![]() ![]() Remaining small and boyish wasn’t just easy: It seemed like my only option. It scared me to think of the vulnerability I’d have to confront to achieve pleasure. ![]() Meanwhile, the subject of my own joy was too daunting to even broach. I cherished my role as the matchmaker, the mingler, the fun-loving gay sidekick. I didn’t want the happily-ever-after for myself. At recess, I helped girls spin convoluted love plots and basked in their princess fantasies under the monkey bars. I grew up facilitating other kids’ dreams. Instead, unformed, lost, and in need of comfort and familiarity, I went wildly back in time. In Ann Arbor, where I knew no one, I should’ve been ready to finally cultivate relationships with other queer people and possibly even find love. I came out of the closet at 19 but had been too timid back home on Long Island for a full queer self-awakening. When I’d moved to Michigan three years prior for grad school, I’d hoped for a different kind of transformation. All morning and night, in my adult onesie, I’d maniacally blow sweet magenta bubbles while watching reality shows about middle-aged beauty pageant contestants and Mormon sister wives, counting down the hours to my next slice of American cheese. I went through packs of Juicy Fruit Starburst and Stride Sour Patch Kids like a chain-smoker. Whenever I felt faint, I’d chew a piece of candy-flavored gum. I ate to be a boy again: half a banana for breakfast, a mini bag of Doritos for lunch, one slice of American cheese for dinner. ![]() On my 25th birthday, I declared a second adolescence. ![]()
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