Culture

Love, Us: Why Don't We Kiss Our Friends More?


I blush because every time it happens, it is a tender, immediate, physical, visible manifestation of my queerness, of my faggotdom — and because, for so long, platonic intimacy between my queer friends and I wasn’t something that was part of my life.

My non-romantic-adult-homosexual-life-partner Joe and I met in college, at a time when we were both still coming out, and, at least for me, physical intimacy with another faggot meant something. It meant attraction, or desire, or electricity, or, well, that we wanted to fuck. And Joe and I definitely didn’t want to fuck. Or, at least, Joe didn’t want to fuck me. (No offense to me.) And so we didn’t really touch.

Nearly a decade later, this is still the case. I think, predominantly, it’s because this was how we learned to be around each other. We were so careful and conscious of our physical interactions when we were first forming our friendship that by the time we were nearly a decade in, our muscle memory had learned that we weren’t supposed to touch. And unlearning is, famously, a very hard thing to do. I mean, we hug each other hello and goodbye every now and then, and, if it’s been a while, sometimes we’ll double kiss on the cheek like little Parisian faguettes. But beyond that, there really isn’t much.

Joe has come home with me for Christmas. He’s planned three of my last five birthdays. Non-consecutively, we’ve lived together for half of the ten years we’ve known each other, and we live together now. But holding hands or laying on each other while we’re on the couch hopefully watching anything other than Selling Sunset is just something we never do.

Which was never really something I thought about, until I met Bobby. Bobby has a frustrating combination of ocean-deep eyes, perfect bone structure, impeccable style, and upsettingly smooth dancefloor rhythm, all wrapped around a tender sweet personality that invites you in and makes you feel warm and known. Bobby is also a toucher. And a holder. He’s a walk-up-behind-you-on-the-sidewalk-and-slip-his-arm-around-your-waister.

“Is this ok?” he asked the first time he walked next to me on the sidewalk and took up my hand. I said yes. Or, more likely, I said something that was unintelligible but nodded yes. Seriously, his eyes make it very difficult to maintain direct eye contact and also produce a coherent verbal thought when you’re getting to know him.



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