“We’ll be doing nothing of the sort.”
“Well, if you don’t want to wear rubber boots, you can just go barefoot. Nobody’s going to mind, Ezra. Promise.”
She’s in love with me. I can’t hold it against her. I’m quite lovable. Still, I don’t want to be the source of childhood trauma for her one day. I would hate to know she held out a torch, hoping against hope my sexual orientation might change. Her family didn’t know about homosexuality until I came into the picture. Will they be mad at me for saying too much? Will I unintentionally hurt her heart by saying too little? Ugh. This is why I’m gay. So I don’t have to navigate tricky situations like this. It’s notthereason I’m gay, obviously. I’m aware I was born this way, but not having to fear every unexpected ejaculation, knowing situations like this may be the result, is certainly a plus. I wouldn’t know where to start when it comes to raising a child. I don’t have it in me. Parents will always have my respect, because I know me, and I know what I’m capable of, and bringing up baby simply is not in my wheelhouse.
That being said, I like this child. She’s sassy and snarky, and she holds no punches when it comes to telling the God’s honest truth, whether you’ve asked for it or not. She’s got gumption, and I’m pretty sure I’m here for it.
“Listen, Maybelline, you’re sweet and all, but I’m not wired that way.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not romantically or sexually attracted to women.”
“What’s ‘sexually’ mean?”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head quickly. “No, that’s a tunnel we shan’t be journeying through today.” I eye her curiously, trying to come up with a game plan. In the end, I think of nothing, so I simply speak my truth. “You want to marry a man one day. So do I.”
“Yeah. You’ll want a wife.”
“Close, but no. I don’t want to spend my life with a woman. I want to spend it with a man.” Two men, actually, but I can only manage onedumpster fire of a situation at a time. “I’m a man who wants to fall in love with another man.” I pause. Who am I kidding? “I’m in love with a man.”
Her brows scrunch together. “Oh. Is that all? Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Pardon?”
“When we first met. You let me think we had a chance. That we’d get a pretty house behind Momma and Daddy’s and we’d live here forever. Now, you’re telling me you don’t want to marry me. You should have said something right from the start.”
“You’re literally ten. Even if I was into women, it would have been highly problematic of me to entertain your foolishness.”
“I’m six,” she repeats. “I don’t know why I gotta keep reminding you. Don’t you listen?”
“Sometimes. Not often.”
“Not surprising.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “So, you like boys?”
“Men,” I correct her. “I like men.”
“Well I like boys and not men.”
“Look at us. Twinsies for the winsies. One might go as far as calling us the Ying Yang Twins.”
“I don’t know what that is, or what it means.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I.”
“I don’t really know what that means, either, but I’m worried you’re gonna go into another rant if I ask you.” She hops up from her seat on the grass. “I’m tired of all the talk-talk-talk. You wanted to dance. Let’s do this dumb dance.”
So, we do. We run through the choreography for another two hours before falling flat on our asses, exhausted.
With our choreography in order, we hide behind an old, hollowed-out school bus near the front of the property. It’s been painted with pink and purple flowers, giving it a hippie-chic look. It’s pretty fucking adorable, as is the little girl at my side. Maybelline and I are wearing matching outfits, each as awful as the other. We’re in overalls, but mine have been cut so high that half of my ass cheeks are visible. Maybelline, thankfully, doesn’t share my need to show as much skin as possible, so she almost resembled a Cabbage Patch doll. She’s low-key adorable.
I have fuck-all phone reception here, but I have three music videos downloaded on YouTube, apparently, though I don’t recall saving them. The first is Mariah Carey’sObsessed, but that’s hardly a song I would sing to welcome the men I love. The next is pop powerhouse Madonna, singing about being a bad girl, drunk by six. I don’t drink, and I’m not a girl, so it’s not terribly apropos. Finally, we’ve got Annie Lennox’s Walking on Broken Glass. It’s the closest thing to a love song on the list, so we’ve been forced to make do with it. We’ve practiced and practiced, all for a shot at surprising the men I love.
When the hum of a vehicle’s engine sounds in the distance, I give Maybelline a nod. “Like we practiced. We wait until we hear the car doors open, then we launch into action.” I put my hand in front of me like I’ve seen sports teams do at games when Bubba watches his stupid football. It’s always seemed like a bonding moment, so I figure that’s what this could be. I thought wrong, because Maybelline just stares at my hand like it’s stupid.
“What are you doing with your hand?”
“You’re supposed to put your hand on top of mine, and then we shout a morale-boosting shout.
