silkidelic

A mini story about compulsory straightitude 20 years ago.

When I was young, one of my guy friends picked out a super short stonewashed black denim miniskirt for me. It had two functionless buckles on the side. So short and low-rise that it was practically a denim belt, but it was one of the most expensive things I owned, over $50!

I loved anything short or tight at the time – not because I wanted attention from boys, but for the imagined cool factor. 

I did not, in fact, look cool, but in my defense, I lived in a conservative suburb, social media was not a thing, and I had limited pocket money.

I had a crush on my friend – let’s call him Kurt – and thought him styling me meant he liked me back. He was nice, handsome, unhinged, and his parents had gotten him a car that we could gallivant around in with friends. I felt like we had a connection, especially because I was decidedly not one of the cool kids. I had just moved back from Europe and I was so socially anxious that I was nearly incapable of speaking in many situations.

Kurt told our other friend he might like me too. Or rather, he asked her if he “should” like me. We never went on a date, held hands, or anything, but we were together a lot all year and I felt this mutual SPARK between us. 

Not long after, rumors circulated about him. Nothing emerged from my romantic delusions. Then later, Kurt came out as gay. 

Keep in mind, this was still the era when calling someone the f-slur as a casual insult was as common as Abercrombie & Fitch polos at school. In my town, people often waited until college to come out, if at all. 

This kind of experience is common and, even today, gets framed as a shameful joke, like I was the last stop before Gay Town. But I’m just happy he was comfortable around me. We kept each other company in that place, and he chose me a rad miniskirt — or I guess we’d call it “phat” back then.

Make no mistake: heterosexuality was compulsory, and reinforced by the threat of social exclusion. In many places, it still is, and physical violence is its cement.

It took me a long time to meet my people romantically, because unlike my friend, I wasn’t gay, but I wasn’t straight either. Men were so readily available that I never even thought to date women, even though I didn’t experience any real gender limits to attraction. I ran into one guy who treated me like garbage in public, so I learned to spot and avoid that type. Sure, he wanted me to slap him in the face as hard as I could when we were alone, but then acted like I had acid for blood if I got too close to him out in the world.

Because after all, it is dangerous in this world to be perceived as anything other than the right kind of masculine. 

In my 20s, some of the men I liked best would have been deemed “metrosexual” back in the early 2000s. Remember that term?? Meaning feminine, queer, frivolous, questionable and wrong in some way or another, but mystery of all mysteries: still liked pussy?!! Maybe even a hell of a lot more than other men? In THAT outfit???

That word, metrosexual, meant that you could even be straight, but still the wrong kind of straight.

I realize now that my own orientation had something to do with why I enjoyed Kurt’s company so much, and more importantly, why I felt trapped when I went out with most straight stoner bros. There never seemed to be a shortage of vanilla dudes milling around with their guitars and bongs, so I was never alone, but the more I said yes to dating them, the lonelier I felt.

In the end, my crush instinct hadn’t been totally wrong – we did have a special connection. We were kindred spirits. We were queer. We were friends. And that was worth more to me than a thousand dates. 

I wish I still owned that overwrought charcoal denim miniskirt, because I see them sneaking back into fast fashion again, even at Target. Who’s cheugy now? (Still me.)