, «me an ifilmlit: rm “fl 3 ourtiaaizifliags, of tnszsuxe up to fiazmugai‘ i.eoo..'saa.l5é4s- is I so2.s5o.so99 x‘! or 99937351 Eixst-m:‘13:iii1s:r:tr{fen1t=er1tax1«aan 331I:r£Li¥:(i|i4£?2t1!4t3§liil%S:ii!l§§l‘1tlfi\h5i£é1-F3. WT: ’I.IVi'~. WIl'F.RT. YOU I.I\-T-.f;" .4‘; .'=" nnl nu- mu-M-nv . .‘t _ . i.?3ii27}§%it1t¥é§5:1’flt§s§A§mi :-'%’ia.s$=:i"i2.:gf-”.?«v‘:rvtt:.t:z¢.4.<.essrvéifisrese-rri;i«31i§§s“m.;g .. ‘ _ia&_§ Before t Bars e don’t think of our p every day lives as mak- ing history, but some- times they do. “When did you first know you were gay?” is one of those questions gay people hear all our lives and sometimes one of the most difficult to answer. I always respond that I was 15, because that’s when I had my first relationship. But sometimes I wonder if that’s not too simplistic a reply. The first time I remem- ber being in bed with a girl and getting caught, I was four years old. She was an older woman named Gail Gobely and lived in an apartment across the court on the third floor. Gail was already in school and I was totally impressed ‘when I was invited to play with her. Our mothers were talking in another room. We weren’t actually in bed — we were on top of the covers. We weren’t actually doing anything bad — we were giggling wildly and carrying on. Yet, I remember clearly how charged the small room felt with a thick, heavy excitement. Our mothers must have felt it too, because they suddenly appeared in the doorway and, with expressions of suspi- cion, pulled us apart, my mother telling me stemly to get off the bed. 4 That day I learned a les- son that would not leave me for decades: this was something you hid. There were more lessons in store for me, well before I ever understood the term homosexual or thought of myself as gay. One day when we were both 11, my friend Kathy from down the block called me to come over and play. I walked into a darkened living room. Kathy was lying on the couch. Was she sick? Though this happened seven years later, I remembered the intense excite- ment of my visit with Gail. I felt . just the same way that day in Kathy’s living room. Maybe her instruction’ to lock the door tipped me off. Or maybe it was the fact that not even her little sister was home. We didn’t do anything explicitly sexual, or touch, but everything we did — and I can’t remember what we did — felt erot- ic. Mostly, I think. she teased me. I felt bewildered: she’d never talked or acted like this before. The sensations I was experiencing were pleasant, but Kathy kept a .knowing smirk on her. I didn’t know what a come-on was then, nor have I ever been very good at recognizing one, but I think that may have been what was going on. When I left I felt guilty, because I’d learned with Gail that my feelings were bad, and I felt embarrassed, because I knew that I was supposed to have some knowledge that Kathy had and I did not. I was clueless. Kathy and I had been walking to school together since first grade. The next day, Kathy .took to walking to school on the I sat next to in school. Well, except that Frank was as dull _as bologna on Wonder Bread and inspired no emotion, no sensation, no desire to be with him night and day. When Marsha left the troop, I think I missed the way she 3 made me feel more than I missed her. The troop leader, Mrs. Federman, next stole my heart. Why wasn’t I longing to have a date with Kookie, from the TV show Route 66, or with Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke? No, what felt right was to try and comb my hair and stand like Kookie while I pined for married Mrs. Federman. In retrospect, it is so obvious that I was gay from jump. So is that what I should answer " when people ask when I knew? It’s like the question, “Whe. is your anniversary?” The first time you went out together? Slept together? Was it your bonding cer- emony? If you married do you celebrate that day? What about all ' { the years before, do they no longer ' count? Obviously, I didn't come out with Gail Gobely or with One day when we were both 1 1, my friend Kathy, from down the blocks called me to come over and play. Maybe her instruction to lock the door tipped me off. other side of the street with Pam Guido, a boy-crazy girl from her class. If I’d had the language, if I’d been even just a little bit sophisticated, I would have fig- ured out that I was gay that ‘day. Kathy apparently had. I still didn’t get it when, i the next year, those feelings came back every time I thought of, or saw, Marsha Kassel, the president of my Girl Scout troop. She was a gawky girl and funny, kind of like Gail Gobely had been. That’s all I remember of Marsha, but I haven’t forgotten a bit about the passion Ilfelt for her. It’s hard for me to believe that I never ques- tioned why I was in love with Marsha and not with the nice boy Kathy, but my ‘innocent congress with them gave me my first remembered moments of lesbian ardor. And oppression. And rejec- tion. By the time Marsha and Mrs. ; Federman came along, I knew . enough to hide my feelings. By : the time I was fifteen, I knew ' enough to kiss Suzy when I felt that way again. V 1 Copyright Lee Lynch 2005. Lynch’s 12th book, the novel Sweet Creek, will be released from Bold Strokes Books in January 2006. Lynch lives on the Oregon Coast. Her web page is at /mp.‘//leelyrzc/16.tripod.com.