinda wow.

 

When it’s an older couple walking hand in hand, I’m even more touched. Maybe Martha and Richard are newly dating, having finally dumped their now-insignificant others, Henry and Betty, but I make the assumption they’ve been together fifty or sixty years. It makes the handholding more astonishing. Still connected, still loving each other, still able to amble about without compulsively checking phone screens to see the latest Facebook posts about grandchildren and Fran Hofstadler’s runner-up pickleball trophy.

 

Over the course of my relationships, I’ve learned to relax when a moment arises to hold hands, hug or even kiss in public. At first, it would only happen in the gay ghettos like West Hollywood and Vancouver’s Davie Street. Even then, there was an unspoken mutual agreement to let go if three or four straight-looking dudes approached. A hand felt nice, but the prospect of a punch made it prudent to create a bit of distance between us. Blame a strong survival instinct and a gut feeling I wouldn’t look so good with a broken nose. 

 

In my most recent relationship, open affection was more common and most welcome. Still, I would occasionally flinch. A reflex. I’d spent a lot of time in my past fretting over being gay bashed. I was subjected to verbal hate, enough to make me ever-aware someone might take things to another level. 

 

To be clear, physical touch is good. Let people be affectionate.

 

And you thought this would be a cranky post.

 

Ready…set…go!

 

PDA, okay. PPA, not so much.

 

What I don’t like are Publicized Pronouncements of Affection. On Valentine’s Day, why do people log into Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and every other social media account they have to post a photo of themselves as a couple or just a shot of their love bounty—a box of chocolates, some roses, maybe a new toaster oven? (Who am I to say what’s the right way to say, “I love you”? I am single, after all.)

 

I’ve said it many times…I don’t like obligatory expressions of love just because the calendar indicates it’s the 14^th of February. I also don’t like how the day feels like a flaunting fest, the Haves triumphant, the Have Nots sheltering in place, ordering Domino’s and watching Netflix in a lamplit living room. Definitely no candles! 

 

At least we Have Nots can anticipate all the love in the air. One day. A chance to binge-watch Project Runway or stream Ryan Reynolds movies. Maybe eat lunch in the car on the 15^th as people compete/share what their amazing lovers did for them. (“He kissed me and then asked me to make him a panini in the toaster oven!”) By the 20^th, the Have Nots can visualize roses wilting. Post a pic of that, people!

 

Valentine’s Day comes and, whew, goes.

 

It’s anniversaries that blindside me the rest of the year. I honestly don’t understand the public pronouncements about anniversaries. Maybe that’s rooted in lingering repression. Still, excepting silver and golden anniversaries, I always thought a wedding or relationship anniversary was intimate, something planned and shared for two. Dinner. Romance. Cards with beautiful words, handwritten rather than scribed by some guy in a corner cubicle at Hallmark headquarters. Thoughtful gifts that try to incorporate the year’s theme—paper (1^st), tin/aluminum (10^th, yeesh), steel (11^th). No toaster ovens allowed. 

 

So I don’t get the social media posts:

Happy 4^th anniversary to the love of my life who 

shows true love by watching all televised 

golf tournaments with me.

 

It’s our 32^nd! Through lies, affairs and that two-year 

stint I had to live in the garage, we’ve exemplified 

“for better or for worse.”

 

17 years ago, I met this man at a monster truck show. 

It’s been a passionate love of trucks, tatts and each 

other ever since.

 

Why? 

 

Does the tweet or Facebook post excuse forgetting a card (and a gift)? Does the fact the post got 253 likes, with an especially strong pro-anniversary contingent from Tennessee, make one’s partner swoon? Is this what we’re calling romantic in the social media era?

 

Again, I do not get it. Growing up, my siblings and I didn’t buy anniversary gifts or cards for our parents (except for their 50^th). We didn’t even say, “Happy anniversary!” It would have felt odd. It was theirs, not ours. I assume my parents exchanged the sentiment and did something. They didn’t make a spectacle of it. 

 

I truly like the idea of an anniversary being private and intimate. A table for two. A dessert for two. A celebration for two, with personal expressions of love, door closed. 

 

Why am I writing whining? Because it’s that “Mary Tyler Moore Show” song every single day, but in a bad way. Love Is All Around. 

 

Yes, every single day someone on social media gets to gloat. Still together! Still in love! How true or deep it is happens to be irrelevant. It’s the unwanted blast of another seemingly successful love story that adds to the sting that I have failed. Over and over again. Never a tin/aluminum gift; no steel. Silver is becoming remote according to actuarial tables and gold is impossible. 

It's not enough that I’m aware of all the anniversaries within my family—not necessarily the exact dates or number of years…thirty-something, almost twenty. Every day I’m blindsided by strangers. Ruth and Eddie together forever! (Sixty-five years is BEYOND forever.) Luke and Diego, 22 years! Sara and Samantha, 8!

 

Five times, I’ve been in love, but I never reached Sara and Samantha’s milestone. Gee, thanks for that daily reminder. Have your cake and eat it, too. Me, I’ll pull out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, no sharing, no “Can I have a taste?” 

 

No consolation.

 

  

A YODEL YANKED

One of the humbling parts of growing older is realizing I’m still growing up. We’re all a work in progress until the day we die. I just wish there weren’t quite so much work and quite so little progress in my case.

 

A week ago, I wrote about expressing my joy without inhibition, dancing to a Barry White song in my boyfriend’s bedroom. Harkening back to 1990s lingo and pre-prison Martha, it was a good thing, a fun way to wake up on a Sunday morning. 

 

This past Sunday, Evan and I set out for a day exploring Seattle’s less-gay-than-it-used-to-be Capitol Hill, first getting immediate seating at a hip brunch spot where the people ahead of us putting their names on the wait list were told it would be an hour and forty-five minutes. (At what point does brunch turn to dinner?) I figured the hostess had mistaken us for another table for two under the name “Evan,” but both she and Evan hushed me. There had been no mistake. Apparently, Evan’s friendliness and his always stand-out fashion choices paid off. As we sat down, I continued to attempt to process the privilege. Had that happened while lined up outside Arena when it first opened in West Hollywood in the early ’90s, I’d have soaked it up and considered it something akin to a Powerball win. Now, I only felt unworthy…and still very lucky to be in the company of my stylin’ stud.

 

From there, we checked out the don’t-help-me-if-I-get-lost Elliott Bay Book Company before drifting to the art exhibits at the Frye. Walking on, we crashed a Catholic mass to marvel at the grand church’s interior and to breathe in more incense than I would have liked (to be clear, I would have liked none) and then grabbed a cocktail at the Sorrento. 

 

All perfect. (Okay, the church stop still mystifies, but I’m a commendably compliant follower.) As we wandered our way back to the car, I mentioned writer Ross Gay whose Book of Delights I’ve been reading, one flash essay per day, for the past few months. The author had made a passing reference to “The Sound of Music,” a movie he hadn’t seen and indicated he would likely never see, no reason given. When I’d read it, I was aghast. Like it, feel lukewarm about it or outright hate it, who skips at least one viewing of the von Trapp tale? Then, I checked myself. Ross Gay is Black. “The Sound of Music” couldn’t be whiter with Julie Andrews, The Baroness, that “Do(e), a deer” song and the flowering alpine landscapes of Austria and Switzerland. Why would it be a must-see for him? 

 

As I shared my thoughts, Evan broke into singing “The Lonely Goatherd” in a pitch-perfect bass. It brought back foggy memories of a birthday party my parents hosted for me when I was young. With a hand-drawn set on construction board and a theatrical curtain apparatus, they performed scenes from “The Frog Prince,” maneuvering some borrowed marionettes (From where? It never entered my six-year-old mind. Magic just happens, right?)

 

Evan’s spontaneous serenading was just as magical. I never sing in front of him (or anyone), for good reason, and he has rarely sung anything around me. He sang because he was happy. We’d had a great day.

 

And then I ruined it.

 

As Evan yodel-ay-dee, yodel-ay-dee hoo’d with abandon, a man approached. I don’t recall how I did it, but I shushed Evan. Suddenly aware of our place in public, I imposed my long-ingrained reserved nature on him. I didn’t go well. Nor should it have. I’d taken a firehose and extinguished his joy. 

 

Since then, I’ve tried to figure out why I reacted as I did. Part of it is about how I grew up being gay and part of it is more generally about my upbringing. Despite the fact this is 2023 and I first came out thirty-eight years ago—though that process went on for years with a series of one-on-one announcements that were only dramatic reveals in my mind—I still have moments of wariness about being seen as unmistakably gay in public. Here Evan and I were, walking closely, perhaps even holding hands, with Evan singing the goat song from “The Sound of Music.” To the approaching man, there could have been no doubt we were a gay couple. 

 

Too often, I still feel the compulsion to tone down my identify. I don’t seek to fully mask it as I did in my teens, but the shame and the sense my gayness makes others feel disgust or general discomfort causes me to pivot. Make it harmless, unthreatening. Do nothing to incite homophobic hate. Having the approaching stranger mutter, “Faggots” as he passed would have ruined the moment. To my knowledge, the man did nothing to hint that he’d yell at us, spit in our faces or punch us. Indeed, I didn’t dare make eye contact. I seem to have adopted meekness as a survival mechanism. Despite a grand month of staged Pride each year, I still struggle to be proud. It’s there, but it’s fleeting. 

 

On the more general, non-gay front, I grew up in a Canadian family where standing out was some sort of infraction. My English grandmother believed everything had to be proper, even with respect to how she had teatime with the family dog. My father never asked for help with anything. Such would be a jarring imposition. Restraint was the encouraged mode of being. Rules about when we could have a mint from the candy dish (by invitation only) and how many cookies constituted dessert (never more than two) could never be broken. It’s not that there were dire consequences. My siblings and I just did what we were told. (Sometimes being a compliant follower can be troubling.) 

 

I only have to observe my brother and sister as adults to confirm how I was raised. Neither speaks unless spoken to. My sister mumbles at best, eye contact fleeting. I can’t even describe my brother’s way of conversing. From what I recall, he only talks when my sister-in-law cues him. His words seem to disappear as they mix with the air. Both my siblings married outgoing, chatty spouses who serve as the wedded spokespersons. 

 

I could elaborate, but that little share seems depressing and messed up enough. The takeaway is that I need to focus more on breaking from my past. Maybe my next bedroom dance session will be to a certain Taylor Swift song. If only giving myself a shake did the trick. I may become more aware of my excess of reserve, but I’m not sure how to cut it off or redirect it when it’s instilled in me, its presence showing up as an automatic reflex. 

 

I hope another time will come when Evan will feel inspired to serenade me with a silly song. Let my nature not get in the way of a spontaneous yodel-ay-dee ho. Let his joy become my joy.

 

 

 

  

BELLS AREN'T RINGING

As per my last post, it should be no surprise that I didn’t remember a so-so date from at least six years ago with Mr. Ten-Year-Old Photos. That guy seems stuck in the past, but I typically have only fuzzy recollections of things that have brought me to where I am today. It amazes me when someone writes a memoir detailing not just decade-old conversations, but the color of their date’s socks and the patterns of drapes in the hallway they momentarily passed through. Good god. Embellish much?

 

Really, why would a so-so date linger? My brain has to be brutally selective in what it holds onto because I can’t go freeing up space by chucking random facts I yell at the TV while watching “Jeopardy,” even if such “facts” regularly put me in negative territory. I didn’t want to play Final Jeopardy anyway! (“I’ll take Sore Losers for $1,000, Alex.[1]”)  

 

As I searched “Victoria” on my blog for any mention of Mr. So-So, other posts came up. Pre-COVID, I went to Victoria a couple times a year. I skimmed but didn’t feel like reading them since that wasn’t my purpose. But then I came upon a December 2014 coffee date with another guy, Saul, who’d just moved to Vancouver from Victoria. 

 

Now THAT was a coffee date! 

 

There was something adorable about Saul. I could tell from what I’d written that we’d clicked. The coffee date continued and evolved into dinner and, during dinner, “I reached my hand across the table and held his.”

 

WHAT?! 

 

I like physical affection, but it’s hard for me to do in public. Maybe things would have been different if I’d made a habit of that early on, but my high school years in East Texas didn’t involve dating a girl, exchanging class rings, letting her wear my letter jacket and fawning all over each other in the courtyard like everyone else seemed to do as a rite of passage. Later, after escaping Texas, I still feared I’d be gay-bashed if I held hands with a guy or so much as pinkie-swapped. For me to take initiative and hold a guy’s hand—ON A FIRST DATE!—well, I’m glad I wrote that down because otherwise I’d say that could never have happened. Pure fabrication like the pattern of those hallway drapes from yesteryear.

 

And that’s the thing. Did it happen? 

 

Not just the hand holding but the entire first date. Logically, I know it did. I could never have made up that date. I’d have never put in the hand holding moment because I would have known it defied credibility. Fictional me would have to be something like me; otherwise, I’d just post shirtless shots of Matt Bomer, saying I’m his doppelganger and writing about my orgies with at least five of People magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive. (I’d uses aliases, of course. Names like, oh…Bryan Reynolds and Huey Rackman and Ritchie Gear.[2])

 

I LOVED rereading the account of my delightful date with Saul, but I don’t remember anything at all about that. Being as it was a hand-holding first date, it should be in my personal dating Hall of Fame. (What a sad hall of fame that would be. Most definitely not a hall; more appropriately, the back corner of a shelf, perhaps in my fridge beside that four-year-old jar of sauerkraut.) 

 

What makes recalling Saul more challenging beyond that fact I seem to have a generally faulty memory—I’ll admit to now feeling a tad panicky—is that I never use people’s actual names when I blog. Just like with “Huey Rackman,” I don’t get ridiculous about it. These aren’t Russian spies I’m writing about. (Not knowingly, anyway.) I don’t rename George as Bubba and I don’t rechristen Al as Engelbert.[3] Usually, the name I use rhymes or begins with the same first letter but, in this case, “Paul” didn’t ring any bells either. U-Haul?! (No parent would be that cruel, even if that’s where the kid was conceived.) Running through the list of “S” list from Sacha to Sylvester got me nowhere.[4] Not Saul but…

 

Stumped.

 

I read subsequent blog posts. I needed Saul, Part 2. Saul cannot be a one-date guy.

 

But he was. 

 

He got a mention two weeks later when I wrote, “Despite a good start, I expect nothing more to come of it. The occasional message becomes more detached. I’m not as interested and, no doubt, neither is he.” These are saving face words. You can’t fire me; I quit. Sure, if you say so.

 

I don’t know if I was crestfallen then, but I am now. He wasn’t “the one that got away,” but he was certainly one that got away. Perhaps I knew it at the time. Perhaps repressed memory was my best way of coping.

 

---

[1] RIP, Mr. Trebek, in my mind, the one and only host.

[2] Blake Shelton? Seriously?! 2017 was unlucky enough to host Trump’s inauguration. “Sexy” Blake adds insult to injury. 2017 is still waiting on that retraction, People.

[3] Makes me think of all those celebrities who thought they had to change their names for a shot at becoming famous, e.g., Marilyn Monroe, née Norma Jean Mortenson; Rock Hudson, née Roy Harold Scherer, Jr.; Elmo née Red Sock. (I made up that last one just to see if anyone other than me reads footnotes.) Seriously, if Engelbert Humperdink can have a successful music career, there are no name barriers, unless your sadist parents have a certain last name and put “Adolf, Jr.” on your birth certificate.

[4] If anyone knows a decent single gay guy named Shaw, shoot me an email. I would DEFINITELY hold hands with a guy named Shaw on a first date. If he let me. 

GOING PUBLIC

I despise public displays of affection. They are obnoxious. Too in your face. Evidence of excessive clinginess. Keep your hands in your pockets. Wave or wink if you must. Or how about a good, old-fashioned round of Patty-cake (followed, of course, by sharing some antibacterial gel)? Beyond that, yes, get a room.

And…exhale. It feels good to get that out.

Why no PDAs? Show some self-control, folks. Let all that desire build up to create something combustible once you get behind closed doors. If you can think beyond your own saccharine love bubble, realize that there are many single folks who don’t want reminders of what they’re missing. What’s more, bystanders deserve to be spared that awkwardness from suddenly having to stare at their shoelaces on those rare occasions when things get lewd. Don’t make others feel like involuntary Peeping Toms.

No public displays of affection, please. None! I am firm on this.

Even when in relationships, I’ve never had to put my partner in place. It’s just been understood. We followed the Safety Code for gay men. Stand at least six inches apart, no kissing, hand holding or hugging (unless you do a 360 check and are certain there are no witnesses, thus nixing the “public” from the pending display of affection). Any urge to get a little touchy has always been smothered by a more common sense yearning for self-preservation. Why risk a gay bashing? Refraining from PDA was never mentioned when people talked of safe sex. I assume it was a given.

But I am prepared to make an exception. Because it is convenient. When it comes to Tim, by golly, I will even participate. No apologies.

I am such a hypocrite.

Tim has a clear sense of how reserved I am. Touching—public or otherwise—has always made me uncomfortable. I’d rather be locked it a classroom and subjected to an hour of nails on the chalkboard than submit to a massage. I haven’t seen any purpose in hand holding since my parents determined I was old enough to cross the street on my own. Draping an arm over another’s shoulder just makes the recipient sweaty and gives the one offering a shoulder cramp. Blech. None of this is romantic.

Except…

Tim can be as publicly affectionate as he wishes. I welcome it. On our last date, as we walked down Denman Street in Vancouver’s gay-friendly West End, we’d stop and suddenly Tim would hug me. Long embrace. “I’m going to take you out of your comfort zone,” he whispered as I reflexively pulled back. Then I managed to relax and say, “Please do.”

He’d kiss me on the lips and I stayed in the moment. No urgent, paranoid safety checks. No worries about a swarming or a muttered, “Faggots.” Times have changed and, yes, I am changing.

I feel Tim’s strength, his warmth and his affection in these moments. As we stood beside his car at the end of another lovely evening during which the conversation never lagged, we laughed freely and I kept thinking, He gets me. (And he’s still here!). I lost my ability to speak in full sentences. “I just want…I need…I am wondering…” He mercifully interrupted me with a flash of his dazzling smile and said, “Yes. I like you.” Out of a sense of both relief and glee, I dropped to the ground, laughing.

It’s not just me. It’s not just me.

He hugged me. He kissed me. Somehow, I exuded cuteness, mixed with my natural geekiness. He even said, “Sexy.” I should really question his judgment. But I’d rather go for another hug and kiss. Who cares who else is around?!

It’s one exceptional exception.

And I just may let up for others—as long as this lasts.