A Chronicle of Closeted Sex Acts
When being gay still felt like an epic disaster
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?
