Several years ago, I received a call from a friend of mine, “Karl.”
“Oh man,” he said, “So I smoked some pot with this guy. And he totally started flipping out.”
“Really? I thought pot was supposed to mellow you out.”
Karl let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, not this guy. He said I was trying to make a pass at him. He said I was exposing myself.”
“I don’t know what his deal is. He kicked me out of his apartment, and said if he saw me again he was going to beat the shit out of me.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m thinking in a few days he’ll come to his senses.” Karl chuckled mirthlessly. “He’s a big guy, though. I’m sure he could take me. I’m hoping he’ll just let it go.”
At the time we spoke, I’d known Karl for many years, and our late-night, beer-addled conversations had only confirmed his heterosexual orientation. His act of “exposing himself” was, I imagine, an innocuous zipper-adjustment misinterpreted by a man with some serious homophobia.
I’ve also been kicked out of an apartment.
But not for being gay.
It happened after “Kelly” and I had been smoking pot over at her place. She showed me the door. I’d been too “handsy.”
The next day I sent Kelly a text message, saying that I was sorry if I made her uncomfortable, and could we talk about it? No, said Kelly, You were disrespectful and rude and I don’t ever want to see you again. End of story.
I remember us smoking together, some fooling around, and then her leading me to the door, pointing outside, and telling me to walk home.
“Can I have a hug?”
Kelly and I had met online, and our first few dates had gone swimmingly. We’d talked about life, our families, what we wanted in the future, and our kinks. One afternoon, when the world was quiet and still, she lay on top of me and drew her breasts across my face, and my eyes closed partway.