When I Learned I Love Different Pt. II
My goal one day is to put this all into a TV series.
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TW: Sexist and homophobic language. Part 2 in a series. You can read part 1 here.
I entered High School wondering two things: how I would ever get my first kiss and wtf is ‘please factor these trinomials.’
We didn’t exactly get to trinomials at PS95. Algebra was finding X, finding Leo who skipped class, and listening to Cosby standup CDs with Rudy on the low after we finished our classwork.
And with that elusive kiss, I wondered if the kind of mutual affection I briefly experienced in middle school was a once in a century blip, like the 2004 Red Sox winning the WS, ending an 86 year drought. Turns out neither was—both fortunately and unfortunately.
Also unfortunate was that, physicality is such a big aspect of masculinity, and much of mine was out of my control.
I was born with a Growth Hormone Deficiency and never got the medicine in time. My bones set before it could make an impact, as the timing of GHD treatment is the only way for it to work, as it did for someone like Leonel Messi.
But when I entered HSMSE as a freshman, and finally started treatment, there was slight window of opportunity left where I might be able to grow. Every visit to the endocrinologist usually would be after a x-ray of my hand, where the doctor would say: ‘I don’t see growth, again.’ Then I would hate my mf hands. A mental association that would last for years when I would look at them. These were struggles almost no one knew nor really cared about during this pivotal time in boys’ life and development.
I was going through all this while I watched boys around me grow seemingly over winter break. And always to a chorus of “he got cuter” or “he’s really maturing” upon their return—as said newly mature boys played unsolicited butt tag and called anything they didn’t like: ‘gay.’ A direct correlation between appearance and acceptance that was hard to ignore.
But this frame was the equipment I was gonna be stuck with. As was the case in middle school, I knew I had to work with what I got.
And I did do my best. Fast forwarding to Senior Year that meant doing much better in school and dating Alice. But my lack of connection to a man’s place in ‘traditional’ heterosexual relationships would only be challenged further.
I would always wait a long time for Alice. I would literally wait on the ground floor of her building until she was ready to open the door, leaning against wall and periodically checking my LG Xenon. I knew a lot of this had to do with mental health struggles she told me she was suffering from, so I always tried to afford her grace. I empathized, too. I figured at this point, in addition to my medical condition, I had some form of undiagnosed clinical depression, anyway.
This time, I thought I might as well read Freakonomics while I wait. I actually enjoyed the book, which was assigned for Senior Statistics class. While I was reading the passage about fast food franchises being comparable to most drug dealer operations, the friendly neighborhood drug dealer, who Alice previously made me aware of, interrupted me.
“Hey lil bro,” he said about a foot away from where I was standing against the wall.
“Yo,” I replied, keeping my cool. I closed Freakonomics.
“Yo I seen you out here waiting for her; lemme show you how to break in.”
I would expect his line of business did require a keen eye, no surprise he picked up on this pattern.
“Nah,” I calmly said, I’ll give her time if she still getting ready.”
“Oh nah, I just meant the entrance so at least you can get in from there and not wait for her to buzz”
I figured he was tryna be nice in his own way, albeit through a clear example of blatant relationship boundary-crossing that usually starts the Netflix doc, but I obliged and followed him to the entrance. An NYC pro tip: gotta choose your battles.
“You just gotta pick it here with something” he said, taking some small metal object out of his pocket and wedging it between the lock and doorframe to the entrance space of your typical NYC 5-story-with-no-elevator building.
“Thanks,” I said as the entrance door opened. “No problem bro, you smoke?”
He took out a dime bag of weed. I thought it was probably good to set my own boundaries now.
“Nah, I don’t, but thank you.”
Gave dap and left.
A few minutes later Alice answered the door in just a towel.
We hadn’t had sex yet. Alice and I met through MySpace a few weeks ago—she messaged me saying I looked like vampire crush of the week, Edward Cullen (only time I was thankful for that mf book). I messaged her saying she look like the Dominican version of George Lopez‘s daughter on his show. I got her screenname and we talked on AIM deep into the night. Then, I got her number, made her a cute card on folded looseleaf asking me to be her boyfriend (with a dumbass multiple choice response), and the rest was end-of-Bush-Era history.
When she opened the door in such minimal attire, I thought: “iight, looks like it’s go-time.” I grabbed the towel at her chest, and asked if she wanted company; she laughed and said she’d keep showering on her own.
So, I just sat on the couch and watched the Yankee game.
A few minutes later, I heard the door to the bathroom open.
“So you’re just going to sit there on the couch and watch the game?”
“Yes, you said you wanted to keep showering.”
“Ok.”
The door closed.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened again.
“So you’re just going to sit there on the couch and watch the game?”
I felt like I had deja vu. I had to check to make sure the game didn’t go backwards too.
“Like I said, you wanted to keep showering, so ima just chill here.”
“Ok” the door closed.
Minutes went by. Brett Gardner tries to bunt to no avail. I yell at the TV. Joe Girardi’s head falls in despair. The door opens a third time.
“So you’re just gonna sit there and watch the game?”
Now, I know someone bunted, so time did, in fact, not stand still.
“Yeah!” I said, now frustrated.
Then it’s like a cartoon lightbulb popped over my head.
“Unless, now you want me to join you!”
My lil 18 yr old ass scuttles to the bathroom and tries to open the door, but this mf pushes back. This lady is deadass laughing.
Then I push back. And then I realize: this is an old BX building and this door could easily break. This aint even my house. This her stepmom house. If this door breaks—it’s no more Yankee games. Only TV in gen pop.
So I go back to the damn couch and watch these Yankees lose. When, she finally joins me on said couch, her stepmom comes home—right when I was tryna understand how she fit all that in them jeans. Then, she said quietly to me: “you should have been more aggressive; I would have let you do anything.”
I told Alice how that sounds batshit insane and she should not play these mf games with me. Granted, I was also internally frustrated that I had to wait a half hour, was perhaps, to a bored NYPD unit, an accomplice to a B&E *allegedly* to appease a drug dealer *allegedly,* and just watched the Yankees blow multiple chances with runners in scoring position—only to hear her bs.
A month and a half later Alice and I would breakup, and I would be left with no prom date and with two prom tickets.
I tell the squad about this escapade. In person, because back when we had phones like Xenons at 3.5 pixels and 1.5g data, the groupchat wasn’t as much of a thing.
The boys said I shoulda forced my way in.
“Bitches love playing them games.” Billie said.
“Ah?!” Rodrigo scoffed in his classic high-pitched expression of disbelief. Flummoxed at the prospect of his boy leaving pussy on the table.
Incredulous at their response, I posited: “So it’s better I risk incarceration than this mf making up her damn mind to use her words and tell me what she want in our Lord and Michelle Obama’s year of 2009?”
“Yes.” They said in unison.
Marwin, who barely says much in heated bro debate, decided this is the time to chime in: “Yeah, I woulda done it, too.” Thanks, Marwin.
I was getting tired of the pre-Bro Rogan groupthink.
“Motherfuckers, I pipe when it’s ripe.” They laughed; using humor was the only way I could muster up all these feelings and communicate with other men.
I realized I just wasn’t about that life. I shouldn’t have to risk breaking doors or decode ‘no’s’ or un-affirmative responses to sex in order to have it and enjoy it. And with the consequences of getting such a ‘game’ wrong being so grave—making a whole mf person feel violated—some mixed messages just aint worth unmixing.
To be continued in part 2.1.