A Story for Another Time

Okay, it's my first year of college. My porn collection consists of all of three magazines lent to me by my best gay friend from high school. In hallowed family tradition, I keep them stuffed into my bed--not, like my parents, between the mattress and bedsprings, but under my pillow. I don't know why I didn't bring them to college--perhaps I was worried they'd be discovered in transit (though I'd somehow kept them hidden during the recent move into our new house.)

I get back home for Christmas telling myself, No more putting it off, I'm going to come out to my family. I had meant to start over Thanksgiving break with my sister, who I was closest to at the time, but I chickened out. My father picks me up from the airport; while driving me to my Mom's house, he says, "I think you may be worried that you might be a homosexual."

Am I wearing a SIGN or something?

"I'm not worried, Dad," I tell him, "I am a homosexual."

Here's what happened: He drove me up to school after Thanksgiving and drove back the same day--about 12 hours total. Since he worked near my Mom's place and lived another hour's drive away, she let him stay the night. That way, he could get two more hours sleep before going into work the next day.

UNBEKNOWNST TO ME, she gave him my bed to sleep in, where he found the magazines. I've tried once or twice to envision the moment of discovery, and I just can't.

Shortly after, I returned the porn to my friend. Then, just last year, me and my Big Bear Buddy are at the CellBlock to meet some people. I can't remember what day of the week it was, but it turned out to be when they have their weekly (monthly?) Porn Exchange. There is a table set up on the dance floor covered in old porn mags, so we kill a little time looking through them. And right there is a copy of one of the Venerable 3. I pull it out, show it to my boyfriend, and challenge him to guess which were the most oft-visited pages in my copy. I even thought about taking it with me, for old time's sake, but who needs it when I've got a thousand better-looking men right at my fingertips

(no subject)

The legendary Lore of Brunching Shuttlecocks writes:

Growing up in California, weather was something that happened to other people, like meteor strikes or cholera.

This is a major reason why I think I wouldn't like to live in California. I love to visit, but actually moving there strikes me as akin to working at Disneyland.

( And now I proceed to blather on for paragraphs about, of all things, the weather. )