When I was in school (in NYC in the ’90s) I shared a loft apartment for a year with a gay male friend who went on to become a successful architect. I mention his sexuality because (1) he always did and (2) ironically, he had a girlfriend.
Justin believed that a person’s sexuality was a matter of genetics and that convenient gene also influenced a myriad of personality and life-skills predispositions. How a person – regardless or in spite of their genes – chose to live his or her life was another matter all together.
“What about love?” I once asked him over steak and French beans in mushroom sauce.
He finished chewing then, “What about it?”
“Can you be in love with a woman if you’re genetically supposed to be gay?”
Justin smiled at me indulgently. “Oh, E.J.. My biological attraction to men doesn’t mean I’m unable to maintain and enjoy a monogamous relationship with a woman.”
“It doesn’t?”
Justin laughed and tossed his white-blonde hair out of his bright blue eyes.
“What if there’s a lesbian,” I proffer. “Who has a deep desire to procreate and have a family?”
“Then she’s not a lesbian.”
Yes, Justin was a lot of fun. A great flashpoint igniter at parties and a loyal friend. Over the years, though, we lost touch. To be honest, I didn’t really buy his “genetics vs. conditioning” absolutes and, to be blunt, I had been raised that sexuality is a non-issue. Whether or not a person is a Christian, whether or not a person is loyal and respectful and speaks with God, one-on-one every day – these are the things that matter. Not who you happen to find attractive.
Then, today, my mom and I are at the mall in Silverdale. I need a suitcase for my trip and I want some flannel pjs because sleeping in boxers and a tank at a semi-stranger’s house just ain’t my speed.
We’re done shopping, sitting at a round table in the food court, chatting over coffee and a shared Cinnabon about how my father loves anything dubbed “American Food” (fried chicken, pizza, burger, mac ‘n’ cheese) and how we’re always wondering why we can’t get goat’s milk in our lattes.
“Angel? E.J. Angel?!”
I look up. Standing in an expensive suit is Amy, Justin’s long-ago girlfriend turned, come to find out, his ex-wife and mother of his two children (shared custody, very amicable, good child support). Without sitting down and without ever acknowledging my mother’s presence, Amy catches me up on six years of her life without pausing for breathe or ascertaining my interest level. Then, with a quick glance at her flashy wristwatch (I notice she still wears her large diamond wedding band) she excuses herself.
I’m about to turn and start laughing with my mom over this bizarre, rapid-fire interruption, when Amy spins back around and asks, “E.J., do you still paint?”
(Justin paid for my first galley show.) This is the first questions I’ve been asked since Amy confirmed my identity. “Well, I’m working in game design now but I still occasionally—”
“Nudes?”
I bite my tongue, then, “Sometimes.”
“How about dinner? Sunday. I have a place in Poulsbo. My parents will have the kids. Is that enough time for you to get what you need? Cost is no object. We can settle in cash. Here’s my cell number. Call me for directions.”
And, with a flurry of black combed silk and four inch heels, Amy is gone.
My mom laughs so hard that people turn and stare. “She wants you,” my always-blunt mother guffaws around the last bite of Cinnabon.
I know I’m blushing. Good thing I’m a brown girl. “I’m a painter-for-hire now?”
Mom is still laughing as we stand to go. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and takes out her cell phone. “Let’s call your father. He can help you work out an hourly rate.”
I chase her to the parking lot with a plastic fork.
E.J.
