At all points, two people speak inside my head. One’s called straight; the other, italic. Straight likes to talk about you. Italic wants to talk to you.

Why can’t I do it? I have nothing to be afraid about—why should I give a fuck if you care?

Why can’t I do it? Most people here tolerate me. Those who know do so already. Those who wouldn’t would keep their mouths shut. So what’s preventing me?

Yup, they tolerate me. It’s more than I can say for my blue-eyed family. They’re not tolerant. No siree, they hate ambiguity. If you’re a faggot, we don’t want you. If you’re not, we do. Mac’s not like that at all. People tolerate me. They tolerate my speeches, they tolerate my poems, my QU-ness, my streaks, my rants, my shirts, colors, white teeth, my obsession to keep my teeth white, keep my breath fresh, to keep my muscles toned, my faded jeans and my pomaded hair. They smile when I tell them I’m happy to be gay. They don’t when I tell them I’m not. They’re interested when I tell them I had sex.

That’s as far as I go, though. I never tell them what the sex is like. Sure, they tolerate me, but hearing about the sex is more than tolerance—it’s more than I should require of them. Why should I ask them to share all of my life? No one does that for anyone else. And they hail from homophobic lands, where I’d be beaten or whipped, where I’d be less than human because scriptures decreed thus (not America: my country’s different, my state is liberal). In their lands, I would be less than human because of something I can change. You see, I’m—apologies, this part of me is—a choice. It’s entirely my doing. I don’t have the wisdom, the strength, the discipline, the discernment, the faith to choose properly. I know.

You had ‘em all, so you chose to be straight, right? Can you tell me how you did it? When you did it—was it the first time you wanted dick? If you’d told me earlier, I would have tried to emulate you. I wanted to have faith, you see. When I was young, I didn’t want this. I wanted your faith.

But it didn’t want me.

Now you’re too late.

They try hard, they think I’m a great guy and they compromise with their tolerance. It’s cool if they share the straight part of me. They can tolerate the rest. Its more than my family will ever do. No, I can’t put it down. I can’t, because I need their tolerance.

Did I say they always look interested? I lied. At times they look disapproving. When I tell them I had sex with a stranger, they look disapproving. There’s nothing wrong with that. They (straight?) have different values, we (gay?) have our own. Ever read the forgotten scripture, the one where God instructs his man on the mountain to tell them he will never believe what the non-believers believe, that they will never believe what he does? We’re kind of like that, my buddies and I. That’s cool though, they’ll always be tolerant of me and they’ll always be proud of themselves for it. And I’m not fucking brave enough so I won’t be able to put it down.

I should put it down. Why the fuck does it matter what you say?

I’m not brave enough so I didn’t tell them about the night I really wanted to have sex for the first time. Lots of men had asked—they liked my blue eyes, they liked my muscles. This time I accepted at a (need I say gay?) bar. I accepted and he gave me something to pop. I accepted and we went to the bathroom stalls. The stalls, where he flipped me around (I didn’t want to be flipped around, but he was bigger and I couldn’t say it because I wanted the sex, but soon I didn’t because it hurt and I didn’t say it because he was bigger). The stall where I passed out. Right before I passed out he asked me if I was wearing colored contacts. I wasn’t. I don’t pretend.

So I don’t tell them because they don’t need to share that part of my life. It’s too much to expect. I’m no different from them. This is just a small part of me, so small that it can be tolerated.

Maybe I should use the replace option, type “tolerate” in the find box and “ignore” in the replace option.

But fuck, I don’t want to be ignored. I don’t want to be tolerated. I want you to go to a gay bar with me, to sit there as straight as you can, to feel uncomfortable. Like I felt uncomfortable when I pretended all was well when it wasn’t because the guy was bigger than me. You’re supposed to be better than that, you’re supposed to understand, you’re supposed to fight for my fuckin’ rights, you’re supposed to be at fuckin’ Mac. I don’t want your fuckin’ tolerance, I want your discomfort.

I can’t do it. I can’t write it down. My name will remain my own and this shit will remain anonymous. I need their tolerance—it may end if I sign this.

So see you around. You’ve been here, here at Mac, here for my transformative experiences. And by you, I mean you, so consider yourself, your pride, your tolerance. Consider them with honesty.