Each time, I worried that someone would detect the chink in my armor and sense that the advances meant in jest were quite welcome. It was the first of many similar incidents with E, and other players on the team. He stripped down to compression shorts that left little to the imagination, and proceeded to grind against me while singing “Let’s get physical!” Fear and panic surged, and a tidal wave of lust paralyzed me. One day after gym class, we were in the locker room changing next to each other. Time did not fulfill its promise to make things better. But when my friends from youth group started confessing who, in that incredibly small pool, they had a crush on, my innermost thoughts betrayed me. I felt a sense of obligation not to do anything that would undermine their standing in the community, or my own. My family’s involvement in the local church had skyrocketed. At the same time, I retreated further into the closet and put on a mask of religious faith and heteronormativity. But that didn’t stop them from deepening. The feelings I had for E were confusing, powerful, and not reciprocated. I was attending a small, religiously-affiliated school where it was in no way acceptable to be gay, much less out. I was distracted the rest of that morning by the way sweat glistened on his tanned, bare torso, the way the Midwest summer sun made his honey-brown eyes gleam, the impish grin preceding a “that’s what she said” joke. The first time we met was at practice, in a forced group introduction where no one remembers anyone else’s name when it’s done. We played soccer together in high school. E was everything, he just didn’t know that. Everyone called him “E.” His first and last name started with that letter, but E meant so much more than that to me.
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