by Jason June
Dedication
To Jerry, for making me a part of your agenda, and being a part of mine.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
0. Start a Gay Agenda
1. Get Insulted by Your BFF
2. Win the Gay Lottery
3. Say Goodbye to Your Old Life
4. Humiliate Yourself in Front of a VSB
5. Spill Your Secrets
6. Become Veep
7. Have a Hoedown Heart Attack
8. Fashion Yourself into a Life Vest
9. Snag a Ticket to Your First Date
10. Get Dragged into a VSB’s Line of Sight
11. Have a Date Downgraded
12. Find Yourself in a BFF (Best Friend Fiasco)
13. Have Someone’s Back While Someone Else Has Your Backside
14. Make Out with a Scorching-Hot Snowman
15. Get Ghosted by Your Bestie
16. Find a Guy Who’s Got (Video) Game
17. Finally Get Through Call Waiting
18. French Kiss After French Films
19. Go All the Way
20. Be the Butt of the Joke
21. Have the Best of Both Worlds
22. Get Caught in the Act
23. Dig Your Grave Deeper
24. Out with the Old and Start Something New
25. Make an Ass of Yourself
26. Kiss and Make Up
27. Come Home
28. Start a Jay Agenda
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Books by Jason June
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
0.
Start a Gay Agenda
I’m not exactly sure what the stats are on people realizing they’re gay because of pop stars, but for me it was 100 percent. It was the summer before ninth grade, when my best friend Lu’s aunt Carol took us to a Shawn Mendes concert in Portland. Seeing Shawn gyrating onstage with a light blue guitar strapped across his shoulder did something to my heart and my . . . down there . . . that couldn’t be denied. It was like a superpowered magnet was pulling me toward Shawn and nowhere else. I was surrounded by literally thousands of girls, and not a single one of them would have been able to grab my attention. Not even Lu. I finally knew what Shawn meant about being in stitches without someone’s kisses, and I screamed just as loud as anyone else in that stadium for kisses from another boy.
I mean, there had been moments before when I’d wondered. Like when I got that twist in my gut every time Derrick, the cute cashier at the Riverton Diner, smiled at me, or when my nether regions twitched when Dad and I watched football players line up in seriously tight pants during Monday Night Football. I should have known way sooner that I was gay considering I still have no idea how football actually works. But for whatever reason, it was at that concert, looking at Shawn, that something in me unlocked, and I for sure for sure knew. It was the most clarity I’d ever had on something in my entire life.
That night during the car ride home, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like for Shawn to throw that guitar from his body and wrap me in his arms.
When we crossed the border from Oregon back into Washington, my pop-star-fantasy-filled silence was finally noticed.
“You okay, Jay?” Lu asked. “You’re really quiet.”
“Yeah, no, I’m totally okay,” I said. My heart raced. I was about to say something out loud that I’d never said before. “I like boys.”
“Who wouldn’t after a show like that?” Aunt Carol said, the glitter on her homemade concert shirt catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
“No, I mean.” I cleared my throat. “I’m gay.”
Lu squeezed my hand from her spot next to me in the back seat. “We knew what you meant. We love you, whether you like boys, girls, or any other human.”
“I love you too,” I whispered, a little stunned at coming out, a little shocked at how quickly the convo turned to me going on the next girls’ shopping trip, and immensely relieved that there wasn’t any backlash over my sexuality.
The whole thing was very anticlimactic.
Soon after, I made a list—my preferred method of organization—of everybody else I needed to come out to.
COME OUT TO CREW
1.Mom (will take it the easiest and probably buy rainbow shirts for the whole family)
2.Grandma and Grandpa (Gpa might not get it, but Gma will insist she just wants me to be happy)
3.The entire school (could result in pitchfork-wielding protests in front of our log cabin)
4.Dad (huge unknown—can’t tell if his strong silent type is toxically masculine or open and accepting)
Mom and my grandparents went exactly as expected, while nobody at Riverton High seemed surprised. They were like, “He loves to talk about the makeup artistry of the contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race; of course he’s gay.” It felt weird that my classmates boxed me into a stereotype, but their assessment was correct, technically. At least they were cool with me, even though our school was in a farming community and about half the kids were Mormon, another 45 percent some type of ProteBaptatholic (short for Protestant, Baptist, and Catholic; there are so many church groups at Riverton, it’s hard to keep up), and the remaining 5 percent of us were just like, Um, hi, I don’t know what makes this world tick, but I don’t think it’s a magical being in the sky.
There was this one instance when Greg Ratford came up to me at my locker and said, “I don’t believe in your lifestyle, and I just wanted you to know.” I told Lu, and she instantly shrugged it off, saying, “The Rat is an asshole,” and everyone working in the journalism lab with her agreed. So we were all on the same page that the Rat was a jerk and I could go on being me. That was the biggest extent of any school drama. I mean, we’d all been going to Riverton since kindergarten and had gotten to know each other pretty well since we were only a class of seventy-seven students. Even if nobody threw a Pride parade in my honor, I guess my classmates felt like I was part of the family, and coming out didn’t change that.
The most nerve-racking part was telling Dad. We were in the living room of our tiny log cabin, Dad watching Monday Night Football while I went through the most recent pictures posted on Instagram under #instagay. Normally that would keep me very at attention due to all the muscly guys in Speedos or posting gym selfies. But I wasn’t paying attention to what I was liking. Instead, I was going back and forth about when the best time to come out to Dad would be. Was it better to tell him during a commercial break? No, that’s when he went to the bathroom. Yelling this news through the door while Dad sat on the toilet didn’t feel like the right moment for revealing my sexuality. Maybe I could tell him during halftime, but would he really be paying attention if he was as distracted by cheerleaders as I was by football players in tight pants?
Even though I had already told so many other people, I was worried about Dad the most. He’s the most stereotypical “guy”: he loves football, he fixes cars for a living, he even built our home with his own bare hands. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who assumed the worst, but I’d read so many horror stories online about kids getting dumped by their hypermasculine fathers. Even though I was pretty sure Dad wouldn’t do that to me, there was still a tiny seed of doubt.
Without thinking, I let out a huge sigh. Dad turned down the volume on the game and asked, “Something wrong, Jay?”
That had to be a sign from some deity (or Michelle Obama or whoever brings all of humanity together) and as good a lead-in as any to spill the rainbow-colored beans. “I was just stressing about how to tell you that . . . I’m gay.”
Dad didn’t skip a beat.
“I knew it.” He said it with such matter-of-fact certainty that I was a little offended he hadn’t brought it up earlier. “Now’s a good time to talk about safe sex. Just because you can’t get a girl pregnant doesn’t mean you can’t get an STD.”
I buried my face in one of Mom’s hideous floral throw pillows. “Ew, Dad, gross!”
“Gross is chlamydia. Which is entirely preventable.” He got up, grabbed a banana, and proceeded to walk me through how to put on a condom.
So, it turns out I really had nothing at all to worry about in my coming-out journey. Except for the fact that I was all alone. Well, I was surrounded by people, but they were all straight. I got a lot of attention for being the gay kid, but pointing out how I was different just made me feel that much more lonely. Not one other person at RHS, in all four grades, came out after I did freshman year. At first, I thought that maybe my coming out would give other people the courage to do so too. I was certain in no time I would be the president of the GSA and have the perfect boyfriend. We’d have movie marathons on the weekends where he’d wrap me up in his arms, which were larger than average due to all the time he spent playing football.
After a whole semester of freshman year with nobody else coming out and my poster of KJ Apa being the closest thing I had to a boyfriend, I googled statistics about the queer community. I found out that 75 percent of queer youth say their communities accept them, and the US Census Bureau named Provincetown, Massachusetts, the gayest city in America. But since I don’t live in Massachusetts, what grabbed my attention was a Gallup poll that said 4.1 percent of the adult population identified as LGBTQ. While we weren’t quite adults yet, that would mean that out of the seventy-seven students in my class, at least three of us should be queer. But I was the only one.
I figured I would just have to let it go, but then another study said 8 percent of all high school students in America identified as LGBTQ. WTFrack? (Growing up in a heavily religious community has given me a habit of avoiding the word fuck that I can’t shake.) That meant that at least six kids in my grade alone should be siblings in pride, and that in our whole school of 260 kids, twenty should be waving a rainbow flag with me (and that’s rounding down from 20.8, because how can you have .8 of a person? Maybe Greg Ratford is .8 of a person because he doesn’t have a heart). Statistically speaking, twenty kids should be queer in school, and I was the only out one?
The odds weren’t ever in my favor.
There’s an LGBTQ group in Spokane, the closest city to Riverton, Washington, but it’s an hour-and-a-half drive away, and the logistics of working out how to get back and forth with no car were too much. There wasn’t even anyone out at our rival high school, Deer Park, which was just thirty minutes away. So I was left as the sole out gay boy in a hundred-mile radius. I spent a lot of time bingeing queer culture like RuPaul’s Drag Race and Real Housewives and talking about it with other gays online, but all the episodes of Catfish I watched warned me against trying to meet them IRL. I will admit, I downloaded the Grindr app once and lied about my age just to see if anyone around was secretly out on the internet. The only person I found was someone who looked suspiciously like Jebediah Smith. He ran the only gas station in Riverton and I swear was always eating fried gizzards when I went in to grab a Diet Dr Pepper. There was no way I could ever kiss a guy with gizzard breath, let alone one who was forty years older than me.
It blew my mind that I had never, not once come into contact with another out gay guy. Or a lesbian. Or someone bisexual, or trans, or on the queer spectrum at all. Where were all the people who allegedly identified as LGBTQ?
In trying to keep up the hope that I would organically meet another gay someday, I became a little obsessed with statistics and weird facts about things that happened against all odds. I kept a running list of my favorites, like a lady who’s been struck by lightning four times, or a man who got stranded at sea twice in one day, rescued both times, but lost his camera in the second attempt only to have it wash ashore with his pictures intact four years later. These things should never, ever have happened. The deeper I dug, the more I was convinced if all this other stuff could happen, I’d have to meet a gay guy, statistically speaking.
All that time researching stats online about the queer community led me to a lot of sites explaining the history of the gay rights movement. A ton of articles talked about the Gay Agenda—a slogan people against the queer community reference, as if all nonheterosexuals have some master plan to take over the world. As I waited and waited for somebody else to come out, and all my straight friends had relationship milestones like losing their virginity one by one, I made an ongoing list of all the stuff I wanted to do once I finally came into contact with another gay. My Gay Agenda.
JAY’S GAY AGENDA
1.Meet another gay kid. Somewhere, anywhere . . . please!
2.Go on a date with a boy and hold hands within the first ninety minutes.
3.Go to a dance with a boy and have my first kiss slow dancing to Shawn Mendes.
4.Have a boyfriend, one who likes to wrap me up in his arms and let me be little spoon.
5.Fall in love with a boy, but wait for him to say it first so I don’t seem too desperate.
6.Make out, with tongue, and hard enough that I’d get a little burn from his stubble.
7.See another penis besides my own, IRL, and do fun things with it!
8.Lose. My. Virginity!
As you can see, the first items were from my sweet, innocent freshman mind: hand-holding, going on a date, maybe even—GASP!—a first kiss during a slow dance. But then my hormones became a hurricane raging inside me, and everyone else in my class became a permanent resident of SexTown. There was constant talk from the girls about stubble rashes and when to say the L-word or how to give blow jobs without teeth, so the ideas for what could happen when I met this fantasy gay became a little more . . . intimate.
Heading into my senior year, not a single item had been crossed off that list. Almost eighteen whole years on this planet, and I’d never even had a first kiss.
But my odds were about to change.
1.
Get Insulted by Your BFF
Burger grease isn’t exactly an exceptionally inspiring smell, but it would have to do. Riverton Diner was the only place to meet in my little country hometown, and Lu had just gotten off her shift. Besides, fast-food smell was the least of my problems: I needed to find someone who I could actually date so I wouldn’t be the Forever Third Wheel to Lu and her ever-present tumor—I mean boyfriend—Chip. They both sat across from me in our red-and-white booth while we chewed cheeseburgers and guessed gays.
“What about Ian Rukowski?” Lu asked. “Clara says he told her he’s going to sign up to audition for the fall play. He’s never been in a play before. Why the sudden interest?”
“You can’t be serious,” I said. “Just because somebody likes theater doesn’t make them gay.”
I’d had this conversation a lot in Riverton. Just because a preponderance of gay people like things like theater or Real Housewives doesn’t mean every single gay person is a fan of them. But, because I watched all those things so I could be a part of the queer community online, my point usually got brushed away.
“Well, he likes theater and he’s gay,” Chip said, stabbing a french fry in my direction with each he for emphasis.
“He is sitting right here,” I said. That’s the problem with the phrase third wheel. It’s not like you’re all three equally noticed and needed and rolling along on the ground, like a tricycle. Third Wheels are really Spare Tires. Only pulled out of some forgotten compartment in the trunk of your car when another tire decides you get to see the light of day.
“Jay is totally right.” Silver stars flashed on top of neon-green nails as Lu threw up her manicured hands. “I’m just grasping at straws and fell back on a tired trope.”
“Why is it tired?” Chip asked. “All I’m saying is sometimes there’s truth to a stereotype. It doesn’t make it bad; it just
makes it a statement of fact.”
I face-palmed, my hand hitting my forehead with just enough impact to make my swooped bangs whoosh with dramatic yet cute effect. Too bad my signature move was entirely wasted on oblivious Chip.
“Okay, look.” I pumped the straw in my Diet Dr Pepper. The same eee er eee er sound would probably be made if I pumped it through Chip’s ear and into his brainless head. “Sure, sometimes stereotypes can have a tiny bit of truth. Do I have a ton of Miley Cyrus in my Drown Out the Bus playlist? Yes. Have I listened to a lot more Miley than most straight members of the football team? Judging by their bonfire playlists, also yes. But gay people are just as varied as straight people. There are straight guys who love Miley Cyrus and gay guys who love . . .”
Crap. Think, Jay, think. Selena? No. Demi? No. Britney? Dammit!
Chip’s lips pinched into a satisfied smirk. “You can’t think of any singer who’s not a former Disney star, can you?”
I shook my head, cursing Chip’s smug grin while he waved his french fry like a magic wand.
“All I’m saying is,” Chip continued, “maybe wave that gaydar over Ryan and see if anything beeps.”
“Ian,” Lu and I said together.
Lu grabbed Chip’s hand and laced their fingers. Her ivory skin made his perfect golden tan stand out, giving me yet another reason to curse him. My whole body ached with lobster-red sunburn. I was failing in my summer goal to turn my white, vampire-worthy paleness into a bronze beach body.
“Hey, baby,” Lu crooned to Chip, and I instantly cringed. Isn’t the whole point of dating getting to use your very unbabyish bodies in super-not-G-rated activities? “I know you’re just trying to help, but I think we got this covered.”
I still didn’t understand how my best friend could date somebody so . . . well, ignorant. Especially when she couldn’t stand the outdated chatter of some of the old ladies who visit Tough as Nails (or TAN for short), the nail salon where her aunt works. Lu always talked about how Esther Anderson said her granddaughter was finally getting married just before she turned into an “old maid” at twenty-four, or how Ruth Mortimer thinks it’s “uncouth” for women to wear tank tops. Lu, meanwhile, uncovered the gender pay gap for our district’s bus drivers in an article for the school paper. And she volunteered to help get the first female president elected to our school board. Yet here she was, dating Chip, who said things like “wave that gaydar” and probably couldn’t spell feminism if he tried.