Sometimes you never think of some guy friends in "that way" ... especially if they're gay.
But some of us secretly fantasize about the day our hot, adorable gay pal realizes that he's totally straight for you -- even what he's been looking for this whole time, and you fall into each others' arms, giggling and cuddling forever. Well, I decided to live the dream when I started a hot and heavy affair with a flamboyantly gay man. This is that story.
Bored one summer in the early 2000s, my best friend Allie suggested we take a road trip. She also suggested that our friend Lane come. Lane, in my memory, was a very gay raver-type who moved back in with his far away family a few months before to save money. We had been pals but not super close, but I remember loving his wit and his silly, sparkly style.
So imagine my surprise when we met up with him to talk about our road trip and he was suddenly covered in tattoos, and looking more punk rock tough than raver girlie. He looked like a badass straight guy, and one you that would totally defend your honor in a bar. He complimented my platinum hair, and -- even though that's pretty standard for a gay boyfriend -- something about the way he said it alerted my flirt antenna. The idea was so ridiculous that I couldn't even ask Allie if she thought Lane was flirting with me. And yet...
We took off for Atlanta (the closest big city to us), and while Allie slept in the backseat, Lane and I talked- the kind of talks you can only have on road trips -- everything from relationships, to music, to our tattoos, to what we were looking for in men. When I said that I just wanted a guy who loved the Billy Idol song "Eyes without a Face" as much as me, he touched my leg, shrieked, and then said in a low voice "I love that song." Meow!
The flirting continued on our drive down, but it wasn't as if he had dropped his effeminate quirks. He still bitched about fashion, he still preened as much as Allie and I did, he still used words like "girlfriend" (it was the early 2000s, that was acceptable). He still was a gay man.... just one that I was ridiculously attracted to. And one that was getting increasingly affectionate with me.
When we got to the hotel and found that it had two queen sized beds, Lane and I immediately claimed one for ourselves. Allie was somewhat nonplussed with our recent affection for each other, but seemed agreeable enough. We hung out that night around town, taking in Atlanta's rockabilly scene, flirting like crazy. We might have even ogled some men together.
That night, when it was way too late, we crawled into bed together. We were both nervous and excited, participating in that age-old game where you pretend to be asleep but everyone knows you're not. He faux-sleepily inched his way over to me, and soon we were cuddling carefully. Soon his mouth was close to mine, and imperceptibly, we squirmed around until our mouths were just barely touching.... and then it was on.
We made out and made out (quietly) until our mouths barely worked, and when he took off my shirt, he commented in a low husky voice how fabulous my bra was. I was a goner. Somehow the idea of a guy that would respect my fashion sense like a female but want me like a male was insanely appealing, if not a little odd.
For the next three days, we spent all day holding hands all over Atlanta, cuddling, hugging, and having fun together, and every night having some of the weirdest sexual experiences I've ever had. You haven't lived until you've made a gay man yelp with passion, and I did, several times.
At the end of the trip we hugged and kissed goodbye, already a bit embarrassed at our behavior, promising that we'd hang out in a few days.
It never happened. I think we both realized how bizarre of a couple we'd actually make in the real world, and I think we both were more lonely than we wanted to let on. He moved back in with his parents again within a couple of weeks, and though Allie teased me about it, she was awesome enough just to let the whole bizarre situation slide.
Lane and I met up a few months ago in New York, where I'd just moved, both of us in committed relationships, both of us with men. He'd grown a beard and was just as butch-looking and attractive as ever. We walked around Greenwich Village gossiping, and it wasn't until we got to the bar and had a few drinks that our weird weekend was brought up. "How insane were we to hook up?" I ventured nervously, and he laughed and agreed. I thanked him for helping fulfill a weird fantasy many girls harbor about gay guys, and we clinked glasses to old times.
"If I had to get bicurious, I'm glad it was with you," he said, and only a little bit of me swooned.
Beth Brennan is the pseudonym used by Lemondrop bloggers and contributors when we want to write naughty stuff but keep our jobs/boyfriends/girlfriends/dignity. You can email her here.