Being gay is a curse when the homophobia you grew up with was so bad that you're homophobic yourself. Especially when you're into unavailable guys like your roommate, whose girlfriend is everything you're not (though appearances can be deceiving). S...
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I often liked to think that being gay, in all its pride and joy, was the best fucking thing in the world. I loved being gay, I loved guys and I loved being myself, and I would never change it even if I had to. But if I was being realistic, I knew that that was far from the truth.
It fucking sucked.
People were always judging. Always trying to find a way to shove their beliefs down your throat. Always trying to convince you that the way you're living your life is not the right way. That you'd burn in hell for being the way you are. And not just because of your sexuality, but also because of how you chose to dress and act. As if it mattered to them.
Most of the time, it was easy to ignore. An unnecessarily long stare or a whispered remark behind the back of a hand wasn't going to ruin my day—I liked to pretend they were secretly admiring me—but I was getting so tired of the comments. I was getting so fucking sick of the constant nagging and disapproval. Most of all when it came from my shortsighted, judgmental, old-fashioned, high-class family.
But still, here I was, staring down at the perfectly trimmed box trees and roses in aunt Henrietta's garden while ringing the doorbell.
"Oh, hi, Emmett," she said softly after the opening the door. She didn't look ecstatic to see me standing there on her precious porch, but I wasn't here for her. I was here for my cousin. Joan was probably the only one in this house who didn't treat me like an abomination. She was pretty cool.
"I came to congratulate your daughter on her eighteenth," I said.
Not that Henrietta showed up to congratulate me on my eighteenth birthday last year, but I'd let that slide for the time being. I watched her eyes going up and down my figure and her lips forming a smile, pleased to see that I wasn't wearing 'odd' clothes, as she liked to call them, for once. Sometimes I deliberately wore something 'outrageous' like a crop top as a statement, but I wasn't feeling it today. I just wanted to get this over with.
"Thank you," she said. "Come in. She's in the living room."
I followed her inside, rolling my eyes at her back as I imagined her thinking I'd finally come to my senses; that I'd finally realized that I was 'embarrassing' her by being myself. I was about to give her pristine, white pencil skirt (which wasn't really doing wonders in complimenting her non-existent behind) the finger, purely for my own enjoyment, when I saw Joan sitting on the couch. So I clasped my hands behind my back, walked over with a smile, and patiently waited for her to finish unwrapping presents, before I handed her my own.
When she noticed me, she jumped up to give me a hug and exclaimed, "Emmett! It's good to see you! How are you?"
I shrugged and told her I was doing okay. My life was rather uneventful besides the inevitable crippling college depression. I watched her opening my present with a big smile on her face while aggressively ignoring the woman sitting next to her, who was suddenly very interested in the piece of cake in her hands.
