My last girlfriend and I had been high school sweethearts, although she was a year ahead of me. We started dating near the beginning of my junior year, in the fall of 1992. One of our first real dates was to see A League Of Their Own, where we both proceeded to sob our eyes out. In retrospect, this should have just been one in a minefield of homosexual indicators, but that’s neither here nor there at this juncture.
We dated through the spring of that school year. As could only happen to a blossoming homo, our production of Guys and Dolls caused us to break up. She and I were the royal couple of the music and drama programs, and it was all but guaranteed that we would play Sky Masterson and Sarah Brown opposite each other. Scandal ensued when the choir director’s favorite soprano was given the part over my girlfriend, who in turn because jealous and suspicious that I would leave her for my new co-star. Naturally, I acted like a big jerk. There was an ugly scene that resulted in the loss of my class ring (eventually retrieved), the dissolution of prom plans for that year (resulting in a miserable prom for just about everyone involved), and more teenage angst than could fill the prime time slots on the WB and UPN combined.
A month later we were back on speaking terms. Another month later, after she had graduated, we were back on kissing terms, and by mid-summer we were back together full time. When September rolled around, she went off to college. Surprisingly, we lasted until January of 1994, when the differences between her college life and my high school life were too great to ignore, and we had a peaceful, albeit sad, final breakup.
That was ten years ago this month, almost to the day. Roughly a month later, on my eighteenth birthday, I would be in the bathroom and about to shower, looking in the mirror as it fogged up. I vividly remember staring at my fading reflection and saying to myself, “You’re gay, and there’s no point in denying it anymore.” And that was that.
The coming out process was tumultuous at the time, to say the least. Naturally, ten years later, I can see the humor and comedy in most of it. But at my darkest hour, when I thought I had nowhere else to go but downhill, the person who proved to be a pillar of inspiration and support was none other than my last girlfriend. She had come to see me in The Skin Of Our Teeth, the spring play of my senior year. Afterwards, she invited me back to her house to talk and catch up.
“I’m worried about you,” she had said. “You’re not acting like yourself at all. You’ve lost weight and look horrible. You’ve been sick. So you can tell me what’s going on, but I am pretty sure I already know.”
And with that, she asked me if I was gay. I came out to her officially that night, and we had a long talk. I made a point about how our relationship had been genuine and important. She vowed that she would always be there for me, no matter what. And while it was a year late, that spring she came back from college for a special weekend and we finally got our prom.
