Headsquiggles.

when my girl friends bullied me into buying a Playboy?  long before any of them knew i was gay? and the next morning, i couldn’t find it, so i figured it disappeared or one of my friends took it as a joke — which i was okay with, as i hoped my mom would never find it? but later that day, my mom did some cleaning, and when i got to my room i found the stack of my things she found on the first floor, and at the very bottom of the pile was the Playboy?  and she never, ever mentioned it, ever? to this day? but things were awkward after?

good times.

farthest from my mind was the thought of Dating. Really, the only thing that really concerned me at that time was figuring out exactly what Being Out meant.

So when a girl I met at one of the various gay meetings I went to at the start of the school year invited me over to watch SNL, all I thought was, “HUZZAH! My first gay friend! AND we’re watching SNL? I LOVE BEING GAY.”

Bottom line: I was stupid. At least, even more stupid than I am now.

When we got to her place, the girl — let’s call her Hermione — sat down near one of the armrests on a couch that easily sat at least 4 people. Not wanting to come off as weirdly clingy, and still very much under the influence of The Hug Rule, I took my place at the opposite armrest.

But throughout the show, I noticed the distance starting to shrink.

“…Well,” I reasoned, “I guess that WAS a pretty awkward distance to keep between friends.”

So I didn’t question it.

Even when it got to the point where Hermione was practically sitting on one of my arms, and clutching my armrest was all I could do to stay on the couch.

The only explanation I came up with was “Maybe this is just how lesbians bond.”

The show ended and we got to talking. It was great being friends with someone so much more Experienced than I was, and seemed so comfortable with and knowledgeable about so many things I’d never even heard of.

“Yayyyy, friendship!” was still the only neon rainbow banner flitting around in my head.

“Well, it’s getting pretty late,” I finally said, at around 2:30am, “I should call a Cruiser and head home.”

“Oh, I don’t think Cruiser’s running now.” [Which, I might point out, wasn’t true at all, as I found out some time later.]

“…Really? Oh…well, I can walk. It’s not too far.”

“Don’t be silly! Just spend the night here!”

I hesitated, weighed the possibilities, and thought, “Wow. She is SO NICE. I’m so glad we’re becoming friends!”

She disappeared into her bedroom, so I laid myself down and got settled on the couch. A few minutes later, she came back and laughed.

“You don’t have to sleep here! C’mon, you can sleep in MY room.”

At this point, there *was* a small, nagging voice buried somewhere underneath the void that’s supposed to be My Social Skills.

I ignored it.

“Futon. She probably has a futon,” I told myself, “Right? People have futons.”

But when we walked into her room, there was no futon: just a racecar bed.

A racecar bed, by the way, is made for small children. And has high walls to prevent said children from falling out.

And, as I was about to discover, grown-ups from escaping once all sorts of clues finally fall into place.

Which they did.

And I didn’t sleep at all that night.

Not while I was all too aware of the unfamiliar boobs pressing into my back.