Come, let’s drink deeply of love till morning; let’s enjoy ourselves with love!
—Proverbs 7:18
Autumn leaves skittered across the pavement as I strode through the concrete corridors. They felt like canyons in the urban jungle of my university campus where buildings rose like old-growth rain forest petrified into gray stone. I was returning from an editor’s meeting for the student newspaper, where we had decided to feature the gay marriage march I was helping to organize.
My blue shirt read, “We Demand a Better Future” across the chest. Though my bag was heavy with research books and posters, my heart was light. I was grateful to be part of the growing equity and diversity board which ensured the LGBTQI community’s safety on campus. The meaning I found in that community and in activity on its behalf overshadowed the nagging doubts I’d felt a few weeks before.
But as I walked past the student commons, I stopped. The Christian Union had plastered their posters over others on the university’s main notice board. Just that week, I had read about the mental health of LGBTQI youth from religious backgrounds. I grabbed a staple gun and my stack of marriage march posters, which I had picked up as a leader of the campus Queer Collective. I covered every pastel blue Christian poster I could find. When I finished, I looked over the new rainbow additions to the campus bulletin boards and felt a sense of justice. It was as if I had erected a sign for passersby, declaring LGBTQI liberation from Christian oppression. These little acts of activism, I was convinced, would eventually erode away homophobia and irrational religion. It’s the little things that count, right? I thought sarcastically.
I frequently made it clear that evangelical or conservative Christians were my enemies, and I avoided them in classes or at parties. Whenever I saw Christians handing out free food on campus or huddled in their pathetic Bible study groups, my skin crawled. I hated their constant effort to indoctrinate me with the deluded notion of living forever with a first-century Jewish carpenter.
But today I had happier thoughts to consider. When I returned to the main campus building, the glass doors swung wide and I saw my friend Michael, whom I’d met through an LGBTQI community website. We had become good friends and intellectual companions, often discussing our views on atheism and philosophy.
Michael’s boyfriend of three years, Samuel, was a fashion designer in training. All three of us had become close, and I would often stay over at their pad in the inner city, playing late-night basketball at the park near their house. This particular weekend, Samuel had invited us to his mother’s cottage in the Blue Mountains for an escape from the fast pace of Sydney life.
“Ready for the mountains?” I asked Michael, excited. He was wearing his denim jacket and desert boots and had his bag packed.
He smiled. “Definitely! Great news—Sam is coming with us on the train.” I smiled widely. I couldn’t wait to get away, just the three of us.
A canopy of mist hung over the gum trees and shrouded us as I got off the train with my two friends. Samuel was wearing a sheepskin jacket, and his blond hair was set in a curled coif; Michael’s light brown hair was shaved short. They held hands, sharing a peck on the lips. Michael laughed as Samuel did one of his spot-on celebrity impressions. I laughed too. These guys were the best. I hardly felt like a third wheel at all.
Clouds enveloped us as we climbed down the hill from the station to a wooden cottage affectionately named Bunny Hollow. The house, hidden between gum and wattle trees, sat on a slope with open views of the valley’s blue vistas. Samuel showed me the guest room and introduced me to his mother, who greeted me with a warm smile.
“David, it’s so wonderful to meet you!” she said, beckoning us into the kitchen for some tea. “Samuel tells me you’re going to France next year?”
“Yes. I’m doing the same program Michael did in Italy.”
“Where?” she asked as Michael left for the veranda with his tea.
“Strasbourg. To study political science,” I said. I couldn’t wait to leave Australia. We chatted pleasantly about Europe and travel.
Finally, I looked around. “Where’d Michael go?” I said to Samuel as his mum left the kitchen.
“He’s not feeling very well.” Samuel sighed. “He gets in these dark moods. There’s nothing I can do.” Then he abruptly changed the subject. “I always wanted to ask, could you teach me French?”
I smiled at him. “Oui!”
As we talked and joked, he sipped his tea. I studied him. Sam was handsome, with a strong nose and unruly hair. There was a curl to his lip that gave a certain symmetry to his face. His stubbly beard was well kept, and he always dressed stylishly, revealing his creativity.
“Before that, I have something to show you down at my mum’s art studio,” Samuel said. “I’ve been keeping it a secret from everyone but her.”
I should have gone to check on Michael, but I chose to follow Samuel. Ahead of me, he strode down the grassy hill in his brown Chelsea boots. We stopped at a small shack with a corrugated iron exterior. Entering, I saw that in the back were large glass windows that looked out over the mountainous valley. I turned to my right, and my eyes met an array of drawings and designs of couture. I knew Samuel had been to Hong Kong weeks before to collect fabrics, but never did I expect that his new line would be ready so quickly.
Every design was dazzling, sweeping vividly, with staggering contrasts between sharp oriental lines and organic curves. It was like a symphony for the eyes. As I observed each design pinned on the wall, I spotted a line from one of my poems that I’d shown Samuel last term. He’d written it in large letters on his design board! I was flattered.
“David,” he said, turning to face me, “you’re the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. I love everything you say and write.” He paused. “I made this collection for you.” He hesitated, then fingered some of the designs. “You were my inspiration. There’s such an energy between us. It’s driven so much of what I’ve designed since we met.”
His collection was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever made for me. I was speechless. He hugged me, and I thanked him for showing me.
But as we made our way back to the cottage, the air seemed to grow chilly, the valley turning darker somehow. He’s in love with me, I realized with a jolt.
The table was prepared for dinner, and Michael was stoking the fire next to it. I sat down as Samuel’s mother brought out a piping-hot casserole. The fire crackled, and I opened a bottle of peppery Shiraz to pour myself a drink. Watching the deep red wine run down the side of the glass, I knew a war was waging in my heart. My conscience told me that allowing feelings to develop toward my best friend’s boyfriend was wrong, but my heart told me to go for what I wanted. And I wanted Samuel.
As I put my glass down, I felt Samuel’s foot touch mine under the table. Michael was quietly sitting next to him. I was thrilled with excitement but filled with deep shame. I needed to leave, and quickly, before anything further happened.
But somehow it didn’t matter. In our hearts, it had been done. I knew I cared more about my desire for Samuel than I did for Michael, even as every rational impulse was telling me to flee. Still, I summoned all my resolve, packed my bags for Sydney, and departed on the train the next morning, leaving behind some half-hearted excuse by way of explanation.
A war between conscience and heart continued to rage within me for the next month.
As I wrote a screenplay for my performance classes at university, my dreams were filled with longings for Samuel. I imagined myself sitting with him at fashion shows, traveling the world as I wrote and he designed. This is so wrong, David, I thought.
One balmy summer’s night, Samuel sent me a message asking me to meet him at Hyde Park. He had news to share.
After I spotted him by the fountain, he told me he’d broken up with Michael and the coast was clear. We kissed. I felt an incredible freedom after a month of being unable to stop thinking about him. Under the fig trees, we lay for hours in each other’s arms, staring up at the skyscrapers above us and the blue-grey sky beyond.
As we lay there, the beat of his heart almost lulled me to sleep. Still, I sensed a paranoia in him that made me suspect that things weren’t what he told me. To cover it over, he explained why he had broken it off with Michael. Surely, it’s fine, I thought. They’re no longer together.
I guessed then, and later found out, that Michael blamed me for the breakdown of their relationship. In reality, I was the catalyst, but not the sole cause, of their breakup. It didn’t matter, though. I’d drunk from a cup that was not mine, and even if I didn’t want to acknowledge it, it felt as if I’d betrayed Michael.
Weeks passed. One night, as I sat on my balcony, looking back over that view of the floating city, a message appeared on my phone: “I need to see you.”
Samuel waited for me in the Italian quarter of Sydney. I jumped out of the cab to meet him at a small art house cinema, where I convinced him to watch a new film by Woody Allen, who was fast becoming my favorite screenwriter. The whole premise of Vicky Cristina Barcelona was a love triangle, centered on two holidaying American women who spend a summer in Barcelona and meet a Spanish artist, Juan Antonio, who becomes their mutual love interest. It was uncannily similar to our scenario.
Abandon yourself to the momentary happiness of romantic love, no matter the cost, seemed to be the film’s message. At one point in the film, Juan Antonio muses, “Life is short, life is dull, life is full of pain, and this is the chance for something special.” The universe or fate is speaking to me, I said to myself. I just need to give in and enjoy what I’ve found with Samuel. It was time to throw off my moral bridle. Michael and Samuel weren’t together anymore. So why did I feel as if I were betraying one of my closest friends?
Samuel kissed me behind the cinema in the summer heat. “Want to come to my place?” he asked as thunder sounded in the distance.
“Yes,” I said, taking his hand.
We turned the corner past the eucalyptus trees above the old park where the three of us used to play basketball. Their branches swayed in the gust, and then cracked when the wind grew stronger. We hurried, and as we reached the door to Samuel’s corner terrace, the summer rain fell torrentially, pushing us into his flat, where we kissed under the sound of it.
I woke the next morning in Samuel’s arms. It was cold. I reached for my phone. It was 6:00 a.m., and the sun had barely started to rise. I silently pulled together my clothes and possessions, then glanced back at Samuel. He was lying peacefully, his arms and hands splayed open where I had been. As I looked at him, something broke inside me. I knew something about this wasn’t real.
Since coming out at fourteen, I had been looking for value in romantic love. I was weary of the search. With what I had done to Michael, I knew I could never see Samuel again, at least not this way. My guilt consumed me. All I could think of was that I had gotten exactly what I thought I wanted, and the price was a friend. For a moment, I just stood there. Samuel’s designs lay strewn around the floor of his studio. Then I turned and left, closing the door we had opened the night before.
The ride home in the back of a cab felt like forever. As I watched the light rain hit the window, a deep exhaustion came over me, accompanied by suffocating frustration and tears. After countless relationships—some faithful and loving, others broken by unfaithfulness—I was tired. I knew my own weakness. My self-made ethics were powerless against my heart and its desires.
I was starving for intimacy, and yet no matter the situation or person, I couldn’t fulfill my need. I thought of all those who turned to drugs or casual sex or other vices, and for the first time I understood why.
The pain in my heart was drawing me back to what I termed spirituality. Looking back, I realize my orphan heart was crying out for the love of its Father. But right then, all I knew was I needed to find some source of higher meaning.