Seven Times I Came Out by:
Tai Farnsworth
1: I’m young. I have a boyfriend, as is the fashion. We like each other alright but there is always something missing. Always something wrong. He says that we’re puzzle pieces. I say that one of us is soggy from being left out in the rain or put in a toddler’s mouth. He laughs but I’m serious. I say we should go to a strip club. He says he’s worried I’ll fall in love with one of the strippers. I laugh but he’s serious. And on it goes. We meet his friends for someone’s birthday party at a bar. The bartender is gorgeous. She’s tall and fiery and wearing a corset that is doing all of us a kindness. I’m ordering a gin and tonic when the birthday bro plants himself next to me at the bar. “She’s hot,” he says. “She is,” I agree. “You should make out with her,” he says, “I think she’d like that.” “Well, I’m pretty sure my boyfriend wouldn’t.” “Nah, he’d like it for sure. Especially if you touched that rack of hers.” “You’re gross,” I say. “Yoooo it’s not gross to watch women make out for you,” he says. “I’m bi. It wouldn’t be for you guys. It would be for me. And I’d like it more than I like this.” 2: I’m at my parents’ house for the night. My mom’s at the gym. Dad’s watching HBO. Full Metal Jacket turned to Bring It On, which I’m fairly sure he has no interest in but my dad’s a very suffer-through kind of TV viewer. Too lazy to change the channel but not lazy enough to keep his mouth shut. Because of this particular viewing style, he’s probably seen this movie a few times. But he’s also a dozer, so he doesn’t really remember. Of course, Bring It On was one of my top ten teen movies. I have much of it memorized. Sure, Kirsten Dunst is a babe but I’m all about Eliza Dushku. When she flips off the observing cheerleaders while wiping the ink-drawn tattoo off her arm, I die a little. “She’s my future wife,” I say. My dad looks over his glasses at me for a second before sighing. “Oh,” he says. “I forgot you’re that way.” 3: It’s National Coming Out Day and I’m writing my Facebook post. My queerness won’t be a surprise to my parents or brother or close friends, but I’ve never told my extended family. I spend thirty minutes constructing a thoughtful update about my sexuality that ultimately reads like – Hey, bitches. It’s National Coming Out Day and I’m queer as hell. Then I spend another hour psyching myself up to actually post it. When I finally do the love pours in and I feel so blessed. I know I’m a lucky one. But the best response by far is from a cousin. A laugh react with the words - yeah. We all know. 4: My date and I want a beer flight. I’m more into darker, heavier stouts. They’re partial to a lighter beverage. We both like sweet potato fries and beet kale salads. Once all of our goods are in front of us, we relax and flirt a little. Touch hands to arms when we gesticulate, lean in at pivotal story moments. It’s only our second date but we’re queer so we almost live together by now, already looking for ways to enmesh our lives as quickly and complexly as possible before we fight and fuck through two years and then break up promptly over the phone. Once we finish eating, box up the leftovers, and start our third beers, we’re sitting quite close on the bench. I lean into their ear, tuck their hair easily into their baseball cap, and kiss the side of their neck. They swoon. I swoon. Some asshole at the table adjacent licks his lips with a wink. And I know with everything I am that if I was sitting next to a cis-man right now, there would be no lure in this asshole’s eyes. No desire on his tongue. No hunger in his bite.
