Does This Baby Make Me Look Straight?: Confessions of a Gay Dad by Dan Bucatinsky
Authors: Dan Bucatinsky
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give the topic a secondthought. I managed without too much difficulty to get through high school and most of college avoiding vaginas altogether. No, during that time my attention was focused on the penis. Mine and those of anyone who’d show me theirs. There were only three:
1. Johnny Mancuso, who stepped back from a urinal to show me how he could pee the letters of his name.
2. Seth Feingold, the lead in our school play who pulled me into the bathroom to show me his “anaconda.”
3. And finally, Rick, the drummer guy I met during my short stint in marching band, who dared me to show him mine but, when I refused, settled for showing me his. Then he spent the rest of the semester inviting me over for a sleepover. I politely declined. Most of the time.
It wasn’t until I got to college that I had my first experience with an actual, real-life, full-grown vagina. And let me tell you, it didn’t last more than twenty-two seconds. I know because I counted to myself.
One, two, three . . . Hmm. That’s kind of odd. It’s so warm . . . seven, eight . . . and bristly. And, twelve, thirteen . . . wait a minute , what? Fifteen, sixteen . . . It’s wet! Nineteen, oh my God! Is that—? Twenty . . . No. Okay. I can’t do this . . . Twenty-one, twenty-two . I was out. I made some excuse about study group and took off in the direction of not the vagina. Who knew it would be so wet?
Despite my head-for-the-hills reaction, a few years later I landed my first real girlfriend. I’ll call her Nora. She was two years younger but not a virgin. I of course still was. Within a few weeks Nora started the subtle pressure for us to “do it.” I can’t imagine why my lack of interest in doing “it” or anything else physical wasn’t a red flag. Trying to turn her off became my mission. I wouldn’t make any eye contact. I’d give monosyllabic answers to her questions and I’d try to avoid all body contact. But for some reason she took my apathy as a challenge. I’d sit next to her on the couch and we’d turn on the TV. Despite the fact I had no idea what we were watching, I’d appear fully engrossed to cool down the nineteen-year-old coed sitting shoulder to shoulder with me, kissing my neck and nibbling my ear. Freeze and maybe she’ll stop. Play dead and maybe she won’t attack .
There came a point where I couldn’t keep the charade going. I knew in my heart that I had to shit or get off the pot. If I wouldn’t finally jump in and start having some of the sex, I’d risk losing Nora, whom I’d actually grown to love. But worse than that, it would confirm a fear I’d had since childhood: that I was, in fact, gay. It was a fear I’d promised myself would never be realized or I’d commit suicide. That’s right. Having sex with Nora had become a matter of life and death.
Nora had long, dark hair, a great body—at least in the eyes of someone who couldn’t have cared less—and was about my height. She had a sweet smile and loved to laugh. Particularly at everything I said. She came from a Seattle family with a lot of money. As a result, Nora was the only freshman at Vassar who drove a fully loaded, souped-up BMW with a phone in it. Nothing was cooler. Except for the long weekend inManhattan we spent during one spring break. Her dad was owed a favor or two by the owners of a fancy hotel on Central Park, so our whole stay was complimentary. I was stunned. A beautiful room. Bathrobes we got to keep. Room service. And what about the fact that Warren Beatty was also staying in the hotel? That did it for me. Here was Hollywood’s most notorious playboy staying in the suite right above ours! If he was getting laid, for fuck’s sake, so would I!
We came back to the hotel after a day of sightseeing, Broadway shows, and shopping. Jeez, I was so gay you could see it from space. You could, but we didn’t. We walked into the lobby and I put my hand on the small of her back, feeling every bit the role of “the boyfriend.”
1. Johnny Mancuso, who stepped back from a urinal to show me how he could pee the letters of his name.
2. Seth Feingold, the lead in our school play who pulled me into the bathroom to show me his “anaconda.”
3. And finally, Rick, the drummer guy I met during my short stint in marching band, who dared me to show him mine but, when I refused, settled for showing me his. Then he spent the rest of the semester inviting me over for a sleepover. I politely declined. Most of the time.
It wasn’t until I got to college that I had my first experience with an actual, real-life, full-grown vagina. And let me tell you, it didn’t last more than twenty-two seconds. I know because I counted to myself.
One, two, three . . . Hmm. That’s kind of odd. It’s so warm . . . seven, eight . . . and bristly. And, twelve, thirteen . . . wait a minute , what? Fifteen, sixteen . . . It’s wet! Nineteen, oh my God! Is that—? Twenty . . . No. Okay. I can’t do this . . . Twenty-one, twenty-two . I was out. I made some excuse about study group and took off in the direction of not the vagina. Who knew it would be so wet?
Despite my head-for-the-hills reaction, a few years later I landed my first real girlfriend. I’ll call her Nora. She was two years younger but not a virgin. I of course still was. Within a few weeks Nora started the subtle pressure for us to “do it.” I can’t imagine why my lack of interest in doing “it” or anything else physical wasn’t a red flag. Trying to turn her off became my mission. I wouldn’t make any eye contact. I’d give monosyllabic answers to her questions and I’d try to avoid all body contact. But for some reason she took my apathy as a challenge. I’d sit next to her on the couch and we’d turn on the TV. Despite the fact I had no idea what we were watching, I’d appear fully engrossed to cool down the nineteen-year-old coed sitting shoulder to shoulder with me, kissing my neck and nibbling my ear. Freeze and maybe she’ll stop. Play dead and maybe she won’t attack .
There came a point where I couldn’t keep the charade going. I knew in my heart that I had to shit or get off the pot. If I wouldn’t finally jump in and start having some of the sex, I’d risk losing Nora, whom I’d actually grown to love. But worse than that, it would confirm a fear I’d had since childhood: that I was, in fact, gay. It was a fear I’d promised myself would never be realized or I’d commit suicide. That’s right. Having sex with Nora had become a matter of life and death.
Nora had long, dark hair, a great body—at least in the eyes of someone who couldn’t have cared less—and was about my height. She had a sweet smile and loved to laugh. Particularly at everything I said. She came from a Seattle family with a lot of money. As a result, Nora was the only freshman at Vassar who drove a fully loaded, souped-up BMW with a phone in it. Nothing was cooler. Except for the long weekend inManhattan we spent during one spring break. Her dad was owed a favor or two by the owners of a fancy hotel on Central Park, so our whole stay was complimentary. I was stunned. A beautiful room. Bathrobes we got to keep. Room service. And what about the fact that Warren Beatty was also staying in the hotel? That did it for me. Here was Hollywood’s most notorious playboy staying in the suite right above ours! If he was getting laid, for fuck’s sake, so would I!
We came back to the hotel after a day of sightseeing, Broadway shows, and shopping. Jeez, I was so gay you could see it from space. You could, but we didn’t. We walked into the lobby and I put my hand on the small of her back, feeling every bit the role of “the boyfriend.”
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