“Baby,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You’re the reason the word exists.”
“Good to know,” I said, and then I took my “gay hot” self to the other side of the apartment. gay hot
That night, I looked in the mirror. He wasn’t wrong, exactly. I wasn’t big. I wasn’t chiseled. I was lean and angular, with a sharp nose and soft hands. I wore a silver ring on my thumb. I’d never been able to grow decent facial hair. In straight terms, I was a question mark. But in queer terms? I was a statement. The second time I heard it, I was 26. A woman named Sarah said it, and she meant it as a compliment—the highest one she could give. I was her plus-one to a wedding, and we were dancing to a Chappell Roan song. I knew every word. I moved my hips like I meant it. I let my head fall back and laughed with my whole throat. “Baby,” he said, his voice a low rumble
This time, I didn’t laugh it off. I looked at her—her sequined dress, her crooked smile—and I realized she was describing something real. Not a lack of straight hotness, but a different category entirely. He wasn’t wrong, exactly
I thought about Patrick, that party, that kitchen. I wondered what he was doing now. Probably yelling at a TV somewhere.