A Delinquent Gay, in Hindsight

PART THE FIRST:

I do not have a best friend. In my opinion, in order for two to be best
friends they must be the reciprocal of each other. I, on the other hand, have
been designated a role coveted by sorority and material girls of the like: the
gay best friend. (I like to think of this role as more of a token gay friend,
rather than any kind of actual best friend.)
I find myself missing my old role in the dynamic of my prior group of
friends. It was a simpler time when I was not asked to give the gay
perspective, as if my coming out instantly gave me something new to add to
the conversation. It was a simpler time when people did not ask me if I
wished to be a girl, as if being gay is some type of lesser fantasy to having a
vagina. It was a simpler time when I actually had a best friend, as if my
newly expressed sexuality changed who I am.
Trading the nuance of a lie for the degradation of being seen as different
person entirely is not something I was wholly prepared for. I mean, sure, I
understood that my friends were going to have trouble with itas my one
friend gave the appropriate summation, he would kill himself if his best
friend or brother turned out gaybut I couldnt help but feel marginalized. I
was now the gay best friend. I was now the token queer. I was no longer
Aaron. I have had strangers tell me that I am going to hell. I have felt the
cold sting of the word faggot. But nothing hurt quite so much as being seen
differently in the eyes of those whom I love most.

I barely remember having a best friend.

PART THE SECOND:

Are you sure were allowed to do this? I asked.
Yes! I asked my dad, were allowed, Tristan responded.
He yelled at us last time,
No, he changed his mind, Tristan assured me.
HEY, I heard Chuck yell from the kitchen, I TOLD YOU, YOU ARE
NOT ALLOWED TO CLIMB ON THAT TREE! I DO NOT NEED YOU
TWO TO BREAK YOUR NECKS.
Why does Tristan lie all the time? When we were playing at my house he
would never even say he wanted to go home when it got late.
Me and my family are going out to dinner, I have to leave now, was
Tristans usual excuse. I would watch him walk across the street to his blue-
shuttered house, but there the family vehicle would sit. Tristan was a liar. He
couldnt help himself. And this time, he dragged me into it.
YOU TWO IDIOTS ARE GONNA BREAK YOUR NECKS. GET OUT
OF THAT TREE, Chuck angrily yelled at us, Tristan, what dont you
understand when I tell you that this tree is weak and it cant support you
climbing all through it?
Dad, we werent actually climbing in it, we were just standing kind of
around it,
The tree was low enough to the ground that it actually seemed plausible. It
was a tree that popped out of a small mound of rocks near the back of
Tristans backyard. It had long limbs but they all shot toward the house
rather than the sky. The tree itself looked as though a large chunk of
branches fell off of a much larger tree and stuck the landing in a mound of
rocks. The rocks that piled around the base stacked up in such a way that we
were on the rocks more than the tree before we even got a chance to scale
the highest branch. But we would never get to climb and surmount the peak.
Alright youre done, Chuck said, Aaron, its time for you to go home.
I went home. Why does Tristan always lie? I tried to figure it out. He knew
we were going to get caught. He knew we werent allowed to climb the tree.
Why would he blatantly make a false statement that might get us hurt or in
trouble. I couldnt figure out why Tristan would lie to me knowing that we
werent allowed to climb the tree.
He knew, and he did it anyway.
But then again, so did I.
PART THE THIRD:
Why did I always do something if I knew it was wrong? My earliest memory
of grade school is one in which I went under each stall from toilet to toilet
and locked them from the inside. I then scooted out and was on my way. A
few hours later, I witnessed the result of my toils:
Mrs. Reed, someone locked all the stalls in the bathroom, Tanner
informed my teacher.
Are you sure no one is in there? replied Mrs. Reed
Yeah, I crawled under all the stalls and unlocked them, he answered.
Mrs. Reed grimaced at the idea of someone crawling around on the
bathroom floors especially one dedicated to kindergarten boys who, you
may be shocked to find, are not very good at aiming. After an interrogation,
none of the kindergarten boys admitted to committing this crime. I was
deliriously happy. I had gotten away with it, and this excited me beyond
measure.
My newfound hobby of getting away with something fueled many of my
wrongdoings throughout my adolescence: the time I pushed Ivy Tomlinson
off the monkey bars, the time I snuck out of swim team practice early, the
first time I drank, the first time I viewed pornography, the first time I
smoked marijuana the list goes on and on. None of these sinful feats were
fueled by a selfish desire. They were unselfish, and they were cruel. They
were a way for me to get back at an authoritative figure, be it my parents, a
coach, or a teacher. I ponder the implications this had on my life.
This may sound philosophical, but maybe because it is. I dont know where
my homosexuality stems from. Contrary to the modern homosexual claim, I
dont know if I was born this way. I do know that I have homosexual
tendencies and feelings since as young as 5 years old. I just dont know if
they are rooted in biological or psychological factors. This is a topic that is
up for debate even amongst the most scholarly researchers. Who am I to
ponder where the roots of my sexuality? And I can only answer with the
following: Me. I am Aaron Thomas Kreider, and I dont know why Im gay.
How are the ideas of my admiration for wrongdoings and my homosexuality
linked? Thats what Im here to figure out. I dont know the first time I saw
gay pornography. I dont know the first time I saw a naked man. But I
remember in both instances that this was something that was wrong. I was
not to feel a sexual attraction towards the same sex, yet I kept exploring my
attractions. I have found in many instances that self-loathing and disgust is
part of the homosexual experience, and I was not exempt from those
emotions. As a child of just 12 years of age, I would regularly force myself
to watch heterosexual pornography in an attempt to coax myself in to feeling
an affection for female breasts and vaginas. I would cry myself to sleep,
praying to a God that I no longer believe in that I was not gay. I would
indulge in self harm, although rarely, in a cry to some unknown deity that
they may help me feel heterosexual. I even engaged in a 14-month long
sexual relationship with a woman in order to make sure I was gay. Nothing I
did changed my feelings.
But why did I feel this way? Was it possibly a perversion that I held just
because I knew it was wrong? There is rarely any evidence to support that
those who are heavily involved in the concept of kinky sex like it simply
because it is wrong. However, I cant help but feel maybe I am gay because I
know it is a perversion. My mother used to say, fondly of me, When the
world Zigs, Aaron Zags. And I cant help but feel that I may be sexually
attracted to men just because it is wrong, because I know that it will piss off
some established authority figure. I can assure you, I did not ACTIVELY
choose to be gay, but that isnt to say that it wasnt a choice right?

PART THE FOURTH:
In nearly ever homosexual coming of age story, there is a part where the
young gay finds himself a man to be with when he is entirely too young. The
young gay goes on the Internet, finds a man who is around the age of 35, and
they are gay together. I can say that I never had the pleasure.
My first homoerotic experience is hard to define. Im not sure if it was the
first time I changed with another boy in a locker room, or if it was the first
time I kissed a boy. I only ponder this fact because I felt entirely different
with each new experience. The first time I saw a naked boy, I was strangely
aroused. No amount of outside preparation had prepared me for what I felt
inside. I felt towards that boy how I shouldve felt towards girls. I felt
towards that boy how I now feel towards anyone with whom Ive ever
shared a secret.
The first time I ever kissed a boy, I was 18 years old. I had just moved from
my small town of more cows than people and was ready to experience the
new world. I didnt experience the world I was anticipating. I was in a new
universe.
PART THE FIFTH:
Whats taking you so long? he texted me from his fourth floor apartment.
Sorry, I dont know the way. Be there soon, I texted back.
freshmen. Lol.
What road is it on again?
Its called Beaver Ave. Its not hard to miss.
Is it near college ave?
One more street south, and youll be there

I arrived to the apartment complex completely fascinated. Never, in my
small town of one stoplight, had I ever seen a building so huge and full of
life. This building took up what seemed like the whole block. There were
people dancing in the windows, students drinking on the balconies. And then
I saw him.
Just 4 floors up, I could see him looking down on me smoking his cigarette.
He smiled. I waved.
Come up! he yelled down, Apartment 409!
I walked into the lobby of the apartment complex. This new land felt almost
as foreign as the person I was going to. I mean, sure, I had texted him all
summer after meeting him during my new student orientation, but I really
didnt know him very well. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, cautiously
made my way over to the apartment that read 409, and knocked.
He gave me drinks. He kissed me. He made me leave. That is all I want to
say about this night.

PART THE SIXTH:
An anxiety attack. Have you ever had one? You feel like you cant catch
your breath. Your eyes are dry, but they keep watering. Your limbs are cold,
but your body is pumping blood faster than it needs to. Your brain cant
focus. Your chest sinks. You cant see. You can see everything. Your heart
has stopped beating. Your heart wont stop beating. You cant hear. You can
hear everything.
During an anxiety attack you cant focus on anything. You simultaneously
cant get out of your own head. Every bad thought youve ever had, every
embarrassing moment youve ever encountered, flashes before you in a sea
of waves of heat and horror. There is nothing right about the feeling you
have during and anxiety attack. That is how I know I didnt choose this.
I have had four anxiety attacks in my life.
1. When Scott Horvath made me drive my cheap-ass Volkswagen Jetta up a
mountain it was clearly not produced to surmount.
2. The morning after I kissed my first boy.
3. The time a friend of mine encouraged me to talk to another boy at a party
and then pushed me into him.
4. The time a gay couple that I barely knew tried to coerce me into an
intimate evening. I ran away.
PART THE SEVENTH, PART THE FINAL:
75% of my anxiety attacks have happened in relation to a homosexual act. I
did not get the delirious happiness I got in kindergarten. I wasnt getting
away from something. I had gotten myself into something.
Dont be a faggot.
Dont be a pussy.
You werent born like this.
I admit that I like to get away with things. I like to piss of the established
authority. When I am told not to do something, it takes everything in me to
resist the urge of doing it. And, depending on the severity of the situation, I
will usually give into my temptations. But have you ever done that you
really werent supposed to do? I have. Ive been gay. And thats the ultimate
bad thing for a kid from a town of seven churches.
I can only conclude this: my being gay is not an affront to some kind of
society-established authority figure. There has been a barrage of media,
morals, religions, and propaganda to make me feel bad for being this way.
And I can say that I have never enjoyed it. I have come to accept my
homosexuality, but never once has it been something that Ive been overtly
proud of. I rock my gay persona. I walk with a strut. But never once have I
been that 5 year old in a tree or that 6 year old in a bathroom.
Its funny how the word gay originally meant happy. Because being gay
certainly hasnt made me happy. Its defined who I am, and I accept that
now. But it was a status ascribed to me at birth, in the fibers of my being, in
the nuclei of my cells. Ive made many choices to give a middle finger to
authority. This wasnt one of them.