Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad (7 page)

We’d get on the train and look for two seats together as far away from other commuters as possible. The magazines were in a paper bag we’d put behind one of our backs. We’d sit quietly as the train started moving. We wouldn’t even look at each other. This was all part of the routine. We’d pretend to be two commuters who didn’t know each other, heading home after work. It would take eight minutes for the train to come out of the long tunnel of Grand Central Station and into daylight. The conductor would always take
our tickets just before the first stop at 125th Street. After the doors closed, we knew we had a good long stretch with no chance of anyone coming by.

We’d slouch really low in our seats and slide a magazine out of the paper bag. Philip would flip through the whole thing fast as sort of a preview. Then we’d go through it again, more slowly, to analyze the photos. That’s when I saw it: my first grown-up vagina. I looked at Philip to see what he thought. I remember he seemed like he’d seen it all before. I couldn’t hide the fact I hadn’t.

“Where do they pee? Where’s the hole? Do you see a hole? There’s no hole!” I was desperate to understand.

“Stop saying ‘hole,’” he said, before taking me through the ins and outs (so to speak) of the female anatomy. He was suspiciously confident in explaining what he himself didn’t understand. Because to us, they were like the mouths of caves. One even seemed to be in 3D—a coral reef, glistening with sea life.

“Oh my God!” I said once, a little too loudly on a particularly crowded train. “That looks like it could stick to the shower wall like a shampoo caddy.” We both burst out laughing. Not surprisingly, we are both now married to
men
.

For so many of our peers, gaining access to a vagina was a full-time preoccupation. Guys would talk for hours, speculating about rolling around with Erica or Debbie or Nancy or that girl, I think her name was Sapna—a buxom Indian girl who had her first period during a third-period health class all about periods. Sapna is probably a drug addict now. Some things you don’t recover from.

I, on the other hand, didn’t give the topic a second
thought. I managed without too much difficulty to get through high school and most of college avoiding vaginas altogether. No, during that time my attention was focused on the penis. Mine and those of anyone who’d show me theirs. There were only three:

1. Johnny Mancuso, who stepped back from a urinal to show me how he could pee the letters of his name.

2. Seth Feingold, the lead in our school play who pulled me into the bathroom to show me his “anaconda.”

3. And finally, Rick, the drummer guy I met during my short stint in marching band, who dared me to show him mine but, when I refused, settled for showing me his. Then he spent the rest of the semester inviting me over for a sleepover. I politely declined. Most of the time.

It wasn’t until I got to college that I had my first experience with an actual, real-life, full-grown vagina. And let me tell you, it didn’t last more than twenty-two seconds. I know because I counted to myself.

One, two, three . . . Hmm. That’s kind of odd. It’s so warm . . . seven, eight . . . and bristly. And, twelve, thirteen . . . wait a minute
, what?
Fifteen, sixteen . . . It’s
wet!
Nineteen, oh my
God!
Is that—? Twenty . . . No. Okay. I can’t do this . . . Twenty-one, twenty-two
. I was out. I made some excuse about study group and took off in the direction of
not
the vagina. Who knew it would be so wet?

Despite my head-for-the-hills reaction, a few years later I landed my first real girlfriend. I’ll call her Nora. She was two years younger but not a virgin. I of course still was. Within a few weeks Nora started the subtle pressure for us to “do it.” I can’t imagine why my lack of interest in doing “it” or anything else physical wasn’t a red flag. Trying to turn her off became my mission. I wouldn’t make any eye contact. I’d give monosyllabic answers to her questions and I’d try to avoid all body contact. But for some reason she took my apathy as a challenge. I’d sit next to her on the couch and we’d turn on the TV. Despite the fact I had no idea what we were watching, I’d appear fully engrossed to cool down the nineteen-year-old coed sitting shoulder to shoulder with me, kissing my neck and nibbling my ear.
Freeze and maybe she’ll stop. Play dead and maybe she won’t attack
.

There came a point where I couldn’t keep the charade going. I knew in my heart that I had to shit or get off the pot. If I wouldn’t finally jump in and start having some of the sex, I’d risk losing Nora, whom I’d actually grown to love. But worse than that, it would confirm a fear I’d had since childhood: that I was, in fact, gay. It was a fear I’d promised myself would never be realized or I’d commit suicide. That’s right. Having sex with Nora had become a matter of life and death.

Nora had long, dark hair, a great body—at least in the eyes of someone who couldn’t have cared less—and was about my height. She had a sweet smile and loved to laugh. Particularly at everything I said. She came from a Seattle family with a lot of money. As a result, Nora was the only freshman at Vassar who drove a fully loaded, souped-up BMW with a phone in it. Nothing was cooler. Except for the long weekend in
Manhattan we spent during one spring break. Her dad was owed a favor or two by the owners of a fancy hotel on Central Park, so our whole stay was complimentary. I was stunned. A beautiful room. Bathrobes we got to keep. Room service. And what about the fact that Warren Beatty was also staying in the hotel? That did it for me. Here was Hollywood’s most notorious playboy staying in the suite right above ours! If he was getting laid, for fuck’s sake, so would I!

We came back to the hotel after a day of sightseeing, Broadway shows, and shopping. Jeez, I was so gay you could see it from space. You could, but we didn’t. We walked into the lobby and I put my hand on the small of her back, feeling every bit the role of “the boyfriend.” We got into the elevator and my stomach started doing flips. She smiled at me and I at her. It’s like we both knew. I started to run a million excuses in my head to talk myself out of what I had determined to do:
I don’t want to be late for
Dreamgirls.
What if someone hears and kicks us out of the hotel? We ate Indian for lunch, risky choice for lovemaking, no?
But I was climbing the steps on the high dive and I really didn’t want to turn back. It was time to just walk to the edge and jump.

Nora threw her bags on the floor and I just went for it. I picked her up and threw her on the bed. In a matter of seconds, we were both naked. While we were making out, Nora led my hand down, you know, there. Thank God, because my hand wasn’t going to go there by itself. It was lifeless and limp—like the victim of some self-induced stroke. But luckily, it was the only part of me that was limp.

Yes, gay guys can get erections when we are with women. We’re still men, after all. It doesn’t take much. A piece of fruit.
A bus seat. A hat. The drop of that hat. And the mechanics of it all? Exactly the same. Tab A goes into Slot B just like it does for everyone else. Tab A just liked to fool around with
Tab
B instead.

After a few minutes, she felt me against her and guided me to where I was supposed to be. I remember being surprised at how unremarkable it was. My mind was racing:
You’re doing it! You’re having sex!
Then,
Huh. Is this it? This right here is what having sex feels like? Man. What the hell is the big deal?

Afterward, we showered and had dinner and I was on top of the world. I did it! I did it! I had sex with my girlfriend in a five-star hotel just like Warren Beatty a floor or two away. I’m a man among men. A man’s man . . . a
straight
man.

It was March of 1986. I had been keeping a journal since the beginning of the previous semester, which I’d spent at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center studying theater, dance, and puppetry. (Why didn’t they just call it the Center for Gay Studies?) Here’s the entry in my journal after that fateful night:

March 11, 1986. New York City
.

Well, it happened! Tonight I am a man. That sounds so stupid. But it’s true. Tonight, Nora and I finally did “it.” We had sex. I’m no longer a virgin. I can’t believe it. After all this time. And all the nervousness. And all the worry. I have to admit—it was over so fast.
And I didn’t really like
It didn’t really feel the way I thought it would feel. Kind of no big deal. Anyway. I’m so happy! Because now there’s no going back! Nobody can take it away from me. I just hope she doesn’t want to do it all the time now
.

Before Nora had the chance to even hint at doing it again, the following night I was feeling pretty cocky.
Let’s do it again
, I thought.
Why not? Really seal the deal
. So we got ready for bed, slid into the million-thread-count sheets, and I immediately rolled on top of her. Again, she guided me. Only this time, I felt something different.

Wait a minute! What’s happening here?
I thought. I felt a tiny bit of pressure and then most definitely the warm tight wetness that could mean only one thing: I was inside her. Again, my mind was racing.

This was
nothing
like the night before. So what the hell had that been?

It turned out I hadn’t lost my virginity to Nora on that first night. I lost it to the side of her leg and maybe some rolled-up sheets. Why she didn’t
tell
me I had taken a wrong turn or failed to yield at the intersection, I can’t for the life of me figure out. Was she trying to protect me from embarrassment? The second night was unmistakable. I was most definitely inside another human being for the first time in my life. And a woman, at that! It’s interesting the way biology or evolution or whatever set it up so the male could pretty much have a positive sexual experience with anything warm enough, wet enough, and tight enough. Not to minimize the role of attraction, seduction, and dare I say, love, that add the
sexy
factor to the game. But speaking strictly of the act of intercourse itself, a hole is a hole. And it wouldn’t be fair to say I didn’t enjoy it.

Nora and I continued to have a moderately healthy sex life for the next few months. And by “healthy” I mean we had one, but I wasn’t into it. And she knew it. We’d fight all
the time. I wanted her to break up with me. She’d burst into tears in the campus student center and scream, “You treat me like a whore!”

True, I was a shitty boyfriend, no doubt—and a lousy lay. But the one thing I guarantee I was
not
doing? Treating her like a whore. If anything, I would have paid cash money to
not
have sex with her. While a small part of me was pretty proud of my ability to sell the straight guy story, I felt terrible about how Nora was feeling. But I couldn’t admit to myself that it was a problem on my end. I knew it was over. But I didn’t want to admit to the reason—not yet. By the end of the school year, it was obvious that neither of us was happy. I had mustered enough courage and respect for Nora and myself to tell her I thought I wasn’t equipped to be a boyfriend to her and that we should just be friends. Nora cried. No doubt some of those tears were from relief. She could stop fighting so hard. And so could I.

Years later I tracked down Nora and the few other women I’d dated over the years just to let them know, “It wasn’t you.” I was relieved to see how most were already involved with other people, grateful for the honesty, and almost bored by the information. It was something I felt I needed to do—part of my journey.

It took a few more years after college before I was able to admit to the world, my family, and myself that what I really wanted was
anything but
a vagina. I was gay. No other way to frame it. And the people who knew and loved me were relieved to hear it from me—but not surprised.

•   •   •

From then until I became a father, I had no real connection to or contact with vaginas to speak of, although most of my friends have them. But then, as fate would have it, I was blessed with a daughter. And as fate would have it, she has one too. I can’t close the case file on the vagina just yet. It was clear there was much more for me to do vis-à-vis the vajayjay.

Eliza comes up to me out of the blue one day and tells me she has ten babies in her tummy.

“Oh wow,” I say, “that’s a lot. Who’s going to help you take care of all those kids?” Yes. Even in this childish game of make-believe, Daddy’s concerned about child care and the cost of getting all those kids fed.

“You are, Daddy!” Eliza says. “And Papi too! But they’re not going to come out until I’m growned up.” Ahhh. Excellent plan.

“Does it hurt?” Eliza wonders if the birthing process hurts. Jesus. I don’t want to scare her. But I also don’t want to lie.

“Um, a little, I think, sweetie. But I’m a boy. So I’ve never had that experience. Only girls can have babies.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know that.” She then wonders aloud how the babies can squeeze out of the belly button.

“No, honey.” I laugh. “The babies come out of a woman’s vagina.” Eliza goes white. She blinks. And then again. She can’t quite believe it. And really, who can? It’s clearly not been thought through. Some evolutionary brainstorming session probably led to a whole bunch of crazy ideas and somehow this one made it through.

“No!” She thinks I’m kidding. I assure her it’s true. She spends the rest of the week asking every woman she knows if they had a baby out their vagina and if it hurt. Eliza announces proudly, “I want medicine so it won’t hurt.” Take a note: Eliza opts for the epidural. Sounds good. Get that request in early.

Ever since that birth chat, I notice Eliza looking at her vagina more. Touching it. Exploring it. I secretly wish she wouldn’t. And I wish even more that I didn’t wish she wouldn’t.

“I like taking off my underwear, Daddy!” she announced the other day. I flash forward ten years and pray to
God
she’s not saying the same thing to some guy in his parents’ Volvo hatchback on level P3 of a mall parking structure, after seeing
Fame
for the third time. Oh wait. That was me.