The Cross in the Closet

by Kurek, Timothy

  Not in Kansas

  A little more than a week has passed since I came out to my friends and family, and, well, they seem to be adjusting to the idea. Yesterday my brother finally felt comfortable enough to ask me questions about my sexuality, and although I would have been more than happy to oblige his curiosity…The truth was, I did not know how to answer him. Not actually being gay means that I am ignorant of what being gay is actually like. And I will always be oblivious, no matter how much I experience this year. The limitations and restrictions of my project are constantly in my thoughts. I can only hope that the one aspect of the alternate orientation with which I am now associated provides enough insight for me to answer some of the tougher questions I have struggled with.

  What does it really mean to be gay? Is it really so simple as an attraction to the same gender, or is it something more? And if there is some deeper meaning behind it, do I have to ask what it means to be a heterosexual? Growing up, I had always recognized a palpable fear when people brought homosexuality into the discussion, and that fear often became fuel for anger and hatred towards the supposed “gay agenda.” A little over a week has passed since I came out, and so far all I’ve seen is that same tangible fear.

  In the eight days I have been out, that fear has permeated every social sphere I have been part of. I have been rebuked in the name of Jesus, lost four friends who refuse to be close to an “unrepentant homosexual,” and I have even been told that Jesus does not love me. Perhaps the most disheartening response I received was from my former pastor.

  I wrote to him via email that I hadn’t been attending church because I was gay and knew he wouldn’t approve. I told him that I was celibate—a fear-induced copout. I told him that even though I questioned everything in my life lately, I had not questioned my faith. I told him he could share my email with whomever he felt needed to know, that I was out of the closet now and wouldn’t hide it from anyone. I ended the email by telling him that I loved him and wanted to get together to talk. It was an extremely difficult email to write. Jim has been a mentor and a friend, and I served at his church as the college and singles coordinator for over six months. I left a few months ago, before I came out, so no one would be relying on me when I left, as I would almost inevitably have to leave the church. I felt completely vulnerable as I clicked send…and even more vulnerable when he responded an hour later:

  For some reason, your news does not surprise me. My discernment meter starting going off when you told me of your frequent visits to the gay bar near Centennial Park. I just didn’t want to believe it. To be frank with you, you have been hanging around the wrong crowd. The enemy has used that to influence you to make really bad decisions. Yes, this is a decision, not a ‘gene.’ You have read the Bible enough to know homosexuality is a sin. I will be praying that the enemy’s spirit will be rebuked from you in Jesus name!! As you read this, the enemy will fight back...but you must stand up and break free! All this said, you are welcome as any other sinner to our church. We are a gathering of imperfect people who worship a perfect God. There is no sin greater than the other...lying, adultery, gossip, homosexuality, and more. However, I can understand the ‘anonymity’ issue with something like this, which may make it easier for you to attend another church. Whatever...you’ve got to get back into church!

  I tried to read the email as objectively as possible, but every thought jumped off the screen in a negative way. They were the very thoughts I had wanted to voice to Liz that swelteringly hot summer night, the very thoughts that I didn’t say because I knew they would have done more harm than good. I felt betrayed. I reread the message, scanning the email in its entirety four times before my eyes recognize the most upsetting detail. Five words underneath his name spoke louder than even the message itself. Displayed prominently below Jim’s name were the words Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T.

  Not only did he rebuke me in the name of Jesus, tell me I was hanging out with the wrong crowd, and declare that my lifestyle was “a decision, not a ‘gene”’…He did so from his cell phone? He didn’t ask if we could meet up to talk more about it. But all of that was somehow okay because he was inviting me to worship with all of the other sinners in his church. I mulled the words of his message inside me like a bad breakup, and I wished he’d just tried to talk to me in person.

  But more painful than any of these reactions, I have been ignored by the majority of my conservative Christian friends I reached out to. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends.”

  And so far, that silence has been more hurtful even than judgment.

  It is difficult to describe the range of emotions I have felt thus far, but loneliness is the most acute. My phone no longer rings with calls and texts like it did only a short week ago. I have been waiting, preparing myself for numerous conversations about my revelation, but so far most friends seem to desire only distance. It is that distance, I think, that has pushed so many people over the edge, the excommunication from believers, friends, and loved ones that disagree and disengage. My news spread like a plague, but I was the only real casualty.

  I remember seeing gays out in public as a kid and looking at them like animals on a safari. They were a rare sight to see—at least the ones whose appearance gave them away—and I remember not being the only one who stared at them as if they were a sideshow act. But more than seeing or hearing about homosexuals, I remember being taught about the insidious homosexual agenda. They “wanted children,” they “owned” the media, and even MTV had to have one of them on every show so as to desensitize the younger generation to the dangers of their abominable agenda. Oddly enough, even that poor purple Teletubby, Tinky Winky, was nailed to a wall!

  Now I wonder why I spent so much time focused on the intentions of others, on the “agenda.” I am still me. Even though the label of my orientation has changed, I know that if anyone has an agenda, it might just be to live their lives. I am interested to see how this aspect of the journey unfolds. Will I discover the actual existence of a “gay agenda,” or will I discover that life for gay men is really as benign as life for heterosexual men?

  ~~~

  Twenty seconds at the gay club and already I feel uncomfortable. After eight days of this experiment, I am ready to move forward and see what the LGBTQ scene in Nashville is all about. Club Play is the only LGBTQ club I have heard of in the religious circles I traveled, so it is the place I have chosen to go first. And almost instantly it becomes clear why I have heard about this place and not the others.

  Walking into a gay club for the first time is a surreal, almost alien experience, and it only slightly resembles the straight clubs I’ve been to. The lighting is bluish, switching every so often between green and orange and yellow, like the stained glass windows of a church, a combination of disco reflections, neon, and the colorful wardrobe of men peacocking about. I look toward the bartenders and see all men. They are well built and almost always shirtless, like the opposite of a strip club or Hooters. This place was made for gay men, or at least caters to them. Above the loud thumping techno beat, I hear my heart rapidly churning like I have just run up a long flight of stairs.

  The Friday night crowd is more diverse than I’ve seen anywhere. It’s a melting pot of different kinds of people. I see a man wearing business slacks and a button-up dress shirt dancing with a man in leather with both nipples pierced. I see another guy in a tight t-shirt and skinny jeans dancing with a transvestite. Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore…

  I walk towards the bar and get a kiss on the cheek and “Hello, stranger,” from a man I’ve never met. He quickly moves on to the next newcomer. Now I know we’re not in Kansas!

  I am uncomfortable, but I have a purpose and know I need to be here. I think the strangest thing about this bar is the flamboyance of the décor. It all fits the stereotypes I have heard about gays, and I wonder if the reason the stereotypes even exist is because of the appea
rance of the environment, rather than the people in the environment. I hope I can get past the look of the place, because initially the look is very hard to get past. I walk into the club wearing more than just a Tommy Hilfiger button-up and Perry Ellis jeans. I walk in wearing a chip on my shoulder; I see that much. Why do I feel superior to these people? I feel incapable of impartiality or objectivity, and I wonder if I am going to have to learn a tough lesson the hard way.

  Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” finishes and a Britney Spears song begins. I order a beer and sit at the bar as inconspicuously as possible. It is an odd feeling to hope that people will not detect that I am straight; I try to act as gay as I know how with my demeanor and mannerisms. I think back to every stereotypical example of gay on television and movies, and I try to adjust my behavior accordingly. But I am still paranoid. What if I’m not doing it right? This first time out is meant to be more a fact-finding mission than an actual experience, but I am so worried about how I am acting that I do not know if I can learn or experience anything.

  On stage a drag queen lip-syncs the song “Womanizer,” and the crowd is going wild at the irony. I try to focus on details instead of the big picture…details like the fact that I’ve never seen a woman with as toned a midsection as that of the drag queen, details like the queerness of the décor, details that won’t make me confront my growing irrational fear.

  Why am I so uncomfortable? I try to breathe and calm myself, but it feels impossible. I wonder if this crowd would feel the same way if they were at church. Well maybe not church in general, so much as the kind of church I feel comfortable at.

  I look next to me and I see the Pharisee with a wild look in his eyes. With every second that passes, the look becomes more pained. He is uncomfortable to say the least, much more uncomfortable than me, if that were possible. I feel good knowing that he is in this position, that he is so out of his element he cannot even focus on me. Instead he is focused on everyone else, looking at them like they are less than human. I feel sorry for him. But I have to feel sorry for myself, too, because what I see on his face, I feel inside myself.

  I track the Pharisee’s gaze to the man next to me. The guy is wearing daisy dukes, a choker, and his lip is pierced. As he talks, I see his tongue is, too. I follow the tattoo of a merman from his shoulder down his arm to the light blue drink he is sipping. It is a loaded drink. I can smell the alcohol from three feet away. “You go, girlfriend!” he yells towards the drag queen on stage. He spins around to the bar and orders another drink, his movements graceful and feminine. On a nervous whim, I try to spin around the same way and clumsily spill part of my beer. I feel ridiculous and embarrassed, and he smiles at me. It is a warm, disarming smile, and it makes me feel a little bit better.

  “Another beer for the new guy!” he says to the bartender, pointing at me. The shirtless man behind the counter winks, uncaps a longneck, and puts it on a napkin in front of me.

  “Thank you.” I finish the rest of my spilled beer and take a sip of the next.

  “No problem. Just don’t spill that one!” The man smiles and lightly slaps my ass as he walks away. And then for a few seconds I lose it. I want to punch the guy for touching me, for presuming that physical contact would be okay…even if he believes I am gay. I take a few deep breaths and compose myself, hoping that nothing else happens to push me even more outside of my comfort zone than I already am. I hope, but then it happens.

  Across the room, another man’s eyes lock on mine. His eyes are intense, and it is only when he is halfway to me that I see he is shirtless and covered in baby oil and glitter. Oh, shit…

  The Pharisee looks at me with a sense of immediacy, of panic.

  Leave! Let’s go!

  Before I can move or respond, I feel a man’s hand gripping my wrist firmly, and I begin to panic. Adrenalin courses through my body and my legs feel unsteady, like they are about to give out beneath me. I am unable to free myself, and the shirtless man aggressively pulls me onto the dance floor in the adjacent room. I never stood a chance.

  It happens too fast for me to react.

  One second I am standing at the bar, sipping my beer in a room full of people I irrationally hate, and the next I am on the dance floor with a shirtless man covered in baby oil and glitter while a Beyoncé song roars through the speakers on either side of the room. I feel my body forcibly turned around and positioned away from the man dancing with me. Panic and terror wash over me as I stare at the mirrors on the walls, reflecting an image of utter violation that causes my stomach to turn.

  The shirtless man now behind me rides me like a cowboy. I struggle to understand why he thought I would make a good horse—or dance partner. I feel more like a jackass as I watch myself lose my precious innocence. Instead of running, I decide to dance, or at least attempt to dance, but having been raised Baptist, I have very little experience with rhythm. I feel like a fool. I probably look like one, too. My attempts amount to little more than the awkward swaying of my hips and a few offbeat finger snaps. It is difficult to focus as the man dry-humps me; I feel his every touch on my body like I’m being groped by a pervert.

  Of course this experience isn’t unusual for him, or for anyone else here. I look around the bar and see gay men and a few women, all dancing just like we are. The man’s hand grabs my chest and he squeezes forcefully. I jump in reaction to the pain. “Oh, yeah, my bucking bronco!” he leans in and whispers in my ear. I want to escape. I want to vomit. I need a cigarette. I feel like beating the hell out of him.

  One song bleeds into two without my realizing it, and something weird begins to happen. It’s as if I’ve mentally snapped, unable to fight the situation or even just the overly aggressive man behind me. The music draws me in hypnotically and I got lost in it, like everyone else.

  The song ends, and I feel violated, slimy, used. I cannot blame anyone but myself that I let it happen or lost control. I walk away from my suitor without saying a word. “Bitch!” he says, just loud enough for me to hear. Maybe I am being a bitch, but I do not care. I feel like washing my hands, washing the baby oil and glitter off of me…which is probably more easily said than done.

  As I leave the dance floor, I look back and my eyes meet his again. He looks rejected and upset, like he was having fun and I ruined it. It is not the look of a predator or a pervert. It is a vulnerable expression, and I feel as though I have deeply misunderstood him, allowed my discomfort to exaggerate my perceptions of his intent. I feel a pang of disappointment in myself. The Bible says that man looks at the outward appearance but God looks at the heart. Have I judged this man’s heart because of how he danced with me? Have I fallen so quickly back into my ways that I frivolously presumed him to be a predator?

  Once more I am startled by his eyes. He looks into me, instead of at me, like he is searching out the truth of who I am and why I am here. Finally he looks down, and I take the brief moment to run from the club. I am overcome with regret, and as I walk to my car I resolve to change. If I am going to do this, to really do this, I cannot merely mask the judgment inside of me—I will have to leave it at the door. I will save the judgment for myself, and try from now on to meet these people on their turf, with an open mind and heart.

  ~~~

  Minutes later I’m standing in front of Josh’s house, still rushing from the adrenaline and still depressed by my own behavior. I knock and the door opens.

  “So? What happened?” he asks before I can even walk inside.

  “You had to ask…!” I sit on his couch and light a clove. “I spilled my beer trying to spin like a guy next to me, got dance-raped by a shirtless guy covered in baby oil and glitter, and to top it all off, I made a fool of myself by acting homophobic in a gay bar!” The frustration on my face is apparently too much for Josh to handle and he laughs hysterically.

  “I would have paid to see that,” Josh says, trying to breathe. He isn’t laughing with me, he’s laughing at me.

  “No! It was awful. It was like I was a piece of meat.
”

  “You are like a piece of meat—an especially big piece of meat with ‘bottom’ tattooed on your forehead!” He’s still laughing.

  “I would not be the bottom!”

  “I think you would be.” Sandra, Josh’s wife, wanders in, apparently just as amused.

  “That’s right, honey, you tell ‘im!” he says to her, grinning.

  “I think I need a boyfriend,” I say. “I need someone who can take the target off my back and teach me how to act in those types of situations.” I hope Josh will agree.

  “Actually, that’s a really good idea. But who? And would they be in on things?” He stops laughing, momentarily thoughtful.

  “Well, Shawn from karaoke is a great guy, and he’s gay. I think he’d be perfect.”

  “Like a gay Yoda?” he asks.

  “Like a gay Yoda.”

  “Protect your ass, you must!” Again, Josh bursts into laughter and I get up to leave. As I close the door behind me I hear Josh and Sandra laughing raucously.

  “Bitches!” I say under my breath.

  Shawn

  I have always loved women, always been fascinated by their mystique and beauty. My mom will tell you that when I was a little kid, I used to run up to women and wrap my arms around their legs, saying, “I like your chubby legs!” Most of the time their legs weren’t chubby, but because my mom used to pinch my legs and say the same thing, I thought chubby legs were what everyone had.