For my entire life, people have questioned my sexuality. I spoke, or, maybe, speak with a lisp. I speak with my hands. I speak a lot. I don’t follow sports. Etcetera. I never questioned my sexual orientation. My first crush was Heather. I asked her out three times in sixth grade until I moved onto Sabrina. 

As a kid, I was teased for my affectations, but I learned to dismiss the assumptions. I knew myself. Of course, I couldn’t deny feeling frustration and disappointment when potential love interests misread me.

This past summer, I did a dating tour of DC that tapered into nothing. I gradually lowered my bar to go on second dates where I felt no spark, but I struggled to find zeal for anyone in particular. I declined two potential hookups because I didn’t feel attracted to them. What was wrong with me? Was I repressed?

But why would I be repressed? People had assumed I was gay since elementary school. Repressing my true sexuality would have meant fighting an increasingly uphill battle in an environment that has become increasingly more receptive to gayness. I also never shied from stigmas. I was an early Lady Gaga fan. Most of my friends are female or queer. I run a blog and post selfies. I think gender and sexuality are a spectrum. Hello, wouldn’t I just say it? My parents are conservative and religious, but they are not of the gay conversion therapy belief.

My queer friends speak to just knowing. They remember their first same sex crush. They remember adoring Hanes underwear models for more than cotton. I don’t have these memories. I can say when a man is attractive, but am I attracted to them?

For me, there was also the confounding element of being a former fat kid. Masculinity is an ideal that escaped me until my late teens when I lost close to a hundred pounds. As a kid, I mostly noticed attractive men in the sense that I wanted be them—that is, inhabit their physique due to my myriad self-esteem issues—rather than be with them.

In three separate conversations last summer, I aloud questioned whether I was repressed and if I should experiment. In my life, I have had many chances to be with a guy, but in every circumstance, I awkwardly declined or removed myself from the situation. More recently, I stopped saying, “Sorry, I’m straight,” and moved toward, “Sorry, I’m not interested,” leaving the door open in case my mood changed.

This perfect rain cloud of self-questioning and shifting winds culminated in my hooking up with a guy at a Halloween party in early November. I do not brazenly share this announcement as a “coming out” saga. In fact, I’ve wavered between broadcasting the truth as to not be viewed as hiding something and being very clear that this does not mean I’m now gay. Because I’m not. Because I don’t know what I am.

When I arrived at the party, I actually had my eyes on a girl I met the previous weekend. I dressed as a stag—because I was going stag, though I showed up with my queer female friend with whom I finished half a fifth before the Uber arrived. Immediately, a guy in the corner of the party asked, “Are you looking for a buck to blow?”

That is the first thing I remember about him—this tall, lanky, Turkish boy in a football jersey. I ignored him. Hours later my friend introduced us. They had made accomplices in the party’s corner and wanted to go to a nearby club. My friend whispered, “He thinks you’re really cute.” My friend is a notorious wing woman. She has also thrust me at straight women with equal enthusiasm.

I found myself cornered into a sidebar conversation with the tall Turkish boy in his football jersey who was very obviously into me. “I’ve never been with a guy,” I told him, adding, “But I’m not against it. Honestly, it would match my aesthetic.”

“Can I take you on a date?” my tall Turkish boy asked.

I hesitated, certain but wary, and then said yes. I also said, “I’m very drunk. But I would still say yes.”

Faint recollections trace a dialogue about how I knew the party’s host, what I do for work, and then he asked to kiss me. Even drunk, I wanted my first same-sex kiss to be private and said I’d be more comfortable if we kissed outside. When our lips split, I felt nothing, which later echoed with crushing, cosmic disappointment. I assumed at some microscopic level I would kiss a guy and it would feel different; I would abruptly recognize that this is what I had been missing. Instead, I felt nothing. It didn’t feel wrong, but neither did it feel exceedingly right. Nevertheless, we kissed some more.

The next morning, I sat on my friend’s couch and contemplated my next steps. “You know, you don’t have to do anything,” she said. “That could just be it and it’s over.”

I agreed. Just like the kiss, I felt no different upon waking and sobering. I had no regrets, nor did I feel giddy or approaching elation at unlocking some secret garden within myself, one streaming with sunshine and covered in the greenest ivy.

“What a strange season,” I remarked.

My tall Turkish boy texted in the late afternoon—not yet mine, but soon to be. He wanted to know if I was free Tuesday. I debated responding. However, I assured him when we parted that I would not ghost. I decided on: “I will have to check.”

When my plans for Tuesday fell through (which had been a second date with a girl I was mildly into), I replied I was free. He proposed cooking for us. While that felt awfully romantic—a first “date” where he cooked, something I had only done for one romantic interest in the last year—I also ceded that as my first gay exploit (okay, second), being in the privacy of his home would be more comfortable. Just like our private kiss.

“Should I bring anything?” I asked.

Thus, we began some cadence of communication. He texted frequently to ask how I was, what music I liked, and to wish me a good morning. I replied at my leisure and occasionally injected further prompts into the conversation. I enjoyed his attention. I liked being asked about my day and how I felt about certain things. I liked being prized and continually having his attention. I could not discern if I liked him.

On the side, I briefed close friends. I framed it as something unexpected, but I felt moved enough that it might become something and didn’t want to surprise them if it did. Most of them gasped, “What?”

“I’m not saying it’s anything,” I qualified. “But if it is something, I don’t want it to be out of the blue.”

I showed up to his apartment with a bottle of wine. Actually two. He made pasta and chicken. I learned he was younger than me and a recent transplant to the city, although he grew up nearby. The youngest son of two immigrants, his parents sought a better life here. He was not out to his dad.

We clicked on many levels. He also checked many boxes I had for my ideal future partner: intellectual, adventurous, extroverted, funny. I was transparent that I didn’t know what I wanted. “I was looking for fun before,” I said, a reference to before I met him, before I kissed a guy. “And to get over a girl.”

He was looking for a relationship. He told me that the first night we met before we kissed. I think I guffawed. “I can’t promise that,” I said.

As if to comfort him—or maybe that’s exactly what it was—I shared that I had told my friends about him. He was not some secret; I was willing to entertain longevity, something I had been accused of resisting in previous dalliances. On the other hand, I also had previously been accused of ceding to others’ desires and not knowing my own (which had led me here, hadn’t it?). For example, I once told a woman who wanted a family that I’d have kids with her and, afterward, realized that was obviously not what I wanted, at least with her. So how could I know if I did or did not want to be with this man?

Ultimately, we saw each other seven times during our fling, including the first night we met. I mostly enjoyed myself. I grimaced at some things and did not always feel entirely compelled or comfortable, but in those instances wondered whether I was just further repressed. Repression is a fascinating trapdoor. How do you ever know you’re not repressed?

“You’re too in your head,” my tall Turkish boy laughed at me many times. An ex I felt deeply for had told me that, too. Actually, multiple times. Was it all true?

Of one thing, I felt confident—I was turned on by his desire for me. Positive body image and self-esteem had eluded me for years. The girl I really liked once compared me to a Ken doll. When things ended, I could not fathom why I could not, in vain, use those supposed good looks to win her back. Here I had someone once more who made me feel attractive—a fleeting feeling I have chased since adolescence.

My questions accumulated, but not my insecurities. Here stood a person unabashedly into me and all I had to do was exist. To be clear, I was never cruel, and I encouraged and reciprocated many things, but I was acutely aware I did not feel lovesick for him. I carried some guilt that I should be doing or feeling more to match the efforts he exuded.

On our fourth date, he asked if I still liked women. We sat in a bar full of attractive people. Mostly attractive women.

“Yes, I do,” I finally answered. “I’m still into girls.” I stopped myself from apologizing.

I couldn’t read his expression. There was enough of a pause that I clarified, “This is special, I have feelings for you. But it doesn’t feel remarkably different or special compared to others I’ve been with.” Who have been women, I did not add.

Through this whole period, I never felt confused on the whole, but I wondered which questions I was answering. Was I gay, bi, or neither? Did I like him? Did I just like attention? Was I just not with the right guy?

I was into him enough to at least imagine a future Instagram post of us. It would be a selfie, and I would caption it, “A few months ago, this guy asked to kiss me, and I randomly, unexpectedly, said yes. I’m glad I did.”

This is what drove me to tell more and more friends. But, as I shared the story, I was struck by how many remarked, “You don’t seem that into it.” I could have leaned into this; instead, I felt surprised. Not into it? I’m into it enough to be telling you?

“You don’t seem excited about him,” a friend elaborated.

I paused. I thought my tall Turkish boy was great. He texted me every morning, he took me to his favorite restaurant—the one where his parents took him growing up, their family restaurant—he sent me songs, he even compared our horoscopes and forecast our doomed or intertwined fate, yet to be decided, something I cared little about other than he cared about it.

Historically, all my great relationships are bookended or segmented by travels. As a wanderlust brat, I often question whether my literal flightiness lends itself to predestined seriousness at my imminent departures. Sure enough, three weeks after we met, I jetted to South Africa for two weeks. Similarly, my tall Turkish boy had an adventure planned to Amsterdam. Unasked, he assured me of his faithfulness to me on his travels. I made no likewise concession. In fact, even stateside, I went out with two others met over dating apps while continuing to entertain the idea I might seriously date my tall Turkish boy.

Before I left for South Africa, he asked if I would be his date to his company’s holiday party. At face value, a harmless gesture between two heteronormative friends, but weighted with intent and intentions when offered between two humans, one of whom openly daydreams of weekend trips together to New York and asks how many kids the other wants. How would he introduce me? I said maybe. He told me it was at the National Portrait Gallery. I said yes.

We never saw the National Portrait Gallery together. We chatted daily from our two separate continents. I looked forward to our three weeks apart. I hoped to find clarity. I did not find it. At most, when asked by two separate persons if I was gay, I shrugged. “Middle of the road.” A truck could run me over, and I would not know from which lane I would be struck. Probably the left.

I saw the breakup coming. I thought he was faking it. I thought he was withdrawing in hopes I would pursue him and show greater affection. I tried. On a certain day I regretfully remember, I left him on read for eight hours—an accident that is atomically impossible if you are smitten. I wondered if I broke his heart when I said I still liked women and when I said I felt no clarity after our first kiss.

He started to include tildes in his messages. It was new iconography. What did it mean? Not so abrupt and sharp as an em dash, but a squishy and suggestive break in sentences and thoughts. A break in us.

We got dinner when he returned stateside from his trip. We said we both had to be up early and parted ways at the restaurant. I felt mild annoyance he didn’t try to get me to come over as he Ubered away, but I would’ve said no. The night before, I asked a woman for her number at another holiday party. I had also started exploring Tinder with settings for both men and women.

His holiday party approached. I had plans every night. I expressed regret. He asked to call me, the first time he ever phoned. I knew as I answered and had flashbacks to a previous lover asking to talk. The conversation took nine minutes. I put him on speaker and texted my friend, “He’s breaking up with me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t feel a spark for you,” he said.

This was the ideal, expected outcome, but I always envisioned myself the actor, not the victim. I spiraled. You don’t want me? You don’t feel a spark? That was me the whole time. I clenched my jaw.

“Could I have done something differently?” I asked.

“No, I’m so sorry, Cazey. I just can’t go on once I don’t have a spark.”

That’s the difference between us, I did not say.

A full season passed since I last saw him. He reached out several times with inane prompts sent at 11 PM on a Thursday that I always responded to. He eventually unfollowed me on social media. I felt a small, empathetic ache for him that recalled my own misery at unrequited love and our inevitable incompatibility.

I remembered thinking in November, between our first meeting and our first date, this was a new chapter—but was it a new book? The answer remains vague. Sometimes I wonder if, in pursuit of experiences and opportunities, I have overwhelmed my sense of self to the point of detachment.

Since being with him, I have kissed both more women and men. Being with him allowed me to explore my sexuality, but reminded me of a larger, more universal desire and what I want in my next relationship—to be overwhelmed by love. After all, that is why the tall Turkish boy ended it. So, while this may be a chapter or book that I’m still writing, at least the plot hasn’t changed.

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