A Chronicle of Closeted Sex Acts

When being gay still felt like an epic disaster

Illustration by Randi Pace

1.There is a picture of me as a toddler kissing a little boy named Jack. We are sitting on a miniature white wicker chair on the front porch of my house. We both have short, wispy curls, his blonde and mine brown, that fall just above the base of our necks. He’s wearing a light blue t-shirt with dark blue stripes. It’s covered in drool and dirt stains. I’m not wearing a shirt at all, and the corner of my diaper peeks out at the bottom of the frame. My eyes are closed and Jack’s are slightly open. Our lips are millimeters apart. They are clearly about to touch.

I’m not wearing a shirt at all, and the corner of my diaper peeks out at the bottom of the frame.

I don’t know why Jack and I decided to kiss in that moment, whether we were emulating the mommies we’d seen kissing daddies and the princes we’d seen kissing princesses or if we were just two babies exploring our surroundings and gender had nothing to do with it. I can’t help but wonder, though. If Jack had been a girl, would this picture exist? Or would whatever adult snapped this photo and likely shouted, awww, how cute have had a different reaction to seeing two little girls doing the same?

2. They don’t teach gay sex in sex-ed. They don’t even mention it. The penis is inserted into the vagina. That is sex. That is it. As a sixth grader it doesn’t occur to me to question what they tell me.

In our final class we all get to write anonymous questions on slips of paper and place them in a fishbowl at the front of the room for the teacher to pull out and answer. Someone, not me, has written, “how do lesbians have sex?” I don’t remember if there are giggles when my teacher reads this one aloud. Probably. I don’t remember perking up or being especially interested in the answer. I don’t quite remember how the teacher answers it either, but I do vividly remember this question being pulled out of the fishbowl, even though I can’t remember any others. I can still hear my teacher reading it out loud in her low, scraggly voice.

That has to mean something.