The one thing that had kept me pushing during my winter journey across two states to see my first boyfriend, Steven, was knowing that when we reunited in Fargo, North Dakota, I’d be welcomed by his embrace. It was supposed to be the kind of magical, life-affirming moment that is immortalized by poets, songwriters and painters, oft depicted with a foliage of clouds parting, a single ray of golden sun alighting solely on us two homos. The trip certainly wasn’t supposed to end in his university’s underground cafeteria.
Reaching Steven had been a veritable John Hughes movie. It involved watching my mom’s car engine catch fire, waiting three hours in the snow in the frigid night for a tow truck, and having to get two friends to drive a combined seven hours to pick me up. I finally arrived at Steven’s apartment at 3 a.m. a day and a half after embarking on the journey, slinking into bed without waking him up.
When I awoke, he had already left for his job at the cafeteria, so I went to meet him after his shift. Steven, still covered in grease, sat across from me at a folding table and said, “I want to break up.”
“Why?”
“All the things you did to get here … I realized I would have never put that much effort into seeing you.”
I was crushed. I tried to get him to reconsider but he wouldn’t. I ended up spending the remainder of the trip on the couch of Steven’s roommate’s girlfriend, a woman I had only met twice before, to whom I cried ad nauseam while she tried to comfort me with Doctor Who and doughnuts.
A decade prior to this rejection, I was in sixth grade, the year I hid from the world and spent half my schooldays “sick” at home repeatedly watching Shrek 2 and the second Austin Powers movie (apparently I had an affinity for Mike Myers sequels). That train called puberty had careened into me and I’d realized I was gay. I was already on the autism spectrum and a peerless nerd (inevitable, since my dad could lead a lecture on the Force and deliver phrases in perfect Klingon). Mixed with my homosexuality, it was as if I had won the bad-at-fitting-in lottery. Hiding in my room seemed like the only way I could ensure no one found out just how much of a misfit I was.
In seventh grade, I managed to befriend two other boys, David and Jon. David was prone to ranting about how Final Fantasy IX was better than VII or why Star Trek: Voyager was the best show, and Jon was content to listen to these rants, only interjecting to offer his assent. It was this passion for nerdery that drew me to the two of them.
There was something else about David that made me seek him out. Maybe it was his affectations when he spoke, his wrist flicks or his deft hand at steering conversations away from masturbation or girls. Maybe it was my latent gaydar pinging off him. Regardless, I could tell that David was gay too.
During the summer between seventh and eighth grade, I acted on this suspicion.
David and I were eating chips at my kitchen counter and he was complaining about how hot it was when he got up and went to my refrigerator. He dispensed five slivers of ice into his hand before putting them down the back of his shirt, sighing in relief.
“Oh, smart!” I said as I imitated him. Then I had an idea that seemed brilliant to a horny 13-year-old. “Wait, what about this?” I stood in front of the black plastic doors of the refrigerator and held open the elastic bands of my shorts and underwear, allowing him to see my penis. When I saw him angle his head to get a better view I started to become aroused and quickly pushed the button to dispense the ice down my shorts. He goaded me into repeating this twice more, and I was keen to flash him again.
After the third time, David said we should go watch The Lord of the Rings, and I acquiesced, figuratively and literally blue-balled.
Given David’s lack of response, I assumed nothing would come of that icy incident until two weeks into the school year when he and Jon asked to talk to me at lunch. They took me to a locker-lined hallway. When we were alone, David said, “We don’t think you’ve been nice enough to us.” Jon nodded in agreement.
“What?” I was sincerely confused.
“You haven’t been nice enough to us, and if you don’t start being nicer we’re gonna tell the whole school how you hit on me this summer,” said David.
My stomach lurched as my cheeks blazed. I looked to the two of them to see if this was a joke, but they just stared back, their gazes unflinching.
“Okay. I’ll be nicer.” In that moment, I would have said anything to buy their silence.
Satisfied, they walked me back to the cafeteria, one on either side of me, as if I were a prisoner they were escorting.
I spent the rest of middle and high school in David and Jon’s orbit, afraid if I drifted too far, they’d reveal what I had done.
Even after I came out at 17 on Facebook (which in 2006 was the most official way to announce anything), I was still terrified of them. I wasn’t ashamed of my homosexuality, but ashamed that I had attempted to flirt with David at all; embarrassed that I had trusted someone who was so willing to hurt me.
When I was introduced to Steven by a mutual friend in college, I was just as desperate for his love. And just like with David, this affection was woefully one-sided. After our breakup, I felt hopeless, not only because I had been hurt again but because I hadn’t had any inkling that it would be done so thoroughly. Between both experiences, I feared I’d let my desire for affection blind me to others’ feelings, like I was destined to perpetually be rejected and hurt by the people I trusted most.
In my mid-30s I started attending a queer board game night in Seattle, where I had moved half a decade prior. My goal was twofold:
- Make friends
- Crush people at board games
These nights were hosted at Optimism, a since-shuttered brewery known for its bad beer and its capacity to hold many, many geeks. The first time I attended, I brought homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I approached a table with five other guys and stammered, “Can I sit here?”
One of them gestured next to him. “Sure! Are those cookies?”
As simply as that I had found what would evolve into the friend group that I jokingly called “the Gregulars.”
Yassir and Topher were two Gregulars. Yassir was the kind of man who was always overly emotive, whether he was exclaiming, “Oh, I love that!” or waving his hand and saying, “Pft, whatever.” Topher, his partner, had a slight southern twang and a penchant for saying “y’all.” He was a font of patience, and nothing exemplified this more than when Yassir got frustrated with complicated game rules and needed help.
I would look forward to seeing the two of them most of all, and to hearing Yassir greet me with “Hey, habibi.”
So, of course, I fell for both of them.
I imagined a very weird future for us, where I’d introduce my triad (and likely the concept of triads) to my parents. We’d travel, play games and eat good food while they peppered me with kind words and “habibis.”
Months into my infatuation, I asked if I could walk them to the light rail station after board game night. We chatted about comics and anime while I steeled myself, determined to confess my feelings. Topher must have sensed my trepidation, because after saying their goodbyes he asked me, “Are you doing all right?”
“Well … I’ve been having some problems.” I had practised this admission a hundred times, yet my heart still pounded so loudly I couldn’t hear the din of the neighbourhood around me.
“Oh? What’s wrong?”
“One of the problems is about you two. I …” It was difficult to speak with how much my teeth were chattering. “I have feelings for both of you.”
Yassir was shocked to hear this, but Topher admitted he had known. They explained that while they were both attracted to me, they weren’t interested in polyamory.
“One question looped its way through my mind ad nauseam: How come every time I pursue people, I end up getting hurt?”
It was the nicest rejection that I could have received. We hugged and parted ways, and I felt swell that night.
I did not feel swell the next day.
I wanted to respect their choice. I did respect it. They hadn’t done anything to hurt me. Yet one question looped its way through my mind ad nauseam: How come every time I pursue people, I end up getting hurt?
The next morning I texted them: Er, hey, in the interest of being honest, I’m not doing very well. Can I come over tonight to talk? They both agreed they’d be happy to cook dinner for me and I could come at 6 p.m.
That’s how I found myself eating Japanese curry and crying to Yassir and Topher about how it hurt that they’d rejected me. I explained my doomed winter journey to see Steven 13 years ago and cried some more. I didn’t tell them about being blackmailed by David, but I cried about that too.
When I finished, Topher looked at me and asked, “Do you know when you started having feelings for us?”
I had replayed the mundane scene over and over. “It was at one of the board game nights in August. I was late, and when you saw me, you waved me over, made space for me to sit between you … I remember feeling so comfortable. I don’t feel comfortable with that many people.” I felt vulnerable as the words spilled out, afraid to share how deeply I trusted them, yet I wanted them to hear this memory I cherished. I wanted to give myself the chance to explain my feelings, even if it meant opening myself up to more rejection.
Topher smiled, and Yassir cooed, “Aww.”
As I left, I hugged them individually, before turning to them both and saying, “Can we make a Greg sandwich?” They laughed as they squeezed me from either side, and in their embrace, I realized I didn’t need to be with them romantically; their acceptance was everything I had wanted. Having them listen, value and respect me made it easier to forgive myself for what had happened with David and Steven. After two decades of doubts, they helped me learn that being rejected doesn’t mean I wasn’t worthy of the love I sought.
A year and a half later, Yassir, Topher and I sat on the back porch of their new house. When light from the setting sun started to filter through the leaves of a pear tree on their property, I checked the time and saw it was after 9 p.m.
“Well, I think it’s time to go,” I said. I rose from my seat and went back inside, the two of them behind me.
“Oh, yes, past your bedtime,” Yassir said, half joking. “Glad you could come over.”
“Of course, me too.”
Yassir waited for me as I put on my shoes, while Topher grabbed a bag from the kitchen and brought it over. “Don’t forget your pears!”
I took the bag from him and gave him a tight hug. “Thanks. Love you both.”
“Love you,” Topher said as he returned my squeeze.
I let go and gave Yassir a hug and, as I left, Yassir waved me off and shouted, “Love you, habibi!”
After all we had gone through, I didn’t doubt they meant those words, and I didn’t doubt I was deserving of them.
Why you can trust Xtra
