The Cross in the Closet (10 page)

It’s hard to be gay in spring. Well, probably not for someone who is
actually
gay, but for me, springtime poses more than a few problems. The rising temperatures result in rising skirt lines, and trying to keep my true orientation a secret is beyond frustrating.

I decide to go to church for the first time in months, hoping for the spiritual equivalent to a cold shower. The church I choose is a mega-church in town with thousands of members spread across several satellite campuses. For those unfamiliar with the idea, a
satellite campus
is a church that broadcasts the message of a pastor to multiple locations. The names of the churches are the same, they have the same non-profit status, and each has its own campus pastor; but essentially the structure allows a head pastor to be in multiple churches at once.

The location I am attending is the main campus, and the pastor is a young, good-looking guy with spiked hair and trendy clothes. He is a really nice and genuine guy, and, having spoken with him several times in the past, I know his heart is in the right place. The whole model of satellite churches seems kind of impersonal to me, but right now, the multitude of parishioners is the reason I have chosen this particular church.

After being greeted at the door, I walk into the lobby and am comforted by the fact that I am just another face in the crowd. Hardly anyone knows me, and that is a good thing. I am not here to be known, just to feel a little bit of normalcy before getting back to my new life. But seldom do well-intentioned plans pan out.

Upon reaching the café inside the church lobby, I am confronted with an overwhelming number of young women wearing incredibly revealing clothing. There are skin-tight jeans, short shorts, short skirts, and short shirts, and midriffs are exposed everywhere. Either I have never seen so much skin in a church before, or I never noticed because women have never been off limits. I rush to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I should probably splash water elsewhere, but that might be awkward for the other men in the bathroom.

I look in the mirror and see him behind me. His expression is sympathetic but coercive.

I’ve got to leave.

Don’t leave. There is nothing unnatural about your looking at women. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve let yourself see what you’re keeping yourself from. It is the way God designed you to be.

No. And that feels like the wrong way to view women.

I cannot handle the visuals, the temptation, or the hormones raging through me. Staying in church would be tantamount to self-flagellation, self-torture, so I decide to leave the church and get coffee elsewhere. I was looking for a spiritual cold shower, and I got the spiritual equivalent of a
Girls Gone Wild
video.

I walk out of the lobby doors and shiver. It may be sunny and unseasonably warm, but I feel cold.

No, Tim, don’t leave!

My Pharisee looks at me from the door, but I keep walking. Not today, buddy. Not today.

I drive to Starbucks and settle in with a venti coffee and a copy of the
Times
. It is my new Sunday morning ritual. Add to the combination Puccini’s greatest hits, and what I get is better than attending church, nine times out of ten. After coming out as gay, I wholeheartedly expected to merely switch churches. I had thought that even though I would receive some nasty responses, my desire for church would remain. But it hasn’t. After receiving the email from my pastor, after facing the plethora of responses, either rebuking me or ignoring me, the desire in me for fellowship has shifted. I want to spend time with people, but I feel sick to my stomach when I think about attending church. This feeling makes me understand why so many of my gay friends have left the church altogether. I can only imagine how much more severe my aversion would be had I received a worse reaction. So my replacement for my former Sunday morning tradition is to live a life of routines. I am amazingly content with just my coffee and paper and “Nessum Dorma” playing on repeat. For an hour or so every Sunday morning, I forget that life is not what it used to be, and the distraction is welcome. I sit and read a few compelling news stories and listen to a compelling piece of music, never forgetting that at any moment, the
Times
might remind me, vigorously, why I am living this life.

Today’s
New York Times
has a story about LGBTQ teens committing suicide because of being bullied, and another about the never-ending saga of California’s anti-gay marriage bill, Proposition 8. These two stories snap me back to reality. I read the story about teen suicide twice before pausing my music and praying for the families and the victims of bullying, and for the hearts of the bullies to change—and also my own heart. It is the only form of church I can muster today.

It is hard to comprehend that if I were actually a gay man, entire populations of socially conservative people have control over my fate. Religious organizations could raise enough money in a month to hinder my freedom in real and tangible ways, for the duration of my life. This is a reality for LGBTQ folks everywhere. In California, religious organizations, primarily the Latter Day Saints, covertly raised millions dollars to fund Proposition 8. Millions of dollars were spent raising an army of volunteers to canvas tens of thousands of homes with anti-gay literature and to engage voters in door-to-door confrontation. And for what? Passing Proposition 8 did not stop LGBTQ couples from going to sleep that night with their partners. What it did accomplish, however, was remind the gay community once again that they are not looked at as equals, that the God of so many does not love them. I saw this as I watched the live coverage of the protests.

I have always allowed my beliefs to blind me to the reality lived daily by other human beings. I have let my opinions and interpretations of scripture to take away my compassion and God-given common sense. I am guilty of thinking in the stark black and white terms of my theology and politics, but never from the standpoint of real, living and breathing people. The picture at the top of the article breaks my heart. It is a photograph of two normal men, holding each other with tears in their eyes as they console one another.

I leave the café as hoards of church-goers show up, some of whom are the same girls that drove me out of the church in the first place. They prance around, ignorant of the effect they have on me. The chemical reaction inside me is enough to make me question what in the hell I’m doing, and I fight to look away. I shake my head in the despair of it all. It really is hard to be gay in spring.

I always wondered what it would be like to suppress my attraction to such an extreme degree. As I attempt it, I realize I have to suppress more than just physical attraction. I have to suppress
myself
to live within the mentality of the closet. And the closet is so much more severe than its name would have you to believe. It is not even closet-like. It is a self-imposed exile from the reality of who you are. It is a roadblock to anyone trying to have any semblance of a normal life. Were this experiment to last longer than a year, I would have to talk to girls discreetly and hide those relationships from everyone. It would be impossible for me to live without enjoying the company of another person. The only way I am able to handle this forced abstinence from women is by reminding myself daily that this project will only last a year. But others do not have that luxury.

Harder even than not gawking at girls is the act of forcing myself to live in an almost constant state of paranoia. Paranoia seems to be, for me, the key to staying in the closet. When people look at me now, my first thought is to question their thoughts. When I am with my family or friends, I have to make sure I control what I look at and where my eyes wander. And even when I am in the clubs, I have act totally comfortable, even when I’m not. This means forcing myself to maintain composure even when I’m receiving the most shocking types of attention from unwanted suitors. Being in the closet means I have to try to monitor every action and reaction before it becomes external, deciding whether it will give me away.

Being at church today reminds me of a story told by my friend James from Tribe, who grew up in the closet and had to shower day after day with his football team after practice. He had to will himself not to get an erection every time, because if he didn’t, he would have been bullied, possibly to death. It was not safe for him to be himself. I am starting to understand why. “My life felt like a pornography I was forced into,” he said. “And I learned to keep my eyes closed and shower like it was a sprint.”

I have also begun tracking what I can only describe as a phenomenon. Several women frequent the gay dance clubs, trying to sleep with gay men. I am not sure whether they are doing so out of insecurity or for sport, but seducing a gay man seems to be a trophy of sorts: The only reason you’re gay is because you haven’t slept with me. They use this line or a variation almost every time. Every time it has been used on me, I have to laugh, walk away, and force myself to stay in the bathroom for several minutes so I don’t end up taking the bait. It seems that no matter where I go, I am faced with my hormones and with the primal attraction of my orientation. I am not safe anywhere.

Another facet of the closet—the most difficult, for me—is the restrictive power it holds over my life. Being single was never something I worried about, but the moment the option of a relationship became off limits, I felt like I was in solitary confinement. I could never have imagined that being forcibly single would rob me of so much joy.

The closet is beginning to get to me, really get to me. I do not know how much longer I will be able to handle this.

It is just another Friday night, and I am at Tribe. Fortunately my shift at Revive ended in time for me to grab a beer and see some friends whom I have not been able to spend time with for a few weeks. Ben and Phil are both on the patio when I arrive, and run over to hug me. I am comforted by their presence and blessed by their happiness at seeing me. The ambiance, the very mood, at the bar is unusually relaxed. It is the end of a work week and everyone is looks tired and ready for the weekend. Maybe they should be drinking shots of espresso instead of vodka.

I find my way to Will’s bar and order a drink. Next to me, two of the regulars are already four drinks in. They are loud and joking raucously about their sexual conquests, trying to bring others into their game. When they see me, the “virgin gay,” they call me, they begin inching their way towards me. But I am not the fool I was that first night at the club. Shawn has taught me how to handle myself with these kinds of guys, even in unsettling situations.

“Hey, sexy!” The first man moves next to me and lays it on thick. “So we’ve been wondering something.”

“What’s that?” I ask, staring straight ahead at Will. We seem to be having a conversation without words, and Will is telling me to ignore them.

“Your earrings are four gage, right?” he asks.

“Twos, actually,” I answer, still looking ahead.

“Well, we were wondering if your ears are all that’s pierced.”

“What’s your name again?” I ask.

“Whatever you want it to be, babe.”

“Cut the shit. What’s your name?”

“I’ve told you three times since you’ve been coming in here. I’m Trey, and he’s John.” He seems upset I did not remember.

“Pleasure to meet you, again.” I finally look at Trey and he smiles. “And to answer your question, maybe I have other piercings, maybe I don’t. You’ll never know.”

“Ooh, he’s feisty!” John approaches me from behind and starts massaging my neck. It is not a gentle massage. It hurts. I feel simple panic wash over me. It comes from somewhere inside, the place inside where I thought I had banished my homophobia.

Before I can react to the massage, I feel Trey close to my ear. He breathes heavily, trying to turn me on, like he is going to suck on my earlobes. I flatten my palm and slide it up in between my ear and his mouth, but he reaches up and lowers my hand. I feel angry and disgusted, but I cannot give into my revulsion.

I am on the verge of overreacting, and overreacting might give me away. This is too much. My hand tightens into a fist, and I want to hit John in the mouth. I want to punch Trey, too. The unwanted advances creep me out, and I feel more uncomfortable than I have felt in months. But unlike that first night at Play, I think rationally. I take three deep breaths, and an odd sense of calm covers me. I see their game for what it is. They are two lonely guys who have had too much to drink and want something they know they cannot have.

“You know, I feel really bad for you guys.”

John stops massaging me and looks perplexed.

“What? Why?” Trey asks.

“There’s only one reason you act this way.” I pause and sip my beer. “Neither of you feel loved, so you look for any substitute possible to fill that void. But I want you to know that both of you
are
loved. I love you, and God loves you, and I hope you figure it out soon.”

Will looks up at me from behind the bar and smiles. He nods his head in approval.

“How you figure that?” John asks.

“It’s just the impression you guys give me. Like I said, I really hope you realize that there’s more to life than crossing the line with a guy you barely know.” Without thinking, I put my hand on Trey’s shoulder and smile at him. “I hope you aren’t offended.”

“No…” He looks down thoughtfully. “We aren’t.” Trey seems surprised by my reaction.

I do love them. I really do. I feel their sadness inside their false confidence. I have always used religion to mask my insecurities, but never sex. Sex does not change anything. Both sex and religion are equally wrong when you use them as a substitute for being honest with yourself.

“Will. I’m going to the bathroom. Will you watch my drink?” I say.

“Sure thing.” He smiles.

Before the bathroom door is closed, I have dialed Shawn’s number. I need a buffer, and he is the only one I can think of who can help me out. He answers and I do not bother with pleasantries.

“Shawn, remember the two guys at Tribe that hit on anything that moves?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“I’m here, and they’re really coming on strong. My neck hurts from John trying to massage me—”

“I’m on my way,” he says.

I take a deep breath and lean back against the wall.

Quite the situation you’ve gotten yourself into
, the Pharisee says, resting against the sink.

Yes, it is. But I can handle it.

How could you justify their behavior? It’s disgusting, and—How shall I say it?—
abominable
. “…the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men.” Romans 1:27 suddenly seems to make sense to you, doesn’t it?

I don’t agree with what they’re doing any more than you do, but I refuse to call them
abominable
. You use your beliefs as an excuse to write people off too quickly, and you use your Bible to write them off too.

You’re the one who has to deal with them, so think whatever you want. But I know they’re unnatural. The goose-bumps on your skin tell me you do, too.

People are people, and if I were at a straight bar or club right now, I’m pretty sure I would be seeing guys act the same way as Trey and John.

I wait in the bathroom for ten minutes before going back to my seat. I am not scared of Trey or John flirting with me anymore; I just know I want to enjoy my night, and dealing with them in tandem is not my idea of a good time. They work so perfectly together, their comments and physical advances like those of one person split into two. They remind me of the lions from
The Ghost and the Darkness
, except that instead of predators, they are just a couple of obnoxious guys trying to have a good time. For the first time, I imagine what it must be like to be an attractive woman, and I am convicted. Have my methods of flirtation ever been that insensitive? Have I ever made a woman feel like the object I feel like right now? It is something to think about.

By the time I reach my seat, Shawn is already at the bar and I wrap my arms around him. His presence brings peace to the situation, and I am thankful he is a part of my life.

“Hey, baby! I’m glad you called,” he says in his typical velvet tone.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you!”

“I bet. I was down the street for work, so coming here was perfect,” he says.

I lean into Shawn, putting my head on his shoulder.

“This your boyfriend?” Trey and John eye Shawn up and down.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he says, putting an arm around me. I still have not figured out why Shawn’s touching me does not illicit feelings of discomfort. Maybe it is because I trust him. He knows I am not really gay and is helping me out…but, still. To the old Tim his motives would not have mattered. He is gay, and that is the only thing I would have considered.

“You want us to leave him alone, don’t you?” John asks timidly.

“Well, being that I haven’t seen him all day, I would appreciate it.” Shawn plays the part perfectly, speaking with the perfect combination of grace and protectiveness. The guys seem to get the point and back off a few feet.

“You’re my hero!” I whisper to Shawn.

“No, I’m your boyfriend. You aren’t ready to deal with guys like that,” he says soothingly.

“I think he is.” Will’s voice comes out of nowhere and across from us. “I told Tim he needed to be careful when he’s out. New guys are defenseless.”

“True,” Shawn says in agreement.

“But he handled them well enough. You would’ve been proud!” Will smiles.

“Believe me, I already am.” Shawn hugs me again.

There is something humbling about going from total confidence to the total lack of self-assurance. In church I know the language, the order, and the procedure; but here, I am lost. Will and Shawn have become my teachers, and they are teaching me that with any group of people group or social sub-sect, there is inevitably good and bad. Such is life.

Shawn leaves after an hour and once again I am left at Tribe alone. Not a bad place to be, but it is always more fun to know who you are drinking with. I move to the second room and sit on a couch, waiting for something to happen, timidly hoping I will not have to initiate conversation. Making friends has never been an issue for me, but while straight Tim does not know a stranger, gay Tim leans towards introversion. I cannot help it. I am comfortable around the people who I know I can hide from, who I can fool by wearing a mask of phony pseudo-righteousness. For better or worse, religion is still my comfort zone.

The authenticity and humility I find in my gay friends is convicting. Will, Shawn, Ben, and Phil seem protective toward me. They care. To be cared for by people I have never allowed myself to care for…well, it makes me feel so incredibly ignorant.

After a few minutes, a young man with a clipboard makes eye contact and approaches me. He is dressed in dark jeans, black leather shoes, and what looks to be a baseball jersey. He smiles and sits next to me. Behind him, I notice John and Trey working their next victim. Apparently I am not longer a target—or an option. Thank you, Shawn!

“My name is Mike. What’s yours?” Mike extends a hand, almost formally.

“I’m Tim.”

“Ever consider playing sports?” he asks.

“I played all through high school.”

“I mean now. I’m with the Metro Nashville Softball Association, and we’re looking for people to play this season. Interested?”

I think about it. “Actually, that would be great!”

“Just put down your name and contact info, and we’ll be in touch this week!” he says. I write down my name and phone number and hand the clipboard back. “Glad to meet you, Tim. We’ll let you know which team you’re on and when your first practice is.”

I look down at the flier Mike gives me, excited by the prospect of playing sports again. Signing up feels like the right thing to do, another opportunity to immerse myself in the community. And if there is one thing I am confident in, it is the fact that I am not completely un-athletic!

At least you can finally say you were recruited by a homosexual!
The Pharisee laughs, amused by himself.

Really, a joke?

I used to think that all gay bars were 99 percent stereotype and 1 percent people. I thought that I would find loud techno music providing the beat for hundreds of sweaty, shirtless men that all wanted to hook up with each other. I had imagined that a gay bar was almost like a bathhouse, it was the foreplay to some main event. Surely there would be alcohol, and obviously there would be crowds of people, but their intent would be what I was always taught in church.
Lascivious
. But these stereotypes are only true of a select few at Tribe on any given night, and with the exception of John and Trey, no one else acts any different than the crowd I would find at any other bar. So I am faced with the simple reality that stereotypes are only true of a select few, if any—a select few that we seem to remember and focus on more than the rest.

To be fair, I have noticed that negative stereotypes of gays and lesbians are promoted almost as much by pop culture as by the conservative church. Television and Hollywood have taught us that every gay man is an avid fan of show-tunes, speaks with the effeminate voice of Jack from
Will & Grace
, and dresses in clothes that are always just a bit too tight. We are taught that lesbians are a bunch of butch, radically feminist man-haters. And of course these stereotypes always lead back to sex.

If there is one stereotype that I have found holds truth, it is that both conservative religion and pop culture are hyper-obsessed with gay sex; and I, too, have bought into the lies. The vast majority of gay men and lesbian women desire nothing more than love, commitment, and a normal life. I also recognize inside myself a man guilty of projecting his imaginary world onto others instead of looking at individuals as unique teachers of their own life experience and truth.

John and Trey saunter over, and I look up from the softball flier. Their faces are meek and conciliatory. “We just wanted to say that we’re sorry for before. Can we buy you a beer?” Trey’s voice betrays a much changed and more respectful tone.

“I would love that, guys. Thank you,” I say. The Pharisee looks as though he has just lost a bet, and I feel hopeful for another chance to get to know new people. We walk back into the third bar area where Will is preparing drinks. He looks at me and smiles, and I know I am on the right track. Apparently even the stereotypes are not so stereotypical.