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| Here we are, young and in love. No, he doesn't look like a potato... haha. |
My Husband is Gay (Bourbon Street, Strippers, and Raw Emotions)
“I’m gay.” The words washed over me. He’s gay. What does he mean, he’s gay? I stare at the man I have loved for over 11 years. The father of our child. He’s gay. I’m drunk (very drunk). It is my birthday after all, why shouldn’t I be? We were fresh out of the strip club, where my husband had just paid a volumptuous blonde Argentinian girl to give me a lap dance. I was feeling quite homosexual myself at the moment (and I liked it). I can’t feel the weight of his words but I know they must be heavy. I’ll feel them in the morning.
I had been aware that this day might come. I actually would sit sometimes when I felt particularly insecure and imagine scenarios in which he told me he was gay and then left me for some sex god named Antonio. He used to be gay, before I married him, you see. That was back when we both believed that you could chase away the gay juju fairy with prayers. Turns out, you can’t.
The words began sinking into my alcohol soaked brain. The first thing I feel is afraid. I have to hide it though, because I don’t want to make him feel bad. He assures me that he has loved me and will always love me. He says he wants to be with me forever and was afraid he was going to lose me. He says he’s known for over 6 years. I feel an unsettled desperation deep in my gut. I love this man. Did he really still love me? Did he really still want a piece of this sweet ass? I just keep flashing back to those self imposed torture sessions that I dreamt up about that stud muffin, Antonio. I’m really starting to hate that guy. So, logically, what do I do? I buy my husband a lap dance from a guy at the Bad Boys club down the street. That’s the only logical thing to do, right? Turns out I wasn’t really ready for that…
My husband holds my hand and onto the back of my pants on the way home. He’s been so cut off from me lately and I welcome the physical contact. We get back to the hotel and the alcohol begins to wear off. We spend the early morning hours crying and reassuring each other that we are not going to leave. We reiterate our love. I admit that I feel a bit upset that he did not trust me enough to tell me sooner, but acknowledge why he did not. I wonder how we are going to move on from here. Where do you go from gay?
Fear. That’s the emotion that I feel the most. Fear that I am not enough. Fear that I will be left behind. Fear that somehow, his love for me will fade away. It’s hard to feel this fear. The fear is real now. Fear that he is still lying to me to spare my feelings. It took him 6 years to tell me he was gay. How many years will it take him to tell me he really doesn’t think I’m sexy? How many years will it take him to tell me he will only be happy with another man? I think of Antonio again… Damn his sexy, home-wrecking ass!
I also feel guilty. Guilty that I am so concerned about my own fear. Guilty that if I ask him to stay that I am being selfish. Concerned about my own needs and wants and scared to death that I am about to lose the one person in my life who I love enough to die for (besides my kid, which is half my husband so….).
I dwelled in that hotel bed next to him, bawling, long after he had slipped into an emotional and alcohol induced comatose. I get up and get a shower. The water washes over me and I try to give my pain to the droplets as they make their way down. I want to wash this all away. I want my pain to disappear down the drain. It doesn’t work, unfortunately, and I am left with it. I finally find sleep, and David Bowie finds his way into my dreams. Weird.
We wake up in the morning. My husband draws close to me and cuddles with me. He holds me close. We have sex, though I’m not quite into it. My mind is too full and I question the motive behind the love making. Is he forcing himself? I hope not.
We make our way home. We laugh, we cry, we cry some more. I’m sad, scared, angry, and a little bit relieved. I’m glad to finally know what the thing between us has been. I’m not sure what to do with it now and my brain is reeling with questions.
We spend the next few days trying to sort out our emotions. I’ve thought about killing myself to free my husband from his bondage to me. I learned that he had thought about killing himself. A fate worse than him leaving me. I don’t want him to die. I’d rather see him doing the mattress tango with Antonio than bury him. Because, I love him. It would hurt like no other pain in the world to see him move on, but it would be better than the alternative.
Then we have the talk that sets my heart at ease. He says he loves me. He promises me he will never leave. He says he loves my body. He says he is attracted to me. He says it over and over and over as I wipe away my tears. He will never leave me. i believe him. Deep down I believe him. We’ve had some pretty amazing sex during our time together. I guess you can’t argue with that.
I know I will still be waging a war within myself. When we have sex there will always be the thought that I am not enough. I want to strangle that thought like the son of a bitch it is. Stupid ass mother fucking son of a bitch. I hate myself for having this constant battle inside of me. I just want to be ok. I’m so afraid that he will get tired of reassuring me that he loves me, wants me, and will never leave me. I’m annoyingly needy. An emotional leech, if you will. All l can do is reside in the safety and peace of his promise that he will be there with me forever. I believe him. I will have a hard time with my own insecurities. Because I fear that I am not enough. I have always felt like I must be the luckiest woman in the world to land such an awesome man. And I am. But I don’t think I deserve him. But I lucked out. And I can always giggle at the irony that the only man to ever make me feel like a beautiful sex goddess, is gay. Eat your heart out Antonio, he’s taken!
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