Now, this is what the LORD says—he who created you, Jacob, he who formed you, Israel: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.”
—Isaiah 43:1
Romantic relationships and sex were everywhere and in everything I talked about with my teenage friends. Frankly, I was exhausted by my sexuality being just a theory.
It was almost the school year, and I decided to have my three best friends over to celebrate. My parents had gone away for the evening, and I ordered pizza for a movie night and slumber party. We could enjoy our newfound teenage freedom and stay up as late as we liked.
My three friends were all so different. But one of them stood out. Really stood out. Andrew, who joined us from the more rebellious group of boys at school, was deeply perceptive and had a quick intelligence I found appealing. We were in the same English class, and an emotional chemistry and friendly rivalry had grown between us as we discussed books, especially French writers and Shakespeare. We loved the same bands and planned to buy tickets to the same concerts. We had so much in common.
I sat next to Andrew on the old green leather couch and pulled up a big woolen blanket for us to ward off the early autumn chill. As we started the final film, I felt Andrew’s hand slide next to me under the blanket. I was shocked. Nothing like this had happened before. My heart rate doubled—or at least it felt like it did.
The intensity of my fifteen-year-old reaction was hard to handle. All the pent-up excitement from years of watching gay sitcoms flooded through me. I reached my hand over to reciprocate. Is Andrew gay?
Andrew looked over and smiled, and my heart thudded as I processed his advance. I gestured to go upstairs to my bed, leaving the others to the film. He looked straight back at me. This is it, I thought. This is the moment I’ve waited for. My desires were about to be more than theoretical. I couldn’t wait to get to my room.
But as we both lay heatedly back on the bed, Andrew suddenly pushed me away. “Oh, God, no! I’m not gay. I can’t believe this has happened! What was I thinking?” Sitting up, he hit his hand against his forehead.
“Andrew, it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” I said, trying to comfort him.
“Get away from me!”
“Let’s at least chat this through . . . or we could just hold each other?” I said, realizing he was slipping away.
“You’re the one who did this to me!” he said with a scowl.
“Andrew, you need to accept yourself. Don’t take this out on me,” I whispered, afraid of waking the others.
“I’m not gay, David. I’m not interested in you, and I don’t find you in any way attractive. This whole thing is over,” he said. He moved off the bed and hit his head hard against the wall. I tried to stop him, but he pulled away and slammed the door behind him.
My heart dropped. My first sexual encounter was over before it had really begun. I felt lonelier than ever.
As I stared out my window that night, the universe remained indifferent and the stars glinted coldly. It felt as if there was nothing but an infinite, cruel void. Perhaps loneliness was my fate, no matter how hard I tried.
Eventually I pulled up the covers, wrapped my arms around myself, and wept for hours. The next morning, I awoke to blue but chilly skies. I told my mother what had happened, and she called in late to work.
I’d lost not only a friendship but also my virginity. I hadn’t wanted it to be like this; I wanted a loving boyfriend who would be there for me and vice-versa. If only I could find a partner like me, one who was free and open, I would be complete and loved.
I didn’t go to school for weeks. The shame in Andrew’s reaction was, for me, exactly why things had to change in our society, and why I would become an activist.
In time, the initial sting of my experience with Andrew numbed. But the deep, gnawing desire for connection didn’t. Months later I met Vlad through a chat room for gay teenagers. He attended my neighboring school, and we began a relationship. Vlad was unique, with a sensitivity and maturity beyond his age. He had been a ballet dancer and always stood with perfect, confident posture.
One day of our time together is engrained in my memory forever. My train to meet him slowed at the station platform with its habitual clunk. The doors flung wide, and the smell of burnt rubber hit me, and the cries of schoolboys rushing to take their seats filled my ears. The blue and red of their jerseys blurred as I peered through the crowd, where Vladimir was waiting at the end of the platform. As I ran up the last few stairs, I could see him waving at me to hurry. I just made it. We got on together just as the train doors closed.
I was relieved to finally be done with the school term, and excited for time alone with Vlad. As we filed to the end of the train, we decided to get off at the next station, near our favorite hangout spot. This area of the suburbs had leafy parks where we could escape from view. I had to keep reminding myself that Vlad, my first real boyfriend, hadn’t come out yet.
“This weekend I’m seeing my father,” Vlad explained. “He wants to take me to the Orthodox church. We have a feast day, and my grandmother’s going to cook Russian dumplings.”
“That’s nice, but isn’t your dad a complete homophobe? I thought you weren’t seeing him since your parents divorced.”
“My father is just Russian about homosexuality,” he said quietly as some boys from our brother schools rushed past us. “It’s like something he’s allergic to.” He brushed his hand against mine, and his blue eyes shone as we walked.
“How can you go to a church that hates you? I would be so angry with my dad if he were a Christian,” I said as we made it up the station stairs. The spring sun shone over the park, and the scent of freesias and freshly cut grass was on the breeze.
“Being Russian is more complex than that, David. Church is a part of our identity. I don’t agree with my dad, but I love him,” Vlad said.
I shook my head. “I don’t like anything traditional like that, Vlad. Christians are bigoted. I mean, I’m spiritual but the Bible’s just horrible. I can’t stand how ignorance can shroud itself in religious ceremony. Why would a supposed God of love create us with these desires and then punish us for them? Even if Jesus never said anything about homosexuality, God made it pretty clear. I really think it comes back to Paul, who clearly had issues with women and gay people . . .” I trailed off, realizing I’d lost Vlad’s attention and that he had found a place to sit down.
After looking to see if the coast was clear, he pressed his finger to my lips and then kissed me. “I have a gift for you,” he said, pulling a small pouch from his duffle bag. He dropped it in my hand and smiled proudly. Opening it, I discovered a fine silver-chain necklace with a small amber cross. I held it up and watched as the amber’s golden flecks glinted in the sun. It was a mysterious but beautiful symbol.
“My father gave it to me when I was a child. I’ve been thinking about giving it to you for a long while,” Vlad said. “It’s just a little token of faith, something to carry on you.”
I pulled him in to kiss me. I had met an equal, a true companion, someone who wasn’t going to run off, who wasn’t afraid of deeper things. Something about him fit, even if I thought his faith naive and misplaced. As we kissed, a sense of security filled me.
Suddenly a weight thudded against my rib cage, knocking me sideways. Pain pulsed through my right side. In my peripheral vision, I saw something land at my feet in the grass. I looked down, stunned.
It was a large rock.
Vlad’s face went red with shock. Wincing at the pain, I looked behind me and saw a man with a white helmet. He flicked his visor down over his face and mounted his motorcycle. As the low growl of his throttle pierced the air, tears of both rage and sadness streamed down my face.
Instinctively I touched the amber cross still hanging around my neck and over my white oxford shirt. Somehow it both confused and comforted me.
One of the cafés I liked the most was nestled in the heart of one of Sydney’s inner city suburbs, Newtown. The walls were covered with organized sections of books, poetry being my favorite. Posters littered the notice board, including three for a marriage equality march.
It wasn’t that long after that day in the park with Vlad. I was meeting up with my best friend, Emma. As I entered the café and ordered my usual soy chai, I looked around but barely recognized her. Her hair had been dyed black. “Hey! What have you done to your hair?”
Emma put down her book. It was my favorite biography of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, one I’d picked up at a writer’s festival. “I’m sick of being valued just for my blond hair. It’s my statement for the cause of women!” she said enthusiastically.
I smiled and sat down. “Love it. So you’re the token feminist and I’m the token gay activist. Is that how this is gonna play out?” We laughed.
“I actually just dyed it for fun; the protest is secondary,” she said with a flourish of conscience. “Also, I’m doing a part for a theatre piece, and it fits with the character.”
She leaned toward me. “So, you know how yesterday we were talking about getting in touch with our spiritual side? I saw a sign for psychic readings down the road. Have you ever had your cards read? I’m kind of curious. Want to go?”
I thought of my past obsessions with Wicca and new age religion. I now considered myself an atheist, but I figured there was no harm in a simple reading. We walked down to the health food store, and as we entered, the pungent smell of vitamin tablets, dietary supplements, and patchouli oil filled our senses.
I strode up to the counter, where a woman with dreadlocks tied up in a bun was sitting, filing through the day’s receipts. “Could we please have our tarot read?”
She looked at the clock. “Sorry, there’s only one reading left for today. I can arrange it for one of you in about fifteen minutes. It’s twenty dollars for thirty minutes.”
Emma was happy to go another day, so we waited for my reading. I was filled with nervous excitement. When it was time, I passed through the beaded strands that hung in the doorway, clicking exotically together.
A rosy-cheeked woman with dark hair and a large, purple velvet coat greeted me. Sandalwood incense filled the room; aromatic candles flickered in the background. The fragrance was effusive and intense but pleasant.
“Nice to meet you, David. I’m Rose,” she said. “Let’s begin.” We sat down at the table. She looked into my eyes for a moment, then pulled out her deck. Shuffling it, she placed the deck face-down on the table, and then drew tarot cards from the top, placing them faceup in front of me until a full reading had been laid out. I was skeptical, almost amused by the spectacle. People believe in this stuff? I mean, it’s fun, but . . . seriously?
Rose inspected my cards. She seemed to be consulting a spirit guide in the form of a Native American sketched on a paper next to her. Suddenly, she looked at me in amazement.
“Incredible! You are very blessed! I need to tell you this now. You are a child of the light, destined to be with the greatest mediator in the spiritual realms, Jesus Christ. He has chosen you!”
I was a bit glazed for the rest of my reading, not really listening to her half hour of babbling about the various cards laid before me. Jesus Christ?
Back at the café, I fumed. “Emma, I think that medium is actually an undercover Christian evangelist.”
She sipped her latte and cackled. “Uhhh . . . what?”
“She said I was destined to be with Jesus. I don’t think she knew who she was talking to!”
“Maybe she’s right, David,” Emma said matter-of-factly.
I made a face. “What do you mean? There’s no way I’d ever become a Christian. Mark my words. She’s a con artist.”
“I used to be a Christian,” she said. “Maybe it’s true, Dave?”
I shook my head furiously. “I hate Christianity.”
The next week, Emma returned to have her cards read. Rose never mentioned anything to her about Jesus.
The God who I thought hated me still haunted me, even through a fortune teller’s words. And it wouldn’t be the last time I wanted God to leave me right alone.