Page 22 of The Time It Takes

Maybe I'd used up all my slut years and that was why I didn't care much about dating right now. Or maybe I'd used up all my trust in women by dating Darby—even though obviously not every woman in the world was anything like her. Most women were pretty cool in my book. Just sometimes, there were scary ones. And I didn't seem to be able to spot them ahead of time.

But what if being around Arlie was making the difference in not wanting to date?

Suppose I hadn't had such easy access to sex with women. Would I have been more active in pursuing what I wanted? Or would I have had to consider that maybe, just maybe, I didn't want women all that much? I liked the idea, but the connection just didn't seem to be there for me. And even when I felt it, like with Darby, it had somehow ended up even worse than when I'd felt nothing.

Sex was nice, but I just didn't seem to get many feelings about women. And I always had a lot of feelings about the men in my life, whether I liked them or hated them. Whether I longed for friendship, savored emotional closeness, or wished I could be near them more, be more like them. Awkward friendships grieved; old friends still remembered; confusing feelings I hadn't really had to consider much.

Was I just a creep? Did I only like women for their bodies, and get all my emotional connections with men? But what about Darby, then? I'd certainly had a lot of my heart tied up in that relationship.

The more I thought about it, the less it felt like anything straightforward, heterosexual or otherwise. It was true I'd never had sex with a man. Why would I? I was bullied so hard about "being gay" while growing up, and then suddenly found myself in a magical world where all the pretty girls I'd admired from afar had grown up, too—and some of them wanted me now.

I never had to think about anything beyond that. 'Girls are pretty, and they want me, so we have sex.'

And sometimes, I felt so lost afterwards.

Finding out I was a quote-unquote 'chick magnet' was enough to make some of the guys I wanted as friends hate me merely on principle. Like they were drowning in a desert, and I was breezing by drinking heavily in front of them. Their thirst was so great they couldn't see me as anything but a rival, certainly not someone to connect with. It was so hard to find the sort of male friendships I wanted.

Mostly, I just didn't have friends. I had some men as buddies I didn't know very well, a loose social circle, and I had a few women as friends, but mostly, I didn't have anyone I felt close to who didn't either envy me or want to get in my pants.

Now I was thinking all sorts of things, like about what it meant to long for connection with men, and be slightly confused by my struggle to connect emotionally with women I was dating.

It was awful to have to contemplate—and impossible not to, now that it was in my head.

What if Gary wasn't wrong about me, and it had just taken me this long to notice?

But I'd loved Darby. I knew I had. It had been a bad and unhealthy relationship in the end, but I knew I'd loved her once. I just didn't know if she'd loved me. Or if I'd ever be able to love another woman again.

And I knew very well I loved Arlie. I loved him so much. I trusted him and felt safe with him. Being his friend felt natural, close, safe in a way few things ever had for me. I liked him so much. And I'd never once thought about trying to get into his pants or wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

Because I was straight.

Or maybe because I was really slow to figure some things out, and I'd almost never had to think about what I actually wanted.

It wasn't like I'd find out by having him throw himself at me. Arlie would never fling himself at me or make a move. He'd always treated me with respect and not crossed that line. Probably it wasn't even a line for him, just a natural thing, and the only one of us who worried it was weird to watch a movie next to each other was me.

Maybe it was like how people say "work wife" and that kind of thing. You ended up close to the people you worked with, depending on them day to day. Sometimes there was a connection that didn't feel quite like friendship or just a working relationship. No sex involved, just trusted commitment, warmth—that kind of thing.

Maybe Arlie was my work husband.

But what did it say about me, if that was all I seemed to want anymore?

Was it possible to be this confused about yourself at my age? Or was I just letting the power of suggestion get to me? I glanced at my partner again and found him sending me a worried glance back. I looked away quickly. He always knew when something was wrong. Sometimes I appreciated that. Sometimes, it was not very comfortable at all.

"Well," said my partner. His tone was uncharacteristically hesitant. He cleared his throat. "Well. I'm here if you need to talk about it."

"Okay," I said, not looking at him. I probably did need to talk about it. And probably not with him.