Straight to the point

Dear -,

 

Sometimes it’s tiring. I feel like I could get sweaty, dirty, exhausted from staring at you.

Exhausted from seeing you and, more than that, of creating realities and narratives worth the attention of 12-year-olds who love Wattpad fanfictions. 

I get drained from not knowing what you are thinking of. When we hug; when you hold my hand; when you decided to have your only gay friend as a source of comfort when you are lonely, what were you thinking of?

I could go on rants and rants about how being the queer friend to all my straight friends is constantly crossing boundaries of intimacy because “… why not? It’s not like if he could possibly be attracted to me, so what could go wrong with holding hands, touching his neck, and feeling his tight close to mine?”; I could get deep into the details of how my psyche, with some mentions to my horoscope, affect my perception of relations and body contact with other men and how that can easily drive me to see that person as a love interest. I could do all of it to give myself reassurance in the form of excuses to believe that “…no, I don’t like him”, “no, I didn’t catch feelings this easily for my friend”, and, way more often than I would like: “no, I was not used.”

Sometimes, I even get myself looping down a spiral of thoughts where I wonder “…did my straight friend kiss me just to… find out? Was it just an experiment?” Not that this is any wrong – it’s not as if I had not enjoyed the moment as well. But, being the queer friend, this type of thing happens way too often. And, in the aftermath, I am still grounded in the solitude you found me: no one really cares about the comfort, desire, and needs of the queer. But, before you even try: this is not a pity party. This is an explosion, a collapse inside of me, word vomiting as I try to conceal all the incessant gut reactions I have when I catch your eyes gazing at me.

I don’t think I like you. You should know this. However, I was allowed to create a multitude of theories, feelings, and fears over the moments we share – and, I know, it’s not your fault. Nothing of this is your fault. All of this only crosses my mind – and heart – because I have too fertile of an imagination. And these same brain cells that perceive you as a possible love interest, drive me insane with a need to spend time with you. I have turned into an addict. I want to be around you, see you, know what you are doing, and share as much time together as possible. But time alone; time where there will be no one else to hold your hand and steal your attention from me. I need the validation and attention only you can give me – or at least I think I do. I was tricked to think I do.

The more I write, the more aware I am of my own toxicity and immatureness. Talking to you helps – as one could presume – but is never as fulfilling as I wish it would be. Yet, I don’t think I like you. I just find the sensations I get from being around you… interesting; unique in a way I want more than anything, and more than the time before and the time before that.

Honestly, I just wanted you to be more aware, to understand the weight of your hands when they pet my hair and the meaning of the words left unsaid when we kiss. I wish I could say you broke me. Sit you down and tell you that, because of you, I am now unable to have other male friends without constantly thinking of them as potential love interests. But, if I’m being honest, I was broken way before. As I said, not your fault. The ones who came before you did that job. Being the queer friend is never knowing what to expect.

 

Hugs,

 

December 24, 2020