“I was just wondering, are you gay? My friend wants to know…”

Throughout my life, one of the constants always coming up is my sexuality. Too many people have not been satisfied with my heterosexuality, instead I have to listen to them tell me how I’m gay but just don’t know it yet (those exact words have been said to me on more than one instance). How nobody will care, how wonderful life would be once I just let myself be gay—the way I really am.

It’s been a growing problem, an exceedingly annoying one in my life. I know, I know,

“Aww poor Anthony having to deal with a modicum of offense that actual gay people deal with daily.” It’s become a shrug-off and middle finger at this point, your understanding obviously ends at a point. But the snowball grew and, at times, became an avalanche. The amount of people thinking I’m gay has turned into people trying to actualize it for their own distorted amusement; with our without my consent.

I became friendly with a homosexual man, a guy who was really awesome. He was a cool bartender, a dude who liked to drink and party, and listened to the same music as I did. We had similar thoughts, similar beliefs, and we quickly became great friends. He was open about his sexuality and that interested me because his was a party I was so often told I was attending, but whose seat was always vacant. We went out, we drank, he embraced who I was (or so I thought) and I him. We went to a local gay bar and had a good time, and he invited me to a more risqué club in the city.

I was hesitant, I admit, but putting myself in new situations is something I try to do often, so I eventually agreed to go with him and his wife (it was a complicated situation regarding citizenship).

“We’re going to meet up with a friend there.” Sure, why not, the more the merrier.

The friend was a very well-off man, some guy who invented a hair replacement system that either worked well or whose marketing team worked well. He showed up with another man, his driver, and immediately gave me a look I’d seen before. It’s the same unwanted look women get from men who want to fuck them; a shifty look, shady as hell. In hind-sight, it was foreshadowing, but damned if I can catch it that quickly. Maybe if he had been a story, I’d have been better off. I should’ve written this before anything had happened. Anyway, he handed me and wife a drink, we drank, and the night continued. After 2 drinks I felt drunker than I had in a long time, and at that time in my life, I’d been drinking quite often. While crawling into rich guy’s limousine, wife commented that she felt like she’d been slipped a roofie. I immediately panicked because I felt it too, she was right.

I didn’t have another drink but it didn’t matter, I was far too gone to do anything without help. Sometime later in the night, I was pulled onto the dance floor with hair-plugs, dancing with him without realizing it. I had no idea it was even happening, it bursts of reality in an otherwise darkness.

I was dizzy, I could barely hold myself up, the color drained from my face. We went to a diner after and I spilled water all over myself and sat in the mess, unable to get up and clean off, embarrassed and wanting to go home. Instead I was shuffled to his upper west side apartment with another man we picked up somewhere along the way, I don’t really remember.

I sat down on his expensive leather sofa while he put on a Lady Gaga album. Wife collapsed onto the sofa and my friend and the other dude went to the bedroom with hair-plugs. I was zoned out, staring in front of me in frenzy I couldn’t fully comprehend, couldn’t speak of, and couldn’t showcase in any meaningful way. I looked far off in space, far away from the apartment and internal shouts for help. I couldn’t move when hair-plugs walked up to me on the sofa, I could only feel his hot breath in my ear.

“Come into the bedroom with us.”

I couldn’t do much, but I slurred out

“I’m okay on the sofa.”

“You can come into bed with us, it’ll be fine. We’ll just lay together if you want.”

“I’m ok.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. I didn’t know he left, but his breath was no longer in my ear, invading my space. Wife motioned me over to the couch by her side—everybody in the damned apartment was hungry for sex apparently, and I was the main course. It was not an ego boost. I fell asleep holding her, unable to function but needing somebody to comfort me though I couldn’t speak at all.

The next day we left, I went home, and I spoke to that friend exactly one time after the night, detailing my perspective of the night. He was a good guy, too.

The deal is, people saying harmful things under a “helpful” guise are just as damning as anybody saying terrible things. Those words, those thoughts, those assertions from your mouth about myself led to that night. They led to a person taking “you’re gay but don’t know it yet” to the next level. They turned your words into actions. There are many instances in my life in which people have told me I’m something I’m not—good and bad, but it never scared me until that night. It scares me now because who’ll be the next to take whatever thought about me into an action against me in an exercise to prove it for themselves?

I never used to mind when people thought I was gay because I know what I am, but now I know they don’t know, but so desperately want to be right. They want to be right so badly they’ll try to drug and rape me to prove it. This happens to most people who mind their own business, who try to just live without stepping on toes. We get used, we get battered, we get told it was all our fault all along. It’s become something sinister under the umbrella of “I’m really helping you!” The mild uncomforts of getting hit on by somebody I’m not sexually attracted to have blossomed into assault and attempted rape.

“Oh, there’s no harm in anybody thinking you’re gay!” People have said, but my past has led me to believe otherwise. There’s no harm in it when people leave it be at that. There’s harm with people are sure of what you are, even if they don’t explicitly state it. There’s harm in that stupidity, there’s harm in that misunderstanding of so much in the world, that makes the world an untrustworthy place for somebody like me. So much for me to be thankful for but I focus on this bullshit because people have left me with their drugs in my system, their thoughts in my head, and a distaste in my mouth. Sometimes, like today, it makes me question everything about myself and how people perceive me. It sends me into a nervous wreck because I don’t know where those thoughts will bring those people, if they’ll someday attempt something to prove what they think of me. People exhaust me, just let me live—without rape drugs if at all possible, thanks.


Author: antbrov

Fiction | Magical Realism | Introspective Write > Edit > Hate > Learn > Write...

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