A Series of Sundays, Part 5

May 10, 2009

I Chose and my world was shaken,
So what?
The choice may have been mistaken...
The Choosing was not...

 

As I closed the bathroom door behind me, I realized I was in the midst of a time of endings and beginnings.  Some I was prepared for and others I had not.  Graduation and the end of my job on campus had been in sight for months, as was my impending departure for South America.  My brother Darin was in a similar point in his life. 

Just an hour ago, he'd made a decision that would affect the rest of his life.  I sat outside the Stake President's office with my father and mother as well as my older brother's family.  After several persistent months of doctor's visits, interviews, and paperwork, Darin was now prepared to submit his application to serve as an LDS missionary. 

He would be the third of three boys and the third generation to go out clad in black nametag, shirt, and tie.  It was a fate ascribed to us from the moment we were born.  Five years ago, I'd been in his place as my brother had fifteen years ago and my father nearly forty years. 

My mind turned to that moment-- to the utter unpreparedness of my nineteen year-old self preparing to commit two years of my life to a cause which I had my doubts, though it was still something in which I held faith, albeit incomplete. 

"Do you feel prepared, GMB, to serve the Lord with all your heart, might, mind, and strength?" President Matheson asked me earnestly.

"I don't know how I could be feel more prepared," I answered.  His smile consoled my doubt as much as it could.  "Everything's been ideal for me.  My parents are great.  I've had great leaders and teachers.  I'm not without doubt, though.  I've fought with that for a long time."

"GMB, no one's faith is perfect.  And sometimes that's all we have to act on, but know that you will be prepared.  By committing yourself to the covenants you've made, you'll find all of the answers you need.  They come in time, and I'll still admit I'm finding them all the time."

"That's something I really needed to hear," I blurted out from across the mahogany desk, my every gesture communicating the relief I felt. 

"I know you're under a lot of pressure, but everything that makes me the man I am today stemmed from that decision to serve a mission and commit myself to the covenants we make in the temple."

My arms folded across my chest, I nodded-- confident in the decision I was making.  Four years later, I sat with the same expression and the same confidence rushing through me. 

The door opened and Darin emerged letting out a sigh as he stepped across the threshold into a new segment of his life.  Soon he would be our missionary, the topic of conversation at every family gathering for two years in his absence, but in that moment we hugged, realizing that this was one of our final moments together for a long time. 

Of course, I would be leaving for Chile and Darin soon thereafter to some unknown corner of the globe.  However, what was less apparent in that moment was the other change on the horizon. 

We drove home a happy family: my mother changing the Sunday station back to her weekday oldies, my father making a pun, Darin and I shaking our heads but still laughing in our "intellectual disgust."  We then said our goodnights and went our separate ways.

Looking in the mirror as I contemplated the day and prepared for my shower, my future and my past collided.  I looked at myself, at the person I'd become and I was satisfied.  I had accomplished more than I would have ever anticipated: success in school and work as well as the most complete understanding of myself I'd ever achieved. 

I'd gone as far as I could on that path, however.  Despite all of the growth I owed to the teachings of the church, and the success I'd garnered as a result of serving a mission, I felt limited by the options I had.  I'd lived the celibate life I'd been prescribed for a year and come to the conclusion (after deciding not to decide for so long) that it was not what was meant for me for an entire lifetime. 

I stared at myself from across the counter loosening my tie, unbuttoning my shirt, and pulling away the layers one by one until I stood in my white undergarments.  Five years ago, I put them on in an act of faith and obedience.   Standing as a constant reminder of the standards I was to hold and the godly power supporting me in this journey, I stood in awe of the holy garments for a moment.

Then, I removed them for the last time and stood before myself completely vulnerable: a small gut veiled by chest hair, breasts slightly plump for a man, tiger-stripe stretch marks lining the sides of my body. My strengths became just as apparent as I scrutinized my frame:  muscular legs shaped by years climbing up hills, arms colored olive by the rays of the sun, angular face framed by scruff.

For years, I'd been taught that this was God's greatest gift, that the human body stands as a vessel of godliness containing the power of creation.  Somehow, the elevation of the body as a glorious construction of a godless universe also seemed compatible in that moment.  So, I realized as I hunched over and stared into my own brilliantly hazel eyes a simple truth-- whether God existed or not, whether He created me or not, I had the potential within me to make a life of which I could be proud-- a life with which I could be satisfied and happy.

End of Series.

End, Book I.

A Series of Sundays, Part 3

February 8, 2009

We lose things and then we choose things.

 

Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, though somehow that day of relaxation and rejuvenation did little to prepare me for the rest of the week.  My life now stood inverted.  My weekdays were spent resting up and preparing for the draining effects of Sunday.  The worst weeks were spent sleeping through meetings so as to avoid the negative feelings that would come were I to think critically or feel openly and honestly.  I couldn’t be thoughtful.  I couldn’t be emotional.  Essentially, I couldn’t be me. 

For me, it only seemed right to stick it out.  It was what my brother Darin and my family needed.  Even though we both lived at home that last year of my college experience and his first, we didn’t spend much time together.  It was the one thing we could do together some weeks due to our busy schedules (in addition to a billiards class we both signed up for), and I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything.

On the way to and from church, we’d often catch up on what each other’s friends were up to, the movies we’d seen, the new CDs we were listening to, and how classes were going.  I was really happy to see him in a good place.  He was preparing to serve a mission.  He and his girlfriend were about to celebrate a year of being together.  He was finding satisfaction and success in school with all of his projects. 

“Two weeks ago, the Constitutional Court of Colombia ruled that same-sex couples should have equal rights and benefits under the law.  Christina Navarro has our report on the reaction to this controversial—”

“Let’s listen to something else,” Darin said, putting in a Jack Johnson CD.  I wasn’t surprised by his reaction, though I’d hoped for something different.  It was an opportunity to bring up some things I’d worried about without being so obvious.

“How’s your friend Kellen? I haven’t seen him since you guys were in that show together?” I asked well aware that Kellen was the closest thing he’d had to a gay friend in high school.  

“We don’t really talk much anymore.  We went different directions and he chose a life different from the one I did.”  He said it all so straight-faced and self-assured, I wasn’t sure how to react or proceed. 

"Well, I doubt he's changed that much," I concluded.  It made sense and concerned me that the source of their falling out was precisely what might day be our falling out and I ruled out the possibility of sharing with him the one part of my life I kept tucked away-- behind my vest, underneath my dress shirt pocket in a locked chamber of my heart.

The rest of the day was somewhat muddled.  Following my usual Sunday regiment of reading the paper, family dinner, and homework, I slept. 

I awoke to the sound of a buzzing phone hours later.  “Hey, GMB. What are you up to?”

It was Ezra.  Following a week-long romance, we’d remained friends and hung out regularly as I got more comfortable in the community, and felt free to be more “out” away from my closest friends and those living in The Wood House.

With his encouragement, I found myself among a new group of people.  I picked him up and he showed me where to go.  I wasn’t tired enough to go back to bed and I needed to connect that night. 

“Ishamael’s house is pretty chill.  It’s not huge, so there are a lot of small groups,” he explained as we approached the porch of the brick house lit by what seemed to be a red Christmas light. 

Following a long round of introductions, I found myself in the kitchen politely declining drink after drink.  A moment later, a guy with piercing white teeth and blue eyes, mouthed the word “garments” from across the room, pointing to the sleeve of his shirt.  I tucked the holy fabric back under my sleeve as he turned back to his conversation and his drink.  My initial thoughts of desecration of the undershirt's sanctity turned to comfort and respect.

Though we’d only seen each other in passing and we’ve never sat down and had a conversation afterward, it was the type of connection I needed in that moment.  To know that another gay Mormon boy would watch out for me, or rather the beliefs I struggled with, provided me with the consolation I needed that Sunday as I reconsidered the religion I’d shared and lived and wore. 

 

End, Part 3.

Sou Grato por...

I haven't really gotten to this part of the story yet, but one of the first things we learned in the Missionary Training Center in Brazil was how to pray and bear testimony in Portuguese. "Sou Grato por..." means "I'm thankful for..."

Darin probably felt a lot like this when I left. Well, now that Darin's on a mission, I'm grateful we're the same size. My wardrobe literally doubled in size overnight....

Conference Memory

For those of you who don’t know. Every first weekend of April and October, a worldwide conference takes place for the members of the LDS Church. It’s broadcast from the Conference Center in downtown Salt Lake City to church buildings around the world in dozens of languages.

Well, when I was 17 and my little brother Darin was twelve, we went to the Priesthood Session in the Conference Center. It was pretty exciting since the building holds 20,000 people. This was the closest experience I’d had to an airport.

We stood in long lines with our father and then made our way through metal detectors as our tickets were scanned. Entering the building put us all in a state of awe. The interior of white walls and pillars and marbled floors was a lot to take in at that age; however, once we got into the open air portion, I was even more astonished.

I was at an age where the craft behind art and architecture was beginning to make sense. It was a lot to take in, but since we had time (a good half hour before the conference was to start), I told my father I was going to look at the rest of the building. My brother came along and we made our way up to the top floor taking in the view, the art hanging on the walls, and the swarm of men in white shirts and ties to which we matched perfectly. We made our way to the elevator to go down a floor.

“This is pretty cool,” I said, pushing the button to go down a floor.

“It’s just different to be here in person,” Darin marveled.

As the doors opened, we didn’t find the marbled floors or the excellent views we’d expected, but rather a monotone gray parking garage. Had we wanted to see the apostles cars, we were probably in the right place; however, it was almost time for us to make our way back.

We hopped back in the elevator and hit the button for our floor. Once it opened up, we realized we were in somewhat of a pickle. We had to go through security again.

“Have your ticket?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“We’re getting in line, then,” I instructed as we stepped in front of two men who could be our grandfathers.

As we approached the checkpoint, I worried about what might happen as we went through a second time. Would our tickets give us away? Would we be turned away?

I did my best to make a good impression with the elderly guard. “How’s the day been?” “You must meet a lot of interesting people.” Etc.

I made it through just fine and as I started walking a little faster, I heard a buzzing sound behind me. A red light flashed in the corner of my eye. Apparently, my brother’s ticket had tripped some check in the system. I couldn’t come back to my dad brotherless, so I asked the guard, “What’s wrong?”

“This stupid machine says your brother’s ticket was already scanned. It keeps misreading. Run on in before it starts.”

And with that we breathlessly made our way back just in time to take our seats.

Up in the Air

The Wanderings and Delusions of a Gay Mormon Missionary

A perfect combination of anxiety and aspiration fill an airport. Only so many places inspire such a range of emotions and pull together people from so many different walks of life.

Living in Utah my entire life (and having traveled only to half of the bordering states), I wasn’t sure what to expect. Moments earlier, I said the last goodbyes to my parents. They seemed less concerned than I’d expected to see their middle son jetting off to some other continent.

I would soon become the first to leave the country and the first to speak another tongue—only the earliest of many.

The goodbyes were somewhat different from what I’d expected. We stood there for a few moments looking at each other. It had all run though our minds multiple times. Father was supposed to offer his patriarchal words of wisdom. Mother was supposed to be in tears by the time he concluded with a resounding “We love you and we’re so proud of you.” My brothers were supposed to say “We miss you.” and “We look up to you.” I was supposed courageously make my way to the plane and confidently disappear into the crowded terminal.

We were never the cookie-cutter family. Mother and father had gone through this before a decade earlier, and my brothers were visibly ready for lunch at some nice restaurant on the way home from the airport. That said, it was tender in it’s own right.

“Are you ready?” my father asked.

“I’ve had 19 years to prepare, Dad. I’m ready.”

“Okay then. Have you got your ticket? Your passport? Instructions?”

“They’re all right here in the pouch, Mom.”

“Alright,” she said, “give everybody a hug and we’ll let you go.”

They lined up for their hugs.

“It’s not as hard as you think,” Allen assured me.

“You’ll have fun,” Darin, then 14, told me.

“We’ll miss ya,” Father said as doubt started to enter my heart as to whether this was really happening.

It was.

Mother’s direct “We love you” proved to be the seal on the envelope of reality.

“I love you, too”—words I’ve only uttered two other times in my life. Then, I shuffled my way off with a comic amount of luggage over my shoulders. Making my way through the labyrinthine security lines, I paused and thought just how crazy this all was.

Those goodbyes would last me two years. How could I compare that to half of high school or the time I’d spent my friendship with Bronson and Arthur. I thought of it in terms of loss rather than gain: I could have a nephew that talks by the time I get back. Everything will be so different.

It was done now. There was no turning back. What sense was there in wasting a ticket to Brazil. Intuitively, I knew I was strong enough for what lay ahead of me, but doubt always played in my thought. The best thing for me to do at that time was make my way to the gate and sit down.

Approaching the gate, I realized there was already another missionary there. Perhaps a future companion? Someone I’d spend my days reminiscing with years later? Maybe he’s going somewhere else?

Without hesitation, I introduced myself. He’s got to be feeling the same thing, I thought. “Hi there. I’m Elder GMB.”

“Hi, I’m Nate,” he said. He didn’t seem nearly as afraid as I did. It was as if he wasn’t feeling the pressure at all. He was along for the ride. I puzzled over that Did he seriously just say Nate? as I examined his nametag labeled “Elder Rockefeller.” I neurotically wondered, Is that even allowed?

The Wanderings and Delusions of a Gay Mormon Missionary

Welcome to “Missionary Monday” a new experiment to bring variety and structure to the blog. Each Monday will be devoted to a chronological retelling of my mission. Some of this feature will directly examine homosexuality and much of it will not.

It was never my nature to talk much about my mission because it generally irked me when that’s the only things some returned missionaries had done so.

The Call

The last semester of my Freshman year had ended. My future was entirely in question. I wasn’t certain what I wanted to do with my life by any means. I’d studied English, History, and Biology, but nothing quite seemed to fit. Dating was a mystery. I saw no value in asking a girl out other than to, perhaps, fulfill some cultural/religious obligation (and the idea of asking out a guy was not even a possibility).

I did know two things, however. In a matter of months, 1) I’d be somewhere outside of Utah and 2) I’d be a gospel-preaching, door-knocking, tie-wearing, nametag-bearing Mormon missionary. Months earlier, I’d met with my Bishop and prepared my ‘papers.’

Although it may sound an awful lot like the language used for pedigreed dogs, it’s more like an application. The process entailed a number of interviews, medical exams, the excision of my wisdom teeth, and a lengthy written application followed by a month of waiting for—my call—a response to my quandaries of where I’d be going and if I’d be learning another language in the form of a letter.

One day, sometime in the middle of May, my mother made a frantic, breathless phone call. “GMB, your call… it arrived in the mail this afternoon.”

I was at work and not quite sure what to feel. Part of it was the mystery of a life away from everything I knew for two years (save the gospel). Part of it was the challenge that surely awaited. And finally, part of it was the complete inadequacy I’d felt concerning religion. I didn’t feel the spirit when I was supposed to and logical doubts had loomed over my head for as long as I could remember. In the journal I’d kept at one point, I described myself as “spiritually retarded” for not being able to feel what my peers did.

Still, the need to go on a mission pressed on me whether that be in a cultural or personal sense. For whatever reason, going on a mission seemed to fit and not just because if fit the expectations of my parents. I felt like I could help someone and make a difference in that person’s life even if I didn’t understand or believe, going out into the world, 100% in everything I would be teaching. Feeling right and the possibility that I might improve by the slightest degree a single person’s life was enough for me.

As was tradition in my family, everyone was notified that the call arrived and we all gathered at the family business. My brothers, my mother, my father, his mother, and my sister-in-law gathered around as I opened up the envelope. I thought to myself in an unsure way, Where will I be instead of here?

In all honesty, you’re not supposed care about such things, but I did. In a semi-selfish way, I wanted the experience of learning Spanish. It was useful and Latin America had its appeal. I could come back and communicate with immigrants and maybe even study it to some extent. Always thinking so practically.

“Go ahead and open it. What are you waiting for?” my father protested. The results were underwhelming, but not terribly so:

Elder Gay Mormon Boy,

You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Brazil [excerpted] Mission. It is anticipated that you will serve for a period of 24 months.

…

“Brazil!? What do you think, GMB?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Brazil? Two years in Brazil?, was all I could really think.

Adventures in Internet Dating, Part 8

The Future in Front of Me

Drake Hatch had a bashful smile and a kick in his step as we approached each other for the first time. I’m sure my own reaction practically mimicked his expression as we drew closer. Our lives, too, mirrored each other in ways more uncanny than I could have imagined.

After a friendly hug and some typical How-was-your-day? conversation, he told a story I’d heard before (for it was my own):

“Suddenly, one day it all clicked. I met a guy—the right guy in the right time and place—and suddenly I didn’t feel broken. It made sense why girls held absolutely no appeal. Before I knew it, I found myself in a relationship and happier than ever because that question had been answered and that void had been filled.”

As in the case of me and Mark, things didn’t work out between him and that first guy after a year-long relationship.

“I’m sorry to hear things didn’t work out,” I said almost in reflex.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It would have worked out if it was supposed to.”

I was impressed that he had that kind of faith that it had a purpose.

As we walked, we seemed to click on so many levels. He had gone through the same experiences and situations at the exact same age that I had. He’d gone on a mission. He’d had the proverbial rug pulled out from under him. Yet he handled himself so well. I hoped that some day I might become like him—satisfied with life and okay with disappointments. He'd figured it out.

As that first date came to an end, we found ourselves frustrated that we didn’t get to talk about everything we wanted to ask each other. I wondered when I’d see him again.

“Why don’t we do this again tomorrow?” he suggested. “Would you be free?”

“I’d love to.”

I could not have been more or spoken more affirmatively

The next day, the conversation started right where it had left off as we told each other stories about our time on campus as we passed particularly important landmarks to our past.

He told me about how his boyfriend would come and find him in the library. He’d somehow pull Drake Hatch into an empty room or under a desk and make out with him, charged with the suspenseful thought that someone might catch them or they might get too loud.

The locale of the fantasy particularly impacted me—a center of knowledge and learning just amplified the sexuality and excitement—a sensation he picked up on instantly, pursing his lips slightly as he chuckled and flashed a flirty grin.

I showed him the amphitheater where I took Mark on our first date. I was aware that it was a make-out point on campus and wanted him to be the first as we sat there watching 30 Rock on my laptop.

Eventually, the discussion turned to a more serious aspect of our lives as we found ourselves sitting on a bench outside the library.

“What’s your family situation like?” I asked curious about what my own future might look like continuing on the path he’d left in his wake.

“You mean am I out to them?”

“Yeah. Are they okay with it?”

“They don’t know.”

“After five years, wouldn’t they know?”

“"I haven’t told them. They’d want me to see someone and go back to church and I don’t want that.”

“What about your brothers? Do they know?”

“Not really. You’re in the same boat, I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re right. I am,” I admitted. I thought for a serious moment if that’s where I wanted to be three years down the road. Trying to lighten the mood, I asked “So what is your relationship like with your brothers? Are you close?”

“We’re close. We’ve done shows together and we all went to school together.” Rather than alluding to why he wasn’t out to them, he simply elaborated more on their relationship before asking me about my family. “So, how’s your brother Darin? I wondered if he was gay, too.”

“Definitely not. Funny you ask about him, though,” I said, “You came up in conversation last night. I asked if he remembered you from camp and he said ‘He’s the gay one, right?’”

Drake Hatch was a little shocked. His face and posture tightened. What I thought was funny genuinely worried him. Returning to lighter topics—the shows he was auditioning for, missions, the supervisor we’d shared, our hometown hangouts—we finally got back the momentum that we’d lost in our difficult talk.

As the time came for us to say goodbye, for him to return to his fast-paced life in Salt Lake and me to my homework, we hugged. “Thanks for hanging out,” I said.

“I’m so glad we did,” he said with that bashful smile he’d started with. Pausing for a moment, he asked, “Would you mind if I kissed you?”

“Not at all.”

And there—alone—in front of the library his lips touched mine softly only to pull away a second later. “Goodbye,” he said as he turned to leave.

“Goodbye,” I echoed in an unabashedly enamored voice, turning the other direction. We went our separate ways in perfect symmetry.

All I could think about for the rest of the day was how wonderful those two days had been for me, and that I wasn’t the only one to figure things out so late in the game.

Unfortunately, that was the end.

From the next day on, all of my texts and messages went unanswered. Drake Hatch had simply disappeared and the future in front of me was crumbling.

End, Part 8.

Adventures in Internet Dating, Part 7

Unexpected Delight

It’s not often you meet someone who’s shared a great deal of your life with but have never met.

In the case of Drake Hatch (so-named because his name had that dynamic ring to it and because the previously-mentioned Drake happened to message me on the same day), that was definitely the case.

It started out with a simple message on Connexion:

Welcome to Connexion! I thought I’d say hi. It looks like you’re in my hometown? Are you going to school there? I don’t suppose we went to high school together? I graduated in 2000.

This was a delightful surprise. As I was entering this world in search of connections and common experiences, I was optimistic that I might have someone to relate to on multiple levels in Drake Hatch.

To be honest, I didn’t find him all that attractive based on his pictures. His eyes were droopy and his hair seemed a little thin. However, I responded immediately. He made conversation easy. There was a chance we might know each other. He even seemed to be in search of similar connections based on the way he’d written his message.

What resulted was more than I could have ever anticipated. The conversation that played out over the course of two weeks—via text, instant messaging, and one or two phone calls—was invigorating in every possible way.

As it turns out, we didn’t just share a hometown. We shared numerous acquaintances. He and my cousin were leads in their high school musical. We’d taken classes from the same professors. He had mentored my little brother, Darin, in EFY (Especially for Youth—a type of summer camp for LDS teens).

Every little connection seemed to justify the experiences I’d been having over the past months. He somehow made everything make sense. I wasn’t the only one who had come out of this place a gay Mormon boy.

Somewhat out of the blue, he texted me one day:

“Guess what!? I’ll be in town this week for Thanksgiving. Would you like to meet up and maybe go on a walk?”

It was the type of surprise that makes someone’s day. A visit from a friend/romantic interest in a couple of days put a bright smile on my face. Suddenly, I was excited and ready for the droll family get-togethers. Dinner with my ornery, Limbaugh-loving trucker of an uncle and an assortment of other relatives with whom I find myself disconnected suddenly seamed half the task it did before.

In the days leading up to the meeting, my texting load easily doubled or tripled as we continued our conversation. We made a plan to meet up. It would be a chance to say “hi” and swap stories in person. It would also be a chance to test whatever emotional or physical attraction we might have to each other.

On the eve of our fated encounter, I was working on a paper in my living room as I received a text from the guy who had occupied my attention more than any other guy in those two weeks:

“I’m excited to meet face to face tomorrow. I’m a little impatient, though. Would you mind sending a picture?”

This was a first for me. I was a self-declared luddite. I managed to put off getting a phone for the first year after my mission and didn’t use text messaging for another full year. A picture was kind of thrilling, but I’d just gotten out of the shower and my hair was a mess.

“I’d rather not. I don’t even have my contacts in,” I responded.
“I’ve seen you done up on your profile. I want something more candid. Haha.”

It was definitely sweet in a way. He wasn’t looking for anything steamy or dirty. This was a way to flirt with me and pass a little time at his parents place. I sent the picture and we texted our good nights eagerly awaiting our meeting the next day.

The next day, I got up just in time to walk to my closet, carefully pick out a suitable, warm outfit and polish myself in the mirror before leaving.

It was late morning and we decided to meet on campus and take a walk down memory lane. I sat there for a while leaning against the hood of my car, hoping it would get a little warmer, that he would be the same in person as he was on the phone, that we would enjoy ourselves.

As he arrived and stepped out of his car, I realized at that moment that things weren’t quite as I’d perceived them to be.

“Hi. You must be GMB,” he said.

Drake Hatch was as friendly and warm as I’d expected, but his pictures, it seems, had mislead me. In person, he was much more attractive—his eyes were full of optimism and his smile immediately led my mind to thoughts of kissing.

I was quickly falling for him.

End, Part 7.

Adventures in Internet Dating, Part 4

Connections

The other messages were far more promising. Drake, Kevin, and the other Drake were closer to my age and all of their profiles clearly stated “Mormon” under religion. They weren’t afraid of alluding to their background or to their missions.

The first Drake proved himself really down to earth:

Hey there. Your picture popped up on new members and then I realized you were in Utah. I thought I’d say hi. Watch out for the creepers on here, though.

Considering the experience just moments earlier, it was really comforting to read something so pointed, confirming my suspicions not only that there were sketchy characters on the site but also upstanding hero types. I immediately got the impression that he was a guy who’d watch out for me. He was handsome and had an amazing smile with the slightest, most endearing of gaps in his teeth.

I sent back a brief introduction and soon our correspondence developed into significant conversations about our families, about growing up in the church, and about dating. He’d been at this for a while, but knew where I was coming from as he indicated following a lengthy instant message conversation:

You really are brand new. You haven’t had sex. You’ve never even touched a guy. That’s something to respect. You haven’t had time to figure everything out. I’ve met guys in all sorts of situations and you’re really cautious. It’s okay. You’ve got to feel your way through.

His sensibility was frankly a turn on. He wasn’t about to pressure me into anything. I even felt comfortable later with giving him my number a few days later. I thought it might go somewhere.

“You do realize this is the first time I’ve ever given a stranger on Connexion my number, right?”
“I wouldn’t call myself a stranger. You know everything you can for knowing me this long and online.”

That was true. I’d made my first real-world connection with a guy online. It was something simple and early on in our conversations. It was something simple. His brother went to the same university and although I never met him, the fact that I knew his brother’s boss (as we discovered a few lines later) was enough to authenticate the experience in a way.

I was speaking to a real person already connected to me somehow. The cosmic thread that people speak of had somehow connected us in the web of life. One was left to wonder if these ties would draw us closer in the coming weeks.

Through our texting conversations, we told each other about our families. Drake told me all about his brother being the liberal one in the family—the go getter who set his big brother on dates with other guys and recently left for a mission. There was also his sister who lived ten hours away yet remained the bane of his family’s existence.

I opened up a lot about my family. After my mission, I was instantly closer to my little brother, Darin, because we could share clothes and hang out with each others friends. Yet when I’d figured out why he was able to have a charming girlfriend and I found myself consistently uncomfortable in even the most casual of situations with girls, I couldn’t share that with him because of the way he’d treated a friend who came out to him the year before.

“I can see why you’re worried, but things have only gotten better since I came out to my family,” Drake assured me.
“I’m sure, but I’m not ready.”

The conversation stalled there.

We attempted to meet up several times in the month or so that we really kept in touch, but somehow there was always something in our way. I thought it was because we were busy and cities apart. Drake—as we later discussed in a meeting of very unexpected circumstances (to be revealed in a later series)—thought it was because I wasn’t interested. And perhaps there were other reasons. As a result, my priorities shifted, so I wouldn’t miss out again later.

At this moment in my life, however, I was more concerned with being comfortable with a new situation and set of experiences. Sorting through Connexion and the interconnected gay world around me would soon provide a number of lessons in that vein.

End, Part 4.