Page 61 of My Own Kind of Person

“You have to watch until the end.”

He laughs. “Is there a twist?”

“Kind of.”

Ten emotions cross his face. “I am…curious.”

“Okay.” I stand up. “I have to pick you up in like fifteen minutes.”

“I brought my toothbrush so I can brush on the bike ride home.”

We give each other a fist bump and he puts on his helmet and pedals away. I sit in my car and send him the video, certain he’ll understand once he sees it. Then I open a document and write about the conversation, how it felt as if he was being kind by offering me the opportunity to avoid talking about my sexuality. I pause at those words: my sexuality. As a straight guy, I have never been asked to think about my sexuality. Straight male sexuality is one-size-fits-all. I’m getting into custom-made sexuality now, bespoke sexuality. It’s luxurious.

When I pick up Tony a few minutes later, though, his face is grim.

“Preliminary review suggests I am not moved by this pornographic film.” He delivers the news like the death toll of a natural disaster. “I posted it on an all-male message board and the consensus is that this is not for straight men.”

Obviously, Andi is the person I should’ve spoken to first. If I wanted the perspective of anonymous men on the internet, I could’ve put my head in a toilet. But I guess I wanted the approval of a straight guy, I’m surprised to realize. I want to be normal. Though why would I consider the norm straight men? What if my sexuality isn’t a liability that prevents me from becoming the American everyman, but an invitation to see the world in a new way, my own way?

We drive without talking. Tony watches videos of expressionless men explaining the history of Christian persecution, the perfect technology for pants, and how to eat more efficiently. Then he returns to his post and scrolls through the comments.

He puts his phone down as we pull up to Andi’s house. “There appears to be some gray area if your girlfriend makes you watch gay porn.”

Who are these guys who make these proclamations? “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Tony wheezes. “What?”

Andi hops in the back. “What?”

Tony turns around. “Sean and Christy broke up.”

“You didn’t tell me this!”

“It just happened two nights ago.”

“That’s not just.”

Tony switches the radio to party music.

“How do you know this is good news?” I say.

“This is amazing news. I support all your life choices, Sean O’Brien, but that woman sent chills down my spine.”

“I did like that about her,” Andi says wistfully.

Tony gasps. “Did you break up because of the video?”

“Huh? No.”

Andi leans forward. “What video?”

Tell Andi everything, I think. And I close my eyes. But not in front of Tony.

I turn up the party music and drive. I’m sad that the friend I’ve known my whole life doesn’t understand me. I’m also sad that I’m not confident enough to exist without the immediate approval of everyone around me. I’m a child, a baby. I keep thinking this as we park at school, as I read the morning announcements and try to get Mrs. Farmer to laugh, which she does but it doesn’t help. There is some inconsolable part of me begging everyone to make it better.

I must be spiraling, because when I find my jean jacket in my locker I decide to wear it over my denim shirt and jeans. In case that helps?

Walking into Studio Art, I’m thinking about the first time we moved into a house with two bedrooms. Mom said I was old enough to sleep in my own bed, but we didn’t own a second mattress yet, so she gave me the one we had. I lay awake watching the window on the slim chance an imaginary monster decided to become real. When I peeked into Mom’s room, she was asleep on the carpeted floor wearing her winter coat. Her mouth was open and she was snoring. The next morning as she poured her coffee, she looked the happiest I’d ever seen her. She’d finally gotten a little space from me. That was the beginning of me realizing the effect I had on people.