Openly Straight

by Bill Konigsberg

It wasn’t so much that I was in love with him; I was just in love with being included. Being chosen.

If Ben were gay, and he knew I was gay, would he pick me?

When I opened my eyes, Ben was looking directly at me. I held his gaze and he held mine, and we saw each other. We saw. As clearly as my lenses would allow, I saw who Ben was, and it was good. And I could tell from his expression that he was seeing me too.

Then I wondered if that was what this was, like a Brokeback Mountain thing. We’d sleep in the same bed for a year, and finally we’d do it, but we’d never talk about it, ever, and then Ben would get married and I’d be killed in Texas.

“I guess I’d like to think of what we have as agape. A higher love. Something that transcends. Something not about sex or brotherhood but about two people truly connecting.”

“So we’re not … aga-gay?” He laughed. “I knew you were thinking that. I guess I sort of was too. You know what, Rafe? If I was ever gonna be aga-gay with anyone, it would be you.”

“Pornog …” My dad realized what he’d said, and stopped, and we all laughed, and my mother buzzed him. “You’re not just out, you’re cut off,” she said. “Okay, ready? Three of us left. Tofu.” Ben: “Soccer.” Me: “Sports cars.” Mom: “Chandeliers.” Ben: “Sex.” Me: “…” Mom: “Zzz. Out. Just me and Ben, I guess. Onions.” Ben: “Agape.” Mom: “…” All of us: “Zzz.” And we all applauded Ben, the newcomer, who had come in and beaten us at our own game. “To agape,” my dad said, smiling warmly at Ben. “To agape,” we all echoed, raising our wineglasses and drinking to higher love.

“I swear to God, I wish I really was gay. I’d totally marry you.”

He opened the door and the desk lamp was on and our eyes met and nothing had to be said. But Ben said something anyway. “Those footsteps. I know those footsteps,” he whispered.