Tai Farnsworth

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.

5: My neighborhood is a drag for the unfamiliar as far as navigation goes. My Lyft ETA is always off by ten minutes because the drivers get lost when their GPS drops off. Basically a lane and a half with parked cars on one side and the mountain or houses on another, everyone’s pissed when they show up from the constant switchbacks. Tonight, Darnell is only five minutes late and that’s honestly a blessing. I get in. “Hi. Sorry I’m late. My GPS isn’t working up here. Can I just turn around or is there a better way to the main street?” he asks. “I’ll direct you.” And I do. Once we’re at the bottom, I give a small yawn. “Are you headed out or headed home?” “Out,” I say. “Better stop with that yawning,” he says. “You’re telling me.” We make small talk about how long he’s been driving. His brother’s work as a longshoreman. The different playlists he has for each passenger. It’s pleasant. Definitely worthy of the “Friendly Conversation” check mark when I rate him. “You have a boyfriend?” he asks. I laugh before I can stop myself. “No. I’m super gay.” “Oh,” he says. The rest of our trip is quiet except for a Frank Ocean playlist in the background. 6: The waiting room at the radiologist is mostly empty. All the way on the other side, underneath the TV playing old episodes of Maury, there’s a teenage boy by himself. Next to him is a pair of crutches but he doesn’t seem particularly distressed. They call my name and I stand, slowly. My knees have always been a bit of a shit show. Congenital issues that seem basically unidentifiable have plagued me since childhood. A few weeks ago they completely stopped working. I’m hobbling and in pain and nearly defeated. The radiologist, an older woman who smells vaguely of roses, directs me to the wall, showing me where she’ll have me stand. “Is there any chance you’re pregnant?” she asks. “No,” I say. “You know,” she looks at me like she’s about to confide in me some great secret, “the only true way to prevent pregnancy is abstinence.” She gives me a slight nod. The woman in the booth behind her rolls her eyes almost into her hijab. I don’t know what it is about me that suggests I’m unsure how to prevent pregnancy, but I’ve had this conversation with my dentist and an ER nurse, as well. “Or being very gay,” I say, smiling through my knee pain.

7: I’m older. I’ve given up dating cis men. My closest friend and I are out for dinner at a far too expensive, mediocre restaurant that’s centered in the gay scene. It’s a sappy dinner that fills me with drinks and joy. On our way out, I realize it’s ladies night at the ancillary space. There’s a woman standing at the bar who I’ve seen multiple times on the apps. I’ve always thought she was cute and now here she is, a vision before me. My friend insists I should talk to her while he waits outside. At the bar I order my fourth gin and tonic, which is too many gin and tonics. My game plan is strong continued eye contact until she caves and asks me to move in with her. But then I overhear her telling someone she only dates women who are older than she is and white. I swallow my drink and my dreams in three large gulps and stumble out of the bar. The night devolves from there and it’s not long till I’m making out with a bouncer at a bar up the street. His name is Bartholomew or Cuthbertson. Something regal. He plays the saxophone or the trumpet. Something jazzy. We talk about our locs and Los Angeles and every time we kiss I say I never do this into his mouth. But four gin and tonics are convincing and that woman hurt my spirit. The next day Bartholomew Cuthbertson Thaddeus the Third texts me many nice things. “You’re sweet,” I write, “but I don’t do this.” “You said that last night. But you acted differently.” “I’m gay,” I text. “Well, not too gay to make out with me. I want to get to know you.” “Okay, well, I’m queer,” I say. “What does that mean?” I feel his exasperation through the screen. “It means I’m bisexual but homoromantic.” “The fuck,” he says. “It means we can kiss but I won’t date you because you’re a cis man and that won’t ever make me feel like me. I’ll always be missing something. I’ll always be wanting. We’ll always be soggy puzzle pieces. Because I am only fully myself when I’m gay. I’m only ever really me, my most authentic self, my most full bloom, when I’ve come out.”

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