OMGQueer

by Radclyffe

  She definitely wanted to kiss Alaina again, and if Alaina thought Billie was mad at her because they’d kissed, then it probably wouldn’t happen. It’s wrong. Fuck it; I’m wrong.

  It turned out that it didn’t matter; Alaina was avoiding Billie.

  Billie decided that was good. She told herself that one of them had to have self-control. Every time she saw Alaina turn away from her, she reminded herself that they were both sick. It was a whisper in her head: If you don’t want anyone to find out, don’t do it. Her father had told her that when she was six. She’d called her cousin stupid on Christmas Eve and earned two spanks with three minutes in time-out.

  Billie skipped Home Ec to go home. She snuck through the back door and down the hallway to get to her room. The minute she hit her bed, everything gushed out of her. She sobbed into her pillow, trying to muffle the sound. It wasn’t long before the whole top of it was wet, but she didn’t bother turning it over. Her mother convinced her to eat dinner with the family, but she mostly played with her food. She didn’t have an appetite.

  “Are you still fighting with Alaina, sweetheart?” Mary Alice asked.

  Billie nodded. “I told Chris that maybe we could find her a boy that’s more her type,” she said, “and he got mad at me because she didn’t like the last two boys.”

  Mary Alice sighed, and her husband, Harold, shook his head.

  “Boys shouldn’t insult their girlfriend’s friends. It isn’t classy,” he told her.

  “Of course it isn’t, Dad.”

  Back in her room, Billie avoided looking at the box surrounding her curtain rod and went to her closet. On a high shelf rested a stuffed rabbit. She held it to her chest and pulled her blankets all around her.

  “You still love me, don’t you, Babbit?” she asked.

  The threadbare bunny didn’t answer, but Billie still felt comforted. She rested her head on top of the rabbit’s. It smelled like her mother’s perfume, despite having been in the closet for several months. Now all she had to do was find a way to make her heart stop hurting.

  “This is going to be hard, isn’t it, Babbit?”

  The rabbit still didn’t answer, but Billie remembered what her mother always said: “The best friends don’t have to talk to make you feel better.”

  *

  Alaina touched her lips for what must have been the thirtieth time that day. Each time she did, it was like an echo of how Billie’s mouth had felt on hers. She was supposed to be vacuuming the living room, which she was glad for. She needed the time to think, and she hated not having anything to do with her hands. That morning, she had wondered if Billie would be angry with her or if Billie liked the way she kissed her. Every time she saw Billie at school, her stomach twisted in knots, She couldn’t remember how to act normal anymore, all she could think was that she had to get away. She was scared of someone finding out, but she was even more scared of kissing Billie again. She was afraid Billie would hug her or squeeze her shoulder or hold her hand like she usually did, and maybe Alaina would read too much into it, or maybe Alaina would let something slip…or maybe the way she felt would get worse.

  Kissing was the first step, wasn’t it? Then there would be tongues and taking clothes off, and that was wrong. Thinking about it didn’t feel wrong; in fact, thinking about being naked with Billie didn’t make Alaina feel anything. She wanted so badly to be normal, but if she kept kissing Billie, she was afraid that she would feel something. If liking girls was a sickness like everyone said, then it could get worse. It would be irresponsible to let that happen…and it would break my parents’ hearts. Her parents would get her help, of course, but they might lose their family money.

  Alaina wasn’t sure if she was more scared of disappointing her parents or being sent to a facility. She’d heard whispers of what went down in those places: People would yell at you and beat you; they would strip you naked and make you look at naked pictures, then make you sick. But Alaina heard other whispers, whispers that said homosexuality was natural.

  They’re only whispers. If they had any merit, we’d know them as the truth, wouldn’t we? God would know it as the truth, and it would be in the Good Book.

  Alaina unplugged the vacuum and started wrapping up the cord. She was going to sweep the kitchen next, even though she hadn’t been asked.

  *

  Tap, tap, tap. Alaina rubbed her eyes. Her clock said it was almost five in the morning. Tap, tap tap. It was just starting to get light out, and Alaina peeked between her curtains to see Billie staring down at her.

  “What do you want?” Alaina asked, bewildered.

  “Let me in!” Billie hissed.

  Alaina opened the window, but she wouldn’t let Billie climb in. “What are you doing here?”

  “You can’t pray me away,” Billie told her angrily. “I’m not some demon set out to plague you, all right?” She looked at the ground. “I just like you, that’s all.”

  “You can’t like me.”

  “Why? Because you’re a bookworm and I’m the belle of the ball?” She smiled at her joke, but Alaina didn’t laugh, and the smile faded. She shuffled her foot, shifting snow around. “It isn’t fair,” she finally said.

  “It’s just better this way,” Alaina said. “For both of us.”

  Billie spat on the ground. “That’s a lie! You can make a decision for yourself, but don’t you pretend that you’re doing something for me just because you’re scared! I’ll make my own decisions, and if—if you don’t want me to kiss you, I won’t. But don’t tell me you’re doing it for me. You’re not.” She was rubbing her hands together, and Alaina thought Billie looked more like her than she ever had before.

  “I do want to kiss you again.”

  “But you won’t, will you?” Billie asked.

  “Just once,” Alaina promised. “Like a good-bye kiss. We won’t do it again afterward.” She leaned out the window, and Billie kissed her. Billie’s lips were dry from the cold, but Alaina was still surprised at how warm she was. Their hands were next to each other on the windowsill, and Alaina didn’t even notice how scratchy Billie’s yellow gloves were.

  And then it was over.

  “So that’s it,” Billie said, her breath clouding up between them.

  That’s it. Alaina couldn’t stand that thought, so she grasped Billie by the shoulders and pulled her in for another kiss.

  Their cold breath mingled together in the air, and they stood, foreheads touching, looking at each other, neither sure what to do. Billie spoke first.

  “I’m tired of fighting.” She sniffed. “I’m tired of fighting myself, I mean. It’s awful.”

  “I can’t stop,” Alaina said, betraying her hopelessness with her tone. “I have to try to be good. I just have to. We’re supposed to honor our parents, and if I can save them some heartbreak, then I will.”

  “I’ve been trying that,” Billie said, “and it’s brought me nothing but misery.”

  Alaina grinned. “That’s why we’re completely different people. And so are our parents.”

  Billie stepped back. “They want the same thing, Captain. And you’ll end up destroying yourself before you can give it to them—trust me, I know!”

  She didn’t look away from Billie, but she didn’t say anything, either. Billie stared back at her, then shook her head and left.

  I don’t need your approval, Alaina thought. She wanted to shout after her, but she knew her parents would hear. She kept silent.

  There Was a Knocking on the Door

  Andrew Arslan

  The silence of the car ride from the grocery store was begging to be broken, but every time I opened my mouth nothing would come out. I felt muted by uncertainty, not knowing what his reaction to my revelation would be. I had heard enough horror stories on the news—the barrage of teen suicides, and the mere fact of the Ali Forney Center for homeless gay youth’s existence, were a daily dose of reality. Being gay isn’t all that easy, even in New York. There were so many things that I had hear
d or read that encouraged me to stay closeted, to keep this secret to myself, to let it slowly eat away at everything in my life and leave me miserable. Other times I would hear a story that would fill me with hope. Hope is all I have to help me come out.

  My father is Muslim, and that had always crossed my mind whenever I thought about coming out to my parents. He had always spoken to me about treating everyone fairly, with respect, and gay folks were surprisingly never an asterisk; they were never an exception to his beliefs. I took comfort in his words of support, and it had prepared me for this very moment. So why was I so scared? Opening my mouth seemed so difficult, and to speak was beyond impossible. Anxiety was getting the best of me as I contemplated whether or not tonight was the night.

  I continued to tell myself that I would just come out with it when we reached a specific street corner, and every time we passed it I would go on to tell myself that it would be the next one, and then the next one. I finally decided that I would just come out with it once we went over the railroad tracks, which would probably be the safest time to do it as well. My father wouldn’t be able to just stop dead on the tracks should it be such a shock to him. As we went over the tracks my body tensed up, my heartbeat increased, and my palms began to sweat.

  “I’m gay,” I said as I felt the back of my neck begin to heat up.

  “What?” my father asked in an extremely shocked tone.

  “I’m gay,” I repeated nervously.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said.

  He couldn’t believe it? I thought I was becoming too obvious. Do I not sound it? My brother says I look like I am, too.

  “Are you mad?” I asked to absolute silence.

  He continued to drive up the avenue and then made a right on our block. I was beginning to feel sick and starting to wonder if I had made a mistake coming out to him. He pulled into the driveway and turned the car off. He sat there motionless for what seemed like an eternity. Thinking that he would be okay with it was already beginning to seem foolish. He didn’t want this to be true for his son. This situation wasn’t playing out as I had hoped. Finally, he asked, “You don’t like girls?”

  “No,” I said softly, unsure of what was going through my father’s mind.

  “Do you want to become a girl?” he asked me.

  I couldn’t believe that he had asked me that. Was my father really this ignorant?

  “No, I don’t want to become a woman,” I said, sounding annoyed by his question.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said as he opened the car door to get out.

  I also got out of the car to follow him into the house, where I was sure things would quickly go downhill. I hadn’t known what to expect, and now I didn’t know what to make of his disbelief. I didn’t even know what I’d wanted to hear. Would an “okay” have been good enough? Had I been expecting a happy ending, and for everything to turn out wonderfully? Where was my well-known pessimism?

  I had no idea what was going to happen once we got inside. This entire moment had quickly become everything I’d dreaded about the idea of coming out. My father wasn’t as open-minded as he made himself look. He was beginning to sound like the typical father you hear about that doesn’t want a gay son. Was I just overreacting in my mind without giving him time to accept it? Should he need time to accept it?

  “I can’t believe this,” he said again. “It’s such a shock. Can you change?”

  “Change? No, I can’t,” I responded firmly as I closed the kitchen door.

  “It’s disgusting,” he said as he turned away from me.

  As I heard my father say being gay is disgusting, I felt more than just hurt. I felt betrayed. I couldn’t believe that my father had just called it disgusting. He called me disgusting. Everything he had ever preached about treating gay people fairly was just shit. He didn’t mean any of it. Everything at that moment seemed like a lie. Was I going to lose my father over my coming out? This new label completely changed his feelings toward me. It revealed my father’s hypocrisy and how weak his love for me was.

  My mom walked into the kitchen, unaware of what was going. My father still stood with his back to me as he looked toward my mother. She immediately realized that there was tension in the room.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I’m gay,” I responded.

  “I knew that already,” she quipped.

  “How?” my father asked my mom.

  “I saw papers in his room from politicians about gay marriage.”

  “Don’t you want to have kids?” he asked me as he turned around to face me.

  “I can still have kids,” I said as I realized that my father really didn’t know that much about gay people. He was obviously just like many others who assumed that gay people couldn’t have kids. My father was lost in his own ignorance on the topic. I shouldn’t have to go through this, I thought. I shouldn’t have to educate my own father on a subject he used to frequently talk about supportively. Why did everything have to change because I’m his son?

  “I can’t believe this,” my father said once again as he left the kitchen.

  As I began to walk away from my mother, completely distraught over what had just happened, I heard her say, “You shouldn’t have told him.” I didn’t care enough about her statement to respond to it. What was done was done and there was no changing it. Why shouldn’t I have told my own father?

  I walked past his room and went up to my bedroom to lie facedown on my bed. I pressed my face deep into my pillow, wanting to scream. Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. There was a knock on the door. It was my mother.

  She welcomed herself into my room without a word to me and closed the door. She sat down on my bed and looked me straight in the eyes. I knew she was about to lecture me on how I shouldn’t have told my father, but I didn’t want to hear any of it. I didn’t care what her reasons were. I had done what I wanted to do even if the outcome wasn’t what I was expecting.

  “You’re stupid for telling him. You’re really stupid.”

  Stupid? How could my mother call me stupid for coming out to my father? I felt attacked for opening up to them about my being gay. She always complained that I didn’t talk to my father enough, or that I didn’t talk about myself enough, and now that I had done just that, it was a reason to call me stupid.

  “Why didn’t you tell me first?” she asked.

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t care if I was.”

  “You should have just told me. I would have told you not to tell him.”

  “I would have told him anyway, and it’s already done, so I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

  “Because you’re stupid! You shouldn’t have opened up your mouth without talking to me first!”

  “How am I stupid? Either way I would have told him, regardless of whether you told me to tell him or not. It was either I tell you both or I tell neither of you,” I said as I got off the bed.

  “You’re stupid because he’s Muslim! He doesn’t think like me! You should know this!”

  “Can you stop yelling at me?”

  “No! You’re so stupid! I can’t believe you told him this!”

  I began to feel a tightening in my throat as I grew tense in my mother’s presence. I wanted to start crying so badly, but I couldn’t break down with my mother in the room. I didn’t want to stand there or be near her any longer as she continued to attack me.

  “Get out of my room. I don’t need you to do this to me right now.”

  “You’re selfish. You’re selfish, and that’s all you are,” she said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re stupid and selfish. You didn’t have to tell him, and you did because you’re selfish.”

  “Get out of my room!” I yelled back at her.

  “You’re selfish,” she said one last time as she walked out of my room. I walked over to the door to slam it shut and lock it. I didn’t want her to come back in again. I didn’t want to hear
anything else that she had to say. I didn’t want my decision to come out to my father to be attacked and to be labeled as stupid. I felt as if I had done the right thing. I knew I’d done the right thing. I didn’t want to be someone who lied to his parents for the rest of his life. I didn’t want to stay in the closet around my friends, so why should I stay in it for my family? Why should this one thing change so much? How could something so small have such a huge impact on how others perceived you? Would they decide it was worth losing me over? Was it worth losing them over?

  I got back under my covers and pulled the blanket over my head. How was I selfish? How could I be called selfish? Weren’t they selfish? I could be out doing drugs or committing crimes. I could get a girl pregnant, but no, I’m gay, and that’s the worst thing that could possibly happen. I’m the first person in my family that’s going to go to college, but my being gay needs to change. My family is rejecting me for opening up. They are the ones telling me that who I am needs to be changed, or that I should have kept it to myself. Hypocrites. Who is my mom to call me selfish? Just because she doesn’t want to deal with my unhappy father, I’m suddenly selfish? I thought that’s what married couples do—deal with each other.

  My throat began to tighten again, but this time I had to let it all go. I released all of the pain I was feeling. I tried to quiet my sobbing by pressing my face into my pillow. I felt my pillow slowly begin to stick to the skin around my eyes as it began to get wetter and wetter. It hurt to cry, but I needed to.

  How could I be so stupid as to think that my father would react to this with nothing but pure acceptance? How could I be so ignorant? Every time he spoke positively of gay people, I should have realized that didn’t include me. I should have known better than to pretend that things would work out no matter what. Thanks to his liberal sympathies, for the first time in my life I had begun to see things in a positive light. I’d thought I could be myself—that when I came out, he would accept me. Now I realized that my pessimism had always prepared me for the worst. Had I expected things to go terribly wrong, I probably would have been stronger than this. I wouldn’t be this mess, sobbing like a child, clutching my pillow at the age of eighteen.