Now That I Finished Writing About It, I Still Can't Believe It Actually Happened

"So are you attracted to women?" he asks me.

I'm drunk and it's Halloween, otherwise I would've dodged the question. He and I had just met, afterall. That's information I usually don't flaunt. But the burlesque girl on stage was gyrating prettily. The room was dark. Her skin was pale. And my martini glass was runnething over.

"I am," I replied.

"Have you ever hooked up with a woman?" was his next question.

"Yes," I answered, my tone clearly stating that no details would follow.

"Yeah," he said. "I've been trying to hook up with a guy for a long time now. I even met one on-line and set up a meeting. But when it came time to kiss him at the end of the night, I felt all weird. I'll probably keep trying, though. I don't think I'll feel really whole until I've had sex with another man. By the way, wanna go out to dinner sometime?"

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I know.

So. Welcome to today's entry, in which I will investigate my feelings about gay men who want to date me.

Call it a double standard. Tell me I'm closed-minded. Lecture me on sexuality, gray areas and the definition of "queer." But--and I'll try to use euphemisms so as to avoid disturbing any young children who may have stumbled onto this site--if you're a man who likes dick, you can't touch my boobs.

Some things you can do with me if (again--thinking of the children) you're a man who likes cock:

1) Brunch with me on Sundays and say mean things about the people we did musicals with in high school.

2) Lounge in outdoor cafes, wearing our sunglasses no matter how dark it gets, so people will think that we're famous.

3) Describe your new bathroom decor using color names normally found only on Crayons.

4) Be my best friend forever.

Things you can't do (a brief review):

1) Touch my boobs.

I feel this way, in part at least, because I have already had my boobs touched by a boy who would later decide he was gay.

You should understand "later" to mean "while he was going down on me." (Kids, ask your mommies what that is.)

The time? Summer. The place? Italy. The boy? An opera singer from California. One of those guitar playing, faded jeans wearing, writes his own music and worships Dave Matthews boys. Who also happened to be super religious. Frequently quotes Bible verses kind of religious. Yeah. Well, now we all see where this is going, but at the time, I was nineteen. So fuck off.

Anyway, he and I were attracted to one another immediately. After all, we had tons in common. He sang songs about Jesus. I liked kissing boys who looked like Jesus. (Hmm. I see now we may have had more in common than I originally knew.)

Anyway, we made out all the time.

And every time we made out, as we were frantically groping and rubbing up against each other (it was much sexier than it sounds--we made out once on church steps), he would reach a point where he would stop and say, "It feels like God is watching."

Right.

What's awesome about me at nineteen, is that I in no way felt this to be a red flag. What's awesome about me at twenty-six is that I probably still wouldn't. Tough call. Depends.

What was awesome about him at nineteen was that he would always forget that he felt like God was watching and want to make out with me again the next day. I have no idea what is awesome about him at twenty-six. But you know who might? His boyfriend.

So. Time for a side story.

The side story is that we were in Italy to sing opera with a bunch of other American opera singers. That means, essentially, that we were hanging out every day with a group of gay tenors, gay baritones, gay basses, and fat women. We were also hanging out with a ton of Italian men. Everywhere you looked there was a Lucca or a Stefano waiting to take us out for drinks in the Amphitheatre, in hopes that they'd end up making out with an American soprano before the summer was through.

By the end of the summer, however, a few of the Cristoforo's and Davide's had become more tenor/baritone/bass-oriented. In a big way.

It was an amazing thing to witness, and it made a lot of sense. Take an extremely Catholic country in which men often live with their mothers well into their twenties. Take a city, like the one where we were, where there is no openly gay culture--just mothers and churches everywhere you look. Add prejudice and a hearty dose of Catholic guilt. Then add about thirty handsome gay male opera singers from The Bay Area who are comfortable with their own sexuality and out to have a good time.

The result was a lot of uomo-on-uomo love action. (For the kids, that means that all the daddies were kissing.)

End brilliant, illuminating side story.

Back to me and Mister "God Is Watching."

Well it must have been quite a summer for him. He's out of the U.S. for the first time. Away from his mother--who he lived with. Away from his church. Away from his friends and family. Away from his girlfriend, who he hadn't yet kissed. And in the constant company of me, my boobs, and a lot of gay men.

Sin. Was. Everywhere.

And he kind of liked it. Kind of loved it in fact. His new gay friends were hilarious. He sat in the piazza, listening, for the first time in his life, to their stories. They fawned on him, complimented is hair and his tight abs. And--sooner than he expected--he started enjoying the attention. They were, after all, nothing like he had been told. They were kind and thoughtful and wise. And, he noticed more and more, they were handsome.

In retrospect, I'm fairly certain that my boobs were his Last Bastion of Straightness. (Which, truth be told, and now that it's years later, we're all kind of thrilled about. To this day, Southern Belle Boob talks about it whenever I'm trying to sleep. And British Boob, I think, is still hoping for some sort of honorary title. If anyone cares to design him a commemorative medal, I think it'd be a lovely gesture. Also a rather interesting creative exercise. And Christmas is almost here. I'm just saying.)

Anyway, the three of us have decided that his actions bespoke a kind of "Hell, if I can't find THESE attractive, I MUST be gay" sentiment which makes us find the whole Boobs As Last Bastion of Straightness Situation quite flattering.

But, we couldn't hold him.

That became undeniably clear one day in Nice.

The trip to Nice was spur-of-the-moment and quick. Long train ride. Arrival at hotel room that he and I were to share with two other girls, both of whom decided to go to the beach the minute we dropped off our stuff.

Leaving the two of us alone. Indoors. With a bed.

Apparently our man thought it was time to give God a show.

Well, shirts, pants...all off before you had time to remember who begat Aminadab. I'm on my back, on the bed. He's shirtless and on top of me. There's kind of a frantic desperation to his kisses, and soon--to my great surprise--we're naked and he's going down on me.

Huh, I think, He's never done this before. I guess he must've go--

Just then, he looks up and says the three sentences no woman ever wants a man whose head is between her legs to say:

I might be sick.

I feel like Judas.

I think I'm gay.

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Judas.

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Gay.

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Arm-hair caroling and talking boobs aside, I swear to God, I couldn't make this shit up.

So THAT'S why I won't ever date a man who's attracted to other men.

I can't go through that again.

I'm sure you'll agree, no further explanation is needed.