by Tyler Oakley
He made sense. And maybe he was right. Even though I couldn’t even imagine him with another guy, and the mere thought of it was repulsive, the only idea even more repulsive was that of losing him. In a heartbeat, I made a decision. It was a compromise, a suggestion I would forever wish I could take back.
“Why don’t we try being in an open relationship?” At least I could maybe be the man he came home to afterward. Maybe I could be the guy he raised kids with, and if he needed to get off elsewhere, he could go, take care of it, and be home in time for dinner. I was ready to sacrifice part of my fantasy life, in exchange for the only guy with whom I thought I could reach that fantasy life.
“You’d let me see other guys?”
I looked him in the eye, long and hard. I guess we’re doing this.
Being your own boyfriend’s wingman can create some awkward moments. For example, seeing your boyfriend shave in the bathroom you share, much like the way he’d shave before a date with you, might lead you to want to ask what he’s up to tonight, but you already know. Sometimes I’d be sitting on his bed, and he’d ask which of two date ideas sounded better. I didn’t know if he meant for me or for another guy. Usually, he meant another guy.
I acted peachy keen, as if this were the exact conversation I wanted to be having. I acted as if I were so happy he was dating, and if he needed a ride, just call me! Part of me was morbid enough to want to know every detail, because if he told me everything, at least nothing could be a devastatingly shocking surprise down the line. So I let him tell me these things, and I let him ask me for advice, and I let him continue to date. If he was doing it in front of my eyes, at least we were being truthful with each other—and if we couldn’t quite do monogamy, at least we could try honesty. Or so I told myself.
Spring break that year was spent like one long double date, with Adam and me and our friend Korey and his boyfriend, Patrick. The four of us had gotten close over the past few months, and we had decided to spend spring break on vacation in Cancún. Subsequent to our new arrangement, it was to be the longest time that I had Adam all to myself. I couldn’t have been happier.
We opted for an all-inclusive resort, which was split into two pool areas: one for youthful, beer-guzzling spring breakers, the other for old ladies wearing fanny packs and visors. Obviously, we hung out with the grandmas.
The most hilarious moment of that trip happened when the four of us were lounging poolside, a margarita in one hand and a guacamole-laden chip in the other. Our side of the resort was quiet, and every chair was occupied by someone over seventy. Out of the blue, a bloodcurdling scream echoed across the pool. All eyes zeroed in on an old woman who sat bolt upright, horrified, holding a pickle.
“That sky-rat dropped a pickle on me!” she proclaimed, answering the stares all around her. Apparently, a seagull had swooped down, snatched up a pickle from someone’s plate, then air-dropped it on the woman’s bare midriff. I like to believe the bird was slut-shaming her for wearing a two-piece as a septuagenarian. Obviously, her exclamation became the iconic quote for the entire trip.
At night, we’d continue drinking and make our way to the dance floor, where Adam would drunkenly flail as if nobody were watching. Korey’s boyfriend, Patrick, would be so embarrassed by it that he would quietly pray that literally nobody was watching. One night we got especially drunk, and Adam and I regressed to arguing about one thing and another, and we angrily fought all the way back to our suite. It was one of those drunken arguments that last so long that you start to sober up halfway through and completely forget what you’ve been arguing about for all those hours. We were fighting to fight and airing long-suppressed grievances haphazardly.
After hours of screams, tears, and accusations, the sun began to rise outside our window. I lay there, still. This was not the spring break I had imagined. This was not the relationship I had dreamed of.
Adam sat up. “Do you love me?”
“Are you an idiot?”
“I love you, but I’m still trying to figure everything out. I’m sorry, but you were the one who said it was okay that I dated other people.”
He was right. I couldn’t blame him for his behavior if his behavior was exactly what I suggested. But I did because, why couldn’t he read my mind?
“Do you know I love you?”
I sat there in bed and thought about his question. Did I know that? So much of our relationship was spent with him in the closet that the majority of our time together was with him acting like he didn’t love me. Maybe I had started to believe it. My infatuation with him and lack of respect for myself allowed him to do whatever he wanted. And there I was, still not getting what I wanted, even after all those compromises. I shrugged my shoulders, looked at him, and said, exhausted, “I don’t know.”
He took my hand and led me to our suite’s balcony. He attached his earbuds to his iPod and scrolled through his music library. Pushing play, he slipped the iPod into the elastic of his underwear, placed one earbud in one of my ears, and one earbud in one of his, and pulled me into his arms. There, we began to slow-dance, in our underwear, as the music began to play.
Joshua Radin’s “The Fear You Won’t Fall” said it all, once again. We swayed in each other’s arms as the sun rose over the water, and he rested his head on my shoulder. I began to cry, not out of happiness or sadness, but because I had no idea how I felt, or what was happening. Nothing was clear with Adam, and I had no clue what was going to happen when we returned to Michigan.
The last couple months of our relationship were rough. Fights got intense, and time spent together became awkward and uncomfortable. It was as if we were learning how to not know each other. A week before our breakup, we went to New York City for a getaway weekend. We got dinner at this little hole-in-the-wall. We sat in silence, chewing our food, and it was worse than dinner with a stranger. I tried to keep the conversation going, but he didn’t have much left to say. Even to the pitiful end, I held on to the chance that we could somehow work through it. Even until our very last day together, I felt deep, foolish, hopeful love.
One lesson I learned from my relationship with Adam is that being dumped is especially hard. While the other person immediately seems fine, you feel like it’s the end of your life. More than your pain, it’s this vile contrast that is so insupportable. Being dumped by Adam (twice) and how seemingly unruffled he was about it (twice!) made me realize that his relationship with me ended long before mine with him. He got a head start on his grieving, without anyone informing me that I should start mine too. His negative behavior leading up to the breakup was not just him acting out. It was him dealing with the relationship’s end.
Now I think of breaking up as moving. Imagine you have your own house, full of your own boxes. A person you meet has his own house, full of his own boxes. When you have a relationship with that person, you shack up in a third house, into which you can each put any number of your boxes. You shouldn’t move them all in at once, or else you will seem too eager. And don’t dawdle too much either, or you will seem skittish about commitment. You kind of aim to match each other’s pace, so that the power balance feels fair and equal. Happy marriage—at least ideally—would be the situation in which both parties enthusiastically choose to keep all of their boxes in their shared house. Conversely, when someone starts to doubt the relationship, he might move a box or two back into his own house, just in case. While he’s weighing his options, he may transport a few more boxes to the safety of his own home. When he’s ready to take back his final few boxes, he breaks up with you. If you were too infatuated to see it coming, there you are, with all of your boxes in the shared house, and none in the security of your own home.
We may have been in an open relationship, but I think he knew I couldn’t handle the truth of the situation. Lord knows I never pursued anyone else. I was just turning a blind eye and waiting patiently for the best. Adam broke up with me in May, but he’d quietly been moving his boxes out for months.
Before we b
roke up, Adam asked me if I’d be interested in a threesome with Benjamin, the high school friend I had introduced him to at the drag show. Confused, I said no. As soon as we were officially split, the two of them became inseparable. I guess I had found where he had been moving his boxes. They were together for years following that.
Dealing with our breakup was the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life. I turned cynical and angry. I focused more energy on wishing the worst for certain people than wishing the best for myself. I’d lock myself in my room for days. Like a demented prisoner, I’d rush to the peephole of my door anytime I heard anyone walking by. I’d obsessively stalk Adam’s social media profiles and investigate anyone who ever interacted with him online. I tried to date, but I felt as if nobody measured up. And to what? This asshole—the one that got away.
This was the only time I ever seriously considered suicide. It was the only time I’ve ever called the Trevor Project, a suicide and crisis prevention lifeline, available to chat if you’re in need of help. I was in a terrible place, sobbing all day, every day, dreading waking up, and disliking being alive. When the Trevor Project volunteer answered my call and asked what was wrong, I felt silly explaining my issues. Just saying them out loud to a stranger felt like I was figuring them out myself. The parts that were blurriest in my mind became clearer, more focused—newly visible—with the help of the kind person on the other end.
I may have only called the Trevor Project once, but that was enough to pull me out from the dark hole I had dug. I wouldn’t have been able to escape had I not reached out for help. I later interned for the Trevor Project, and I’ve dedicated my platform online to raising money and awareness for them ever since. I’m so grateful.
To move on, I read self-help books such as It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken and He’s Just Not That into You. I went to therapy. Being able to see that I wasn’t alone, and that my heartbreak was not necessarily unique, helped me see that others had gotten through it. I decided that I had cried enough, and I had complained enough, and my friends were sick of hearing my sad song on repeat. The true remedy for heartbreak was time. Where I once hung a calendar counting down the days until I could see Adam, I now put up a calendar counting how many days I could go without sulking. It was a don’t-break-the-chain encouragement technique. Every day I crossed off was a day that I actively decided to take care of me. I hung it over my peephole, and anytime I was tempted to see if it was Adam walking by my room with another guy, I was visually reminded that I was on a journey of improving myself, not wallowing in the past. The best way out is always through.
Nowadays, more than five years later, Adam and I are good friends. We’ve forgiven each other and ourselves for the ways we disrespected or manipulated each other. We’ve since supported each other through breakups, career challenges, family changes, and more. He’s seen me at my highest, my lowest, and everywhere in between. Although it took years for me to understand him and learn from my time with him, I’m happy to say that I do think I have learned. Most recently, he attended the Chicago stop of my Slumber Party Tour, and he got to see the craziness of the community we’ve created, dear readers, together.
We also got together recently for a dinner in New York City, at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant similar to the one in which we’d eaten in silence so long ago. It was five years later, and this time we had plenty to talk about. We reminisced about all the good times we had and how much we had been through together. We had been in a relationship for only a year, but we came to realize just how profound the impacts we had on each other were. He asked me if I believed in the concept of a “love of your life” or a “one that got away” or a “soul mate.”
“Yes, one hundred percent, for sure, without a doubt do I believe in a ‘love of your life.’ But I think that we have multiple loves of our lives, who are supposed to join us at just the right times. Throughout our entire time on earth, we end up meeting all of them.”
Adam was such an important love of my life. To look back on our relationship as anything other than so many moments to learn from would be a disservice to ourselves. It would be a missed opportunity to grow and prepare for the next love of my life (if it’s you, well, hello!). Every relationship ends, unless one doesn’t. Everything we’ve learned from the relationships leading up to that last one has been the training we needed to make this final one last.
“And as far as a ‘one that got away’? Do I believe in that?” I smiled. “Well, yes. I definitely consider myself to be your one that got away.”
unnecessary holiday traditions
SOME AMERICAN HOLIDAY TRADITIONS ARE SO unnecessary.
Don’t fucking pinch me on St. Patrick’s Day because I’m not wearing green. That is assault, and green is not slimming, and I need you to respect that.
I’m twenty-six and still don’t have a clue how the groundhog situation works. If on a day in February, a groundhog comes out of his hole and sees his shadow, he somehow predicts the weather for the next month or two, which not even Doppler radar can do. Is this is some next-level witchcraft? Not to mention, as someone who aspires to someday work as a local weather forecaster, I feel threatened by this lazy rodent and his dubious prediction skills.
Please don’t sing “Happy Birthday” to me. Not only are you violating the copyright of the original composer, but it’s also the most insufferable fifteen seconds you could inflict on me. Why do we further punish people for aging, which is already punishment enough?
Columbus Day celebrates a man who started a mass genocide. Somehow, kids get this day off to celebrate, yet they don’t get off the day Beyoncé dropped her album? America, figure out your shit.
April Fools’ is the worst of all holidays. Nobody of quality wants to participate; we just have to be aware of it and paranoid that someone shitty is going to do something annoying or horrible. The only people who are into this are fuckboys who abuse it.
The worst part of April Fools’ Day is that some of the terrible things that happen to you turn out not to be tricks. Once, I was supposed to fly to a speaking engagement, and I fell asleep at the gate during a layover in a North Carolina airport. When I woke up, the gate was empty, and I was sure it was an elaborate April Fools’ prank. Unfortunately, less elaborately, I had simply missed my flight.
Part of me wonders if the true joke of April Fools’ is that every year it’s already April and I’ve yet to figure out what’s going on.
Black History Month is a struggle because we have to put up with dumb white people asking why we don’t have a White History Month (spoiler: every month is your month due to the white privilege you refuse to acknowledge; literally shut up).
I have no problems with 7/11, also known as Free Slurpee Day. It is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.
February 29 needs to be discussed. Every four years, we have an extra day in our calendar and call it a leap day, and everyone just kind of goes along with it. But why don’t we do something radical on that day to celebrate? Like something completely outrageous. I’ve got ideas. Hear me out. What if, on February 29, we . . .
• Give women equal pay.
• Don’t shoot people based on racial bias.
• Gays and straights alike accept the existence of bisexuals.
• People stop accusing me of having a hook head.
Let me know what y’all think! Maybe if everyone likes these the first year, we can just make them an everyday thing?
Halloween is perfect. Please enjoy me in a wizard costume.
crash course
IF THERE’S ONE PIECE OF ADVICE I CAN GIVE YOU in this book, it’s the following: don’t, under any circumstances, ride in a car with me driving.
I aggressively run into things, back up into things, have no depth perception, often forget which buttons and knobs do what, and am easily distracted. But enough about my sex life! Back to my driving skills! When it comes to driving, I’m what an expert might call . . . “the worst.”
Wh
en I turned sixteen, I had taken driver’s education and was ready to test my skills in my first official driver’s test. I had been practicing for months, and although I had extreme anxiety on highways, cul-de-sacs, main roads, back roads, freeways, driveways, and parking lots, I was vaguely able to get from point A to point B. I’d just have to hope that nobody and nothing was even remotely in my way, ever. Thankfully, when I took my test, I wasn’t that terrible! The only fail-worthy error that I made—not stopping at a stop sign in a parking lot—happened while the examiner was looking over his shoulder, talking to my stepdad in the backseat. Thank God.
With my license in hand, I was ready to take the road by storm. Unfortunately, I kind of did that literally. Before I had saved up enough money to buy my own car, I was allowed to use my older sister’s car to drive to school and work. I was working at Arby’s, and one day I had a shift immediately after school. As soon as the bell rang after sixth period, I rushed into the bathroom to change into my grease-stained Arby’s uniform, and I promptly made my way to my sister’s car.
I tapped my thumbs on the steering wheel along to the beat of Lifehouse’s “You and Me,” while glancing up and down from the traffic to the clock. With traffic this tight, I was never going to make it in time. As the chorus rang in, I began to sing along, while inching forward impatiently. At a traffic light, thinking I had a chance to make my left turn before the light changed to red, I went for it. At the same time, an oncoming SUV decided to attempt it also. As the humongous vehicle charged toward me, full speed, my singing voice involuntarily crescendoed. As I slammed on the brakes, my body whipped forward aggressively as my sister’s little Oldsmobile collided with the SUV, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the crowded intersection. The wind was knocked out of me, and I slowly opened my eyes and looked up. Lifehouse continued to play on the radio with eerily accurate lyrics: “What day is it? And in what month? This clock never seemed so alive.”