Too Much Is Not Enough

by Andrew Rannells

  Our friendship had begun while I was in the throes of my relationship with the forty-year-old. I was sexually curious, frustrated with my lack of romance, and terribly impatient. I was also too scared to talk to Colin about these feelings I was having for him, so sleeping with a forty-year-old seemed like a safer bet. I assumed the forty-year-old wasn’t going to tell anyone. (How incredibly wrong I was, as we have learned.) After my brief but doomed love affair with the dancer, Craig, in Miami, I was more convinced than ever that a painful and regrettable relationship with that older man was all I deserved. Colin was too good for me.

  The night of my senior prom I went with my friend Randi, a girl I had done countless community theater shows with. She was beautiful, knew that I was gay, and didn’t care in the slightest. She was the perfect teenage beard. Once we arrived, I sought out Colin. He looked more handsome than I had ever seen a man look. We were standing on the edge of the dance floor. “Nightswimming” by R.E.M. was playing. I pretended that Colin was my date and that we were dancing together at our senior prom. He looked so beautiful, I just wanted to be close to him. I tried to step as close to him as I could without being caught. It was nice to pretend for a moment that it was real.

  Colin and I graduated from Creighton Prep in May of 1997. That fall he was going to college in Boston and I was going to college in New York. I had dreams of us visiting each other on weekends, continuing our friendship on the East Coast. And who knew? Maybe it would finally grow into something else once we were out of Omaha. I was nothing if not persistent in my daydreams. Toward the end of the summer, days before we were both leaving for college, I decided that it was time for me to tell Colin I was gay. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I thought that maybe saying the words to him might spark a shift in our relationship. That if I said it first, now free from the eyes and ears and judgments of high school, then maybe he would say it back to me. I pictured us kissing for the first time on his front porch—in my mind it was raining—with all the passion of Winona Ryder kissing Jake Ryan in Mermaids. (I know that’s not the actor’s name, but that’s who he is to me.)

  I went to Colin’s house, we talked about college and moving details for a while, and then I slowly made my way outside to his front porch so we could say good-bye. The sprinklers were on. It wasn’t rain, but it was good enough, and I took it as a sign I should go ahead with my coming-out speech. So…I told him. I told him that I was gay and that I really valued his friendship and wanted him to know. Colin smiled and then he hugged me. But it wasn’t romantic, it was supportive and loving and what I had been missing for a long time. He told me that he was touched that I told him, that he was proud of me for being honest, and that he loved me and would always be my friend. We said our good-byes and vowed to talk soon, and then I got in my car, drove around the corner, and cried. Yes, there was a part of me that wanted Colin to love me the way I loved him. Yes, there was a part of me that wished I were in his bed at that moment instead of alone in my Ford Escort listening to “Kissing You” by Des’ree. But I realized what was more important, more than any romance, was that he was my friend, and had been for years. Colin was the first non-theater friend I had said those words, I am gay, to, and I had been met with love and support. I fell in love with him more deeply that night, but not how I’d expected. (Side note: We are still friends today.)

  Days later Colin and I both left Nebraska. No offense to the Omaha school system, but I had very little clue about how close Boston and New York actually were to each other. Had I known it was just a few hours away on the Fung Wah Bus, I probably would have visited Colin immediately. But I didn’t know that, and what’s more I was preoccupied with making my place in New York. Still, I had a Colin-sized hole in my heart, and I was afraid that nothing would repair it.

  Then I met Chris the second month of college. He was sitting on the floor outside of the drama department offices reading Sam Shepard: Seven Plays. Gorgeous, dangerously thin, with blue-gray eyes and floppy hair, he was Jordan Catalano. He said hello to me and my heart stopped. We had a very casual, not flirtatious conversation, and it quickly became clear to me that he was not gay. Even without the potential of romance, I enjoyed talking to him, and slowly my disappointment switched to hopefulness that I was making a new friend. Maybe he could be my Colin in New York. He seemed friendly and it didn’t hurt that he was beautiful. We exchanged numbers and agreed that we would “hang out” sometime. Just like that, I had my first straight, male, college friend.

  It took us a couple weeks to actually hang out, and when we did, Chris suggested we go to an Irish pub in the West Village called Fiddlesticks. As I type that line, I am reminded how confused I was by this suggestion. In 1997, the West Village was still über gay. But an Irish pub in the West Village? Not so gay. I figured maybe it was his effort to split the difference for us. Even though we were both underage, we were served copious amounts of alcohol that night. I began to understand why Chris had picked this bar. We were laughing and joking, and I quickly found that I really liked him. I was able to be myself with him, and he seemed totally relaxed with me. Then…he kissed me. He kissed me hard. In an Irish pub in the West Village. It was like all the romance of Titanic and Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet wrapped up into one teenage kiss. (Basically it was like I was kissing Leonardo DiCaprio.) The kissing quickly grew too explicit for our surroundings and Chris invited me to his apartment. I forgot to mention that he lived in an APARTMENT, not a DORM. Big difference. I said “Yes,” probably too quickly, and before I knew it I was having sex with my new “I assumed he was straight” friend.

  We started dating. Like, cute nineteen-year-old dating. Cheap dinners, discount theater tickets, free outdoor concerts. We were having lots of enthusiastic sex all over the place—my dorm, his apartment, backstage at the theater in our college, one time in the teachers’ lounge after hours. In short, I was being a reckless teen and it felt great. And right under the wire. (At nineteen, I was cutting it close.) While there were times that I missed having a boy friend in Chris, I convinced myself that it was better to have a boyfriend. And after all, isn’t that what I’d learned from my friendship with Colin? Recent history had shown me you can’t have a friend in a lover, you get one or the other. That was apparently how relationships work.

  Alas, my teenage love affair with Chris only lasted as long as the school year. As it turns out, Chris wasn’t really gay, or at least not gay enough. After we split, he started dating girls and last time I checked—thanks, Facebook—he was married to a woman. He was a bit of a liberal arts college unicorn in those days before we talked about “sexual fluidity”: the straight man willing to give homosexuality a try, at least for a semester. Still, I was happy to explore with Chris, and I hope he got as much out of it as I did. I loved him with my whole nineteen-year-old heart. I still have fond memories of making out with him to Sarah McLachlan’s Fumbling Towards Ecstasy. I have to fight an erection anytime I hear “Hold On.”

  I was feeling as confused as ever about my relationships with men. With Colin I had the friendship but not the sex. With Chris I had the sex but no longer the friendship. Exhausted by trying to figure these boys out, I decided a better use of my time would be to focus on why I came here in the first place. I would make New York City my boyfriend instead.

  One night, some of my fellow Marymount classmates thought it would be fun to try and crash the MTV Music Awards after-party. How they knew where it was, I have no clue, but I tagged along. Of course no one was going to let us into that party, so we ended up just standing in line hoping to see famous people. Then an older man, probably well into his sixties, got out of a car and was being ushered into the party. He saw me in line and smiled. I smiled back. He whispered something to the doorman, and the doorman walked over to me and said, “How many are in your group?”

  I panicked. “Ummm…four,” I replied, even though I was with about nine people.

  “Grab your frien
ds,” the doorman said.

  I turned around and said to no one in particular, “Let’s go!” (I figured they could sort out who was coming in with me Lord of the Flies–style.)

  The doorman let us in, and I was shocked and thrilled. How was this possible? Who was that man? He was waiting for me inside the party. He introduced himself and explained that he was a music producer. He asked if I was a singer. I told him I was studying acting and that I had just moved from Nebraska. His face lit up as if I had said, “I’m a dumb hick with no moral boundaries!” He gave me his business card and told me to call him in the morning. “Have fun with your friends tonight.” He shook my hand and that was it. He seemed professional and straightforward.

  I called him the next day and we chatted on the phone. I thanked him for getting me into the party. He asked me about classes and how I liked New York. It was, once again, a pretty uneventful conversation. He said, “I get invited to a lot of fun events. Maybe you would want to join me sometime.”

  “That sounds great!” I said. He told me he would be in touch. He called about a week later to invite me to a party. There was a dinner beforehand, and a whole group of people would be there. A group sounded safe to me.

  “Wear a suit” was his only suggestion.

  I was naive but not totally stupid. I knew there was a big chance that he wanted something else from me. But I also thought that I was smarter than that. That I could handle it if he tried to make a move. I felt the adventure was worth the risk.

  I met the man and his friends at a restaurant on the Upper East Side. Everyone was very nice and made me feel welcome. They never made me feel like a dumb kid, or like someone to be looked down on. We went to the party, I had a good time, and then I went home. Nothing shady. This continued for months. He would invite me to a party with his friends, I would go, and nothing would happen. He was nice and seemed interested in me. He gave me little pieces of advice about the business or meeting people. We were never alone, and I never felt like he put me in an awkward position. My friends were always a little skeptical when I would meet him, but I was too clueless to care. “It’s like a work thing,” I would explain to them.

  “Just be careful,” they warned. I refused to accept that there was anything to be careful about. This wasn’t a gross old man. He likes me for me. I’m making better choices.

  One day he called and asked me to dinner. “I want to take you to Shun Lee,” he said. “Have you ever had shark fin soup?” The thought of it sounded disgusting, but I cheerfully agreed to go. I walked into Shun Lee, which was the fanciest restaurant I had ever stepped foot in, expecting a group. There was no group this time. It was just the two of us. I was immediately uneasy. Something felt different.

  I was correct. Something was different. He said to me that night, “Do you like going to these parties with me? Do you like meeting my friends?”

  “Of course,” I said, already scared of where this conversation was going.

  “That’s good to hear. I like you coming with me, Andrew. Do you think you could show me how much you like spending time with me and my friends?”

  I felt so stupid for thinking I was smart, that I had figured him out. Of course this is what he wanted. Why would he have taken an interest in me? I was nobody, I had nothing to add, nothing to offer. Well, nothing to offer except what he had wanted all along.

  “I don’t think I can do that,” I said.

  He stared at me for a long time. Then he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  We finished our dinner—the shark fin soup was as disgusting as it sounds—and he asked for the check. We stepped outside, where he had a car waiting for him.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  I paused for longer than I needed to. I guess I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. That seems so silly now. He was the one who had hurt mine.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  With that, he shook my hand and said, “Good luck, Andrew.”

  That was the last time I heard from him or saw him.

  Lesson learned: If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck and the duck is an older, rich guy, he’s going to try and fuck you eventually.

  I’m nearly twenty years old, I thought. Shouldn’t I have everything figured out by now? I thought that being a man who dated men would give me some extra insight as to how all of this should work. But instead it was proving to be just as complicated as When Harry Met Sally made straight relationships seem. And I thought my new gay insight had mentally and emotionally taught me how to protect myself from dirty old men, but here I was feeling like Tootie in Facts of Life when she tried to be a model for that one episode. But wait…why did I think that being a gay man would help me relate to other men?

  I was having a Bobby in Company moment.

  C’mon! You’re onto something, Bobby. You’re onto something!

  Maybe men are hard to understand, whether or not you got asked to do the “Boy Stuff” growing up. And maybe, just maybe, people are just really complicated and you can never plan on them doing anything that you expect them to do. Or even more, what you hope they will do.

  I can’t tell you that this realization was comforting exactly, but it did calm me a bit. If my relationship with my father and brother was any indication, it just took me a little bit longer to find my common ground with other men. What’s more, I didn’t need a boyfriend at this very second. I had things to focus on: school, a budding career, friendships. And if friendships with women were easier for me to navigate, who cares? What’s wrong with that? Maybe that’s just where I was at the moment, maybe that’s where I would be for a while, and that was okay with me. I felt certain a boyfriend would arrive at some point.

  In the meantime, there was fun to be had. And I had the perfect person to have it with.

  Taking Requests

  This is the story of two people who met and almost instantly became best friends. It’s also the story of seeing yourself in someone else for the first time and realizing, “Hey. That person is a lot like me. And if they exist and they act and think similarly to me, that must mean that I am not a mistake and maybe, just maybe, there are even more people out there like us.”

  Zuzanna and I met while auditioning for college scholarship money at the National Foundation for Advancement in the Arts event in Miami. (Years later the organization wisely changed their name to the much catchier YoungArts. It is, to this day, a wonderful resource, and I highly recommend that high school students interested in studying the arts look into it.) I was coming from Omaha, Nebraska; she was coming from Fort Wayne, Indiana. They were two very different cities, but in the eyes of many of the students there from the East and West Coasts, they might as well have been the same place. These kids instantly assumed that we were “farm kids.” We were not.

  Or even better, they would say, “Oh! You’re from a flyover state!” They loved that one. People still love that one. As if nothing between the East and West Coasts matters. Being from the middle of the country immediately puts you on the defensive. You find yourself exaggerating the number of people who live in your hometown, or saying things like “I’ve never even SEEN a cow!” or “We have a TON of gang violence in Omaha!” I heard Zuzanna acting out similar scenes with other students when we first got to Miami.

  When we were finally introduced, I felt like we could both breathe a sigh of relief because we didn’t have to explain ourselves and our homelands. Zuzanna had a serious leg up on me, though. While she had lived in Fort Wayne since she was a toddler, she was born in Warsaw, Poland. (Exotic!) She and her parents were political refugees who had been shut out of Poland when martial law was imposed in 1981. (Very exotic!) She had the same Midwestern apologetic-ness to her that I had, but she also had a Slavic edge that I lacked. What we both had was an aggressive sarcasm and a mild dislike/envy for the students from more cosmopolitan areas. We wanted what th
ey had, but we also hated them for it.

  It’s not that we thought we were “too cool” for our surroundings. Much to the contrary, I think that although we both felt like we were talented and deserved to be there, we also knew that we were coming at this sideways. Most of these kids were from performing arts schools in big cities. They were loud and intimidating and they all knew one another. They talked about taking the subway to school, having sex, doing drugs. They had agents and had auditioned for TV shows and Broadway plays. It instantly felt like we were behind. Zuzanna and I walked around in a fog of inferiority and apology, with insane ambition and rage bubbling underneath. (This basically sums up a lot of the Midwest, FYI.)

  If I knew I liked Zuzanna immediately, I truly bonded with her the second day we were in Miami. We were lining up for lunch behind some dancers who were all, despite the fact that we were on a break, still doing various forms of choreography for each other. Zuzanna looked at them with disdain and said, “Look at them. Just flaunting their longness.” I had been thinking the same thing. We were both eighteen, wide-eyed, and jaded, all at the same time.

  And there was something different about Zuzanna, something that stirred up my need to be liked and valued and praised for my general awesomeness. I was used to girls chasing me at this point, particularly girls in theater. Not in a sexual way, or at least not always, but for friendship. Girls liked me. I think there is something in a theater girl’s DNA that has trained her to seek out gay companionship. It’s the same force that naturally pulls gay boys toward girls with big personalities and big hair, who sometimes wear character shoes long after rehearsal is over. But Zuzanna was not your typical theater girl. She didn’t chase anyone. She made you come to her, which made her even more intriguing.