Sean Is Gay

"Parker, I'm gay."

That was my birthday present from my best friend, Sean, three years ago. I myself am a gay man. That's important to the story. I came out to Sean four years before that in a crowded bar somewhere in Williamsburg—before I had moved to the city, before I had any gay friends, even before I had been on a real date with a man.

I remember throwing out my hands that night in the crowd of hipsters, back when we were in peak-hipster, saying "Surprise!" with a huge, boyish smile—to his happy disbelief. We were, and still are, great friends, and there, in our mid-20s, after meeting in our freshman year at Penn State, were two gay men finally ripping off a veil. He later told me that all he really wanted to say was, "Holy shit dude, me too!!" But he didn't. It was never that simple, and it would take me another four years to even begin to understand why.

—

Back to the night Sean told me he was gay. I was a wandering, wet-behind-the-ears gay New Yorker. I genuinely couldn't really even use the term "New Yorker" yet without feeling like a poser. I was living in Brooklyn, making shit money after switching careers, rocking a dad bod, and avoiding anything more than hookups. I had plenty of friends. Honestly too many, most of which I inherited from getting lucky with friends in high school and college. I was comfortable in numerous ways, but utterly and hopelessly insecure as a gay man. I had that dad bod I mentioned, no money, a receding hair line (thanks, Pops), and college debt beyond comprehension. On top of it all, I had one decent gay friend at the time—Ryan—an NYU grad whom I had been set up with (as friends) by one of my aforementioned incredible high school friends. We were all each other had, me and Ryan, and were making our way towards a crew and "boys' nights," hell bent on being the gays we expected New York gays to be; the gays we saw on Instagram (very new back then) and on TV. Or we were trying, at least. So hard, we tried. I think we made a Trello board at one point. Aspirational at best, but with fight.

So when Sean came out to me, I was like, "Shit, I just landed a new gay friend." I think that was my third thought. My first thought was, he's fucking with me, and my second thought was, shit, everyone was right, and I'm an idiot.

My friends had always speculated that Sean was gay. I always confirmed with them that he most certainly was not, that if he was gay, he would tell me. That he loved girls. That he had girlfriends. That I never...met—oh. Okay, so the girlfriend anecdotes were boyfriend anecdotes. How many, I wonder? Were all the times he was going through "girl trouble" actually "boy trouble?" Were they the same exact issues, just with a guy? Lots and lots of fucking questions, dude. A shit ton. But we were tight, and we had time, so I first made him promise he would come out to everyone in nine months, because he was damn 28 years old (two years older than me) and it was time. And then we went to dinner with some friends, BECAUSE IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY. Just a reminder.

And dinner was fine. And the next few weeks? All fine. And then the conversations went to detail, and the details were foggy. And the details would shift. And the truth would move. And the stories? They would change. And my new excitement mutated into guarded trust and suspicion. And that birthed distrust.

Sean's account of a kiss would later, to another friend, become sex, or the telling of fooling around was, a few months later, admitted to me as a threesome. The rabbit hole wasn't a rabbit hole, it was a mine shaft. I expected that stories were what they were, but were really veiled versions of the truth that, each time, got a little clearer and revealed a little more to me. I genuinely, to this day, still couldn't give anyone a confident timeline of Sean's life, and writing this now, I'm okay with knowing I may never have one.

Sean didn't just come out to me in Williamsburg three years prior like I did, because there was no simple way to throw out his hands and exclaim everything he had already done—the secret life he had and was both proud and ashamed of. Sean's life was so much lie and deception that it would take the last four years for me to fully know and grasp the depth of everything he felt the compulsion to hide, still to this day not knowing all the details. It would risk our friendship and test my loyalty. It would show me sides of him I truly did hate. It would make me hate parts of myself. Beyond the shitty parts of having his life and our friendship repainted in as much light as he will ever let it see, more than anything, it taught me both the darkness of fearing true identity and the ironic power of living a powerful lie with no holding back.

Both of these themes would roll through the narrative of our friendship, albeit mostly as an internal monologue. As much transparency as Sean and I have, and as much as I've expressed the contents and thoughts of these accounts with him, our dialog has always shifted between bro-talk, brotherly heart-to-hearts, and sharp arrows cast between two stone towers. There is too much pride in either of us to ever truly say these things—that I so want to say, and too much fear that the other will play dumb—when it truly counts.

In recounting the last few years and the narrative of Sean's truths unfolding, most of my thoughts will center on ego, identity, power, and truth. Being gay and young and a city-dwelling, educated man will be part of it. It will surely be the setting, but it won't be the guts. The guts will be the stuff of being human. The hurt feelings, guarded pride, deep recognition in another, betrayal, promises, lies, deceit, love, agendas, laughter, fights. Those are the things that have torn me apart, and without irony, the things that have managed to keep me whole.

Sean is as valuable to me as he is infuriating and emotionally damaging. These accounts will be my best attempt to serve both revelations.

Until next time.