“Mom and Dad,” I said, in that moment feeling low-grade tremors in the bottom of my stomach, sandpaper on the inner linings of my cheeks, a burning sensation around the corners of my eyes, unsteady on my feet, and the pulse of my heart pounding in my ears, and seeing my parents, my father a jumble of confused blubber with question marks in his eyes and exclamation marks on his eyebrows, my mother’s lips two thin pencil lines and her expression as placid as a spring lake at sunrise, and deciding that, after all these tortured years of hiding magazines under my bed, choosing every word that I said, lying about what I did with my friends, pretending that I enjoyed my junior prom and sweetheart ball, acting like I cared for football, baseball, and beer, taunting other girlish boys – deciding it was time to take the plunge, “I’m gay.”
My mother put her hands over her face and began to shake. My father froze – and held the freeze – for at least a minute. And then came the questions.
“Does this mean you’re not going to the country club with Emmaline for New Year’s Eve?”
“How can this be true, when all your role models were 1930s actresses?”
“If you really loved us, why would you do this?”
“Do any of the neighbors know?”
“Have you taken it up the rear?”
Okay, I’ll admit my parents didn’t ask that last question. I threw it in there to find out if you were paying attention. But I did tell my parents that I was sorry, I couldn’t help myself. That was thirty years ago. Now I’m not sorry that I couldn’t help myself. It’s been an enchanting time.
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