I can’t turn that into a witty anecdote, and I don’t think the powers that be would enjoy the comic diary of a sex-deprived advice columnist morphing into an afterschool special on bullying. Lawrence would have said so if that were the case. He’s not shy about his opinions.
Life is already full of sad stories like this. Where we struggle to overcome discrimination, but it gets better. Where we’re more likely to be attacked outside of bars—especially if we’re labeled transgender or belong to another minority—but it will get better. Even when the current political climate foments the type of hate that leads to life-threatening consequences for everyone we care about? Eventually it has to get better. If we stop believing that, then what’s the fucking point?
God help me, I’m starting to sound like my foster mother.
I’m supposed to help with the better bit. At least, that’s how I’ve always looked at what I do. I’m the walking, talking, silver lining product of what happens when things move in the right direction, and I try not to take that for granted.
I don’t need to hide my sexuality to gain acceptance or further my career. I don’t have to define it either. I’m not a bear, I’m not a twink, I’m not a queen, I’m just JD. Fitting into a particular slot in order to make other people comfortable is no longer required.
Being JD means I watch an unhealthy amount of television, obsess over college courses, paying my bills and the amount of sex I’m having—or not having—with other men. It means I work for an online publication where nearly every writer and editor connected to it is also a member of the LGBT community. It means I’m one of many. Average. And that’s the ultimate goal, right?
Despite the recent hiccups and backslides, the world has and will continue to change. For the better, because that’s the only direction we’ll allow it to go. I believe in that strongly. Passionately.
But right now I’m discovering that I might not be the social justice warrior Matilda tried to raise. Because I don’t want to talk about my bruises or the fact that them calling me fag while attacking me broke off a piece of my hard candy shell. And I don’t want to mention that reaching out to help a friend who’d been abused had backfired in such a shitastic way that it made me lose some faith in my gut instincts.
I just want to find something else to write about. So I’m working my way around my mental block. Brainstorming as I drink/eat/inhale my third float of the night.
I’d have guilt for days if I talked about my close encounters of the Finn kind after they’d taken my experience so seriously. So I can’t mention Brady and Ken’s chemistry, Wyatt’s crush or Fiona’s intel about the family’s public sex fetish.
I can’t even bring up my rescuer without sharing what he rescued me from, which would defeat the whole purpose of avoiding my sorry tale.
Or can I? I start typing without considering what I’m going to say.
I don’t want to tell you how bad my date was. I know I always give you every juicy, embarrassing detail, but you’ll have to trust me when I say you don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t know. In this case, ignorance is truly bliss.
What you do want to know is that right in the middle of (insert worse scenario imaginable), I was struck by lightning. For the sake of anonymity let’s call that lightning Zeus.
Now I have never been the kind of guy to buy into the Some Enchanted Evening scenario. Don’t know what I mean? Watch a damn musical. It won’t kill you or make you any gayer than you already are.
BTW, the musical we’re discussing today is South Pacific. Rent it or I’ll wash you right out of my hair and there’ll be no more happy talk. (Again, references you’ll get after you watch the movie)
Anyway, when I saw Zeus “across a crowded room” I did what any smart, sane, quasi-capable man would do in that same situation. I made like a Popsicle.
I froze.
There he stood, all my secret fantasies come to life and down from Olympus—even a few fantasies I didn’t know I had—and all I could do was stare at him like a hungry kid with his face pressed against the window of a closed candy store.
I had what some would call “a moment.” They happen all the time. Sometimes they’re moments you wish you could miss and they break your heart, but sometimes they’re like that. Like a damn musical. Like magic with a dash of Greek mythology and gay porn. When you find yourself in one of those moments, you have a choice to make. Do you run away from it? Do you wait for it to come to you? Or do you take a chance?