You know all those people who say things like, “Well you never know, really.”
And: “You might be gay. You’ve just never tried it.” And, “Lots of people have ‘come out of the closet’ even after kids!”
I’ve never tried “it,” and I’ve never been tempted to try it, but gay friends have told me that without having tried… I just can’t know.
Yes I can.
I was at an “Acoustic Festival” today. Bands made up of mostly acoustic instrument players and singers. Acoustic guitars, mandolins, basses, ukeleles, dulcimers. And all amplified electronically.
It was nice, the festival. The music was all ardent and earnest, filled with messages of lost and found love, souls filled and souls emptied and all that. It was all a bunch of fun, and the musicians were completely unaware of the mini-drama that was playing itself out in the crowd before them.
I haven’t been — “with” — a woman in a long time. I’d figured — after quite a long time without such contact — that the physical intimacy part of my life was pretty much over.
Then I went to the “Acoustic Festival” with a beautiful woman — a woman about 12 years younger than I. Her hair is lustrous black. Her eyes are the dark, indescribably beautiful, black, laughing, almond-shaped eyes of an Asian woman.
We compared hands. Mine are huge — her word — hers tiny. We compared feet. Mine are huge, hers tiny. We laughed. Then, she leaned over, as whatever band was on stage played, and she said quietly in my ear… something. I don’t remember what it was. I remember only that at that moment, unbidden, my body proved incontrovertibly that I’m a serious heterosexual, straight-as-a-freakin’ -arrow, no-doubt-about-it dude.
Guys, back me up. Remember High School? Remember how we used to wear long shirts and leave them untucked so we could walk from class to class?
After my decade or so of celibacy, that’s what it was like; like being back in High School and needing to keep my shirt untucked.
I’d forgotten just how indescribably world-blasting and head-spinning it was to have a woman whisper something in my ear, after a long time without. I don’t care if she was telling me the atomic formula for deuterium, if you’re a straight man, the bodily thing that happened to me would have happened to you too.
So, I crossed my legs, and I… “adjusted.” Men understand this word in this context. Women don’t.
Later, as the afternoon progressed, there were a dozen or so times when I needed to lean over and say things to my date. I’d lean down slowly draw close to her ear, breathing in her gentle, heady scent, and whisper what I needed to say. Her smell was fresh, clean, sweet, a murmur of jasmine, and a whole lot of… woman.
As I leaned into her neck, my face pushed into her hair, and I breathed in her fragrance. Every man knows how heady is that aroma; how head-spinning it is, how exhilarating, how it travels, instantly, electrically, explosively, unbidden and uncontrolled, straight from his head to the deepest part of his maleness.
Several times my body reminded me that I’m ever so straight. Several times I had to “adjust.” Several times I thrilled to the memory of a fundamental part of myself, and to the renewal of an understanding of myself as a man.
There were more than a dozen times, when my mind conjured a vision of myself making love to Rose (not her name). Not having sex with her, but truly making love to her. Conjuring up real love out of nothing but my desire to be with, truly with, Rose.
Men know there are a million ways to be truly with a woman. The temptation is powerful, though, to allow more basic, organic urges to overwhelm all the ways he can be truly with a woman.
Take your fingers and slowly run them from the tips of her fingers to the middle of her bicep. Then rest there, and slowly, withdraw them.
Gently lift her chin, and slowly trace from her ear lobe to her chin with your little finger. Then, as slowly, trace down her throat to just below her neck and slowly withdraw them.
From behind her, gently grasp her shoulders, turn her face toward yours and cup her chin in your hands as you gently kiss her lips, then kiss her chin, then under her chin, on her neck, and down, and further down. Love her the whole time. Love her all the way down.
Let her know that being right there, right then, with her, is the most thrilling thing you could possibly imagine; that even if the world were falling apart around you, you’d still want nothing more than to be right there, right then… with her.
A million variations on a million ways to tell her that I love her, and they all shocked their way up and down my body in the same instant, as my face nestled in Rose’s hair, and I whispered whatever it was I whispered.
Each time I realized also at the deepest level of myself that I’m… straight. Very, very straight. My gay friends are wrong. You can know.
I wonder if Rose knew all that was going on. I’m guessing she had at least a hint of it. After all, she did the same thing with me a few times too… almost as if she was experiencing the very same thing.