Sergio Vasquez

Parents generally keep the taboos of human sexuality distant from their children, wistfully hoping to spare any unnecessary confusion for both parties. Oftentimes, however, the confusion is thrust upon children through multiple mediums. Whether via satellite or passing drag-queen, both promise volumes of toilsome questions through the stolen glances of a child. "Why is that man wearing lipstick?" is a question I know I uttered, but the answer from my parents escapes me, being too vague, with the subject of cross-dressing eventually left alone. Destined to revel alone in explicit media details and self discovery, I saw a vast collection of questions painfully materialize. I recall now a very specific event which redefined my later years as a free-thinker, one which shattered the traditional mold of sexuality as it was poured into me. I once kissed a boy.

Belonging to a strong Catholic family with strong Catholic values, I attended parochial school, as was expected. There, the whole subject of sexuality escaped the starched minds of the Catholic nuns. I wondered about the sexuality of Jesus. If He was tempted by the Devil, the nuns surely were not talking about lollipops as the devices of sin (at least I do not recall Jesus as a eunuch). No one dared question the sugar-coated fables even though we doubted their authenticity. After all, fourth graders really should not concern themselves over the minor intricacies of the most published book in the world. They should concern themselves with more easily tangible constructs, like recess.

Soon, schoolyard football provided me the ultimate forum to strut and swagger, allowing adolescent machismo full expression. Due to my strong arm and bullish tendencies, I always played quarterback. Mindful of their roles, my five teammates never argued that fact, and curiously, I never saw myself as an intimidator. A rowdy melange of submissives, these boys were the only friends I had.

There was Fat Alfred, our designated ball-hiker, who had killed a young man by standing in front of the young man’s motorcycle. As the motorcycle rammed Alfred, the young man rammed a tree, or so the story goes. All Alfred retained was a small indentation on his arm. I would bark an appropriate number of "hut-hut"s, and Alfred would flop the ball in his usual sloppy manner. Scanning the field, I would see Xavier, a boy whose thin eyes and long head gave him a two-dimensional appearance. He was the fastest kid on the team but would catch a ball only if it left a bruise on his chest. I would also see Michael, the freakish kid with a soft voice whose breath reminded me of canned corn. He had newscaster’s hair ever since his father purchased him a vial of VO5. Michael was the average kid with no real talent except that he was always eager to play. There was Joey B., the boy with the thousand complexes. His feet were big, resembling sleds, and he walked with a slight hobble. His nose, slightly angled and bulbous, breathed as if it were possessed by a separate entity entirely. The terrible amount of nastiness directed in his general vicinity by the school-children became etched in the stone of his face. Once, in an effort to rid himself of his shameful uneasiness, he fabricated a story about a small region in Europe called Alsace-Lorraine, claiming it as his country of origin. We called him the "King of Alsace-Lorraine," bowing irreverently toward the monarch. Poor Joey.

Then there was Gabriel. He was the skinny kid with spiked hair who slurred his s’s so as to pronounce my name "Shurgio". He gave Joey B. a number of his complexes. He was also my best friend.

On this particular day, playing against the upperclassmen (sixth grade toughs who frequently cursed my friends), we became embroiled in a cacophonous skirmish. The game’s outcome being sorely important to both teams, two fights erupted, unbeknownst to the stealthy eyes of our fanatical Catholic nuns. Fortune placed my team in her favor, giving us the ball three minutes before Sister Adele blew her shrill whistle. Some of the girls had given us their full attention, and I, devoid of any sissified funk that plagued some of my colleagues, obliged them with my greatest performance.

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I am calling for the ball. Alfred hikes the ball in his usual sloppy manner. Collectively, the whole of the other team is counting "one Mississippi-two Mississippi…." I am looking for an open man. I see everyone. The boys are running for the promised land, and the girls are pleading with me to throw the ball. My teammates are jumping in the endzone, telling me that they are open (everyone wants some glory). I know they are open. I see everyone.

I see Joey B., and I see Gabriel. They both deserve it. I let the ball go in a fluid arc towards both of them (everyone cannot have glory). It is going to be caught.

Joey B. jumps for the ball, eager to rub it in the opponent’s face, eager to rub it in Gabriel’s face (he does both so infrequently). He jumps too soon and merely tips the ball. It zooms at an odd angle, towards Gabriel. Gabriel jumps too. He catches it. Miraculously. Undercut by a lanky opponent, Gabriel has his legs taken from under him. He swoops, headfirst to the ground, the ball still in his hands. He lands, headfirst, with a solid thud that makes my eyes water. Touchdown.

I am running towards him more concerned for his safety than any stupid ballgame. I am feeling true pain for another person for the first time. As I approach, he lay still, shocked by the trauma. As I get closer, he sits up. I stop.

With pain in his face but a smile in his eyes he says, "We win."

Then, I am startled by what happens next.

I lean forward and purposely place a kiss on his cheek. No one notices.

"What did you that for?"

I never answered him.

That day our friendship changed. We still hung out and played video games. We still played soccer over the summer. Everything stayed the same, except I do not remember ever looking Gabriel in the eyes after that.

I grew up with that bothersome memory. An immediate answer to The Question may have provided closure. I endlessly pondered the "right" thing to say as incessant retrospection played in my mind, my answer ultimately sounding juvenile and graceless. Insecurity regularly tore at me, and I became a womanizer. I found myself unable to keep intimate secrets with my girlfriends. I perpetually blabbed all my affairs to all of my friends, embellishing my conquests so as to solidify my manhood in their eyes and mine. Insecure sexually, I always found reasons to leave my girlfriends. Then pain and truth slowly seeped in.

I met other men who would share their bedroom secrets, and as we laughed I would see myself in them - a pig of a man whose only destiny is to be lonely, unable to keep his mouth shut. As I listened, I became disgusted with these individuals and myself.

In hindsight, I believe if someone had explained to me that it is normal to have feelings for people of both sexes, and not only those in the family, I may have been spared the anguish of these past few years. I have made it a point to tell all the people I love that, yes, I do love them. Too often I hear people regret they did not tell a lost friend that they loved them. I always want to know what held them back in the first place.

Why is that man wearing lipstick? There are a multitude of answers, some of which are bizarre and ridiculous, and perhaps the reason will reveal itself in time. Why did I kiss my friend on the cheek? The answer is simple. I loved him.