At age 23, I traded in my family for a new one. While it was Tammy I had proposed to, it was her family I aimed to marry. Her father was a respected doctor in whose eyes I could do no wrong. Her mother, always flirtatious, never failed to compliment my looks and laugh at my jokes. Even Tammy’s younger brother looked up to me.
Unlike my own family, they embraced my drinking habits; we often shared a drink together. They were sophisticated that way. Dr. Lake even kept a stash of Evan Williams reserved just for me in his liquor cabinet. If I overindulged, there was always a spare bedroom with my name on it. I grew more attached to them with each passing day. For once, I felt like somebody’s beloved son.
Dr. Lake persuaded me to shift my academic focus from psychology to medical school, promising a future partnership in his practice with me taking over when he retired.
There was only one catch: I had to marry a woman. I liked Tammy, but love? Maybe if I worked hard enough, I hoped, I could bridge the gap between liking her and loving her—at least enough to establish a beachhead in that unfamiliar territory. With the men I’d been with, it wasn’t love either, but I could tell it was in the same country.
As the wedding date loomed, Dad the Doctor footed the bill for the dress, booked the country club, and hired caterers. His socialite wife addressed the invitations. Everything was ready.
But me.
With only two months left, no matter how much I drank, I couldn’t recapture the euphoria I’d felt proposing to Tammy over a payphone in a bar two states away. Time was slipping away for me to miraculously transform into a straight man capable of pledging lifelong fidelity to a woman. In reality, my sexual orientation was sliding dangerously towards the other end of the Kinsey Scale, and the idea of living a double life was suffocating. I’d heard stories of gay men who took that path and managed to live respectable lives, but it sounded like a miserable compromise.
“Maybe we should wait a year or two until I pay off my debts,” I suggested. “I owe thousands.” I even cited an article that listed financial problems as a leading cause of divorce. Tammy must have sensed my growing desperation.
Each time I raised an objection, Tammy took it to her father, who promptly came to our rescue. By the time I ran out of excuses, he had offered to clear my debts, finance my education, set us up in an apartment, provide a car, a monthly allowance, plus guaranteed me a job after graduation. He might have wondered if my reluctance was just a bargaining ploy to squeeze more out of him. Truthfully, I was terrified, but no argument of mine could compete with his checkbook.
For someone who preferred multiple escape routes, I now had few options left. Yet, despite it all, a part of me still yearned to be his beloved son. Perhaps, I thought, I could make it work with Tammy after all.
Then the dreams started. At the altar, as I was about to say, “I do,” somebody threw the church doors open, radiating a heavenly light, and I knew this was the person I was destined to be with, and he was definitely not a woman. I couldn’t see his face but I felt the certainty of love for the first time in my life. I dashed towards the light, leaving Tammy behind, only to be yanked back by a noose that had been placed around my neck. It was being gripped by Dr. Lake. I’m a cheap therapy date. My dreams are as literal as I am.
I needed to up the ante, to tell Tammy something she wouldn’t likely take to Daddy to fix. Alone with Tammy in my apartment, I finally admitted that I might be slightly bisexual and needed time to figure things out. Surprisingly, she wasn’t as shocked as I had hoped; in fact, she seemed composed and prepared.
“But you haven’t actually done it, have you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course not,” I lied. In truth, it had happened recently—with Scott, her ex-boyfriend from whom I had wooed her away.
“It’s just a phase,” she said.
I didn’t think you could still have phases at 23, but I was willing to entertain the idea until she said, “They have treatments at a hospital in Jackson, you know. Electrical shocks, I’ve heard.” She had done her research.
She said nobody would have to know. “I don’t see why we have to change the wedding date,” she said. “After all, Daddy has everything planned.”
I told her I needed a couple of days to think about it, stalling for a better exit strategy before I ended up on my honeymoon with electrodes hooked up to my testicles.
It was time to move from tactical weapons to the nuclear option.
Before she visited next, I had a few stiff bourbons and rehearsed my lines. The moment she walked in, fearing I’d lose my nerve I blurted out, “I’m gay. I have sex with men. It’s not a phase.”
She stood there, stunned, disbelieving.
To make sure it sank in, I added, “Scott and I- “
Before I could finish, Tammy screamed and fled to her car. I wish I could say she threw the diamond engagement ring I went into debt for, but she took it with her back to Daddy.
It wasn’t my proudest moment. I had finally come out, but it was only to scare somebody off, the same way I would later get rid of Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door. And worse, I outed my best friend—her ex—in the process.
I may have been a self-hating coward, but I have to admit, I was a relieved self-hating coward.
Hearing the scream, Kelly, an attractive nursing student from next door, rushed into my apartment to see whom I had murdered. I told her Tammy and I had split, conveniently omitting the gay part. Kelly said she was glad, that she had been watching us for a long time and could tell we didn’t belong together. She thought I deserved better. Well, one thing led to another…
A few days later, I moved in with Kelly and stayed three years, until I caught her with Manuel, a foreign exchange student from Nicaragua I had fallen in love with. Perhaps the worst part was, I didn’t know whom to be more jealous of—her or Manuel.
Confused? So was I.
Being gay in Mississippi was exhausting, and especially hard on those women ensnared in our cover stories, unwitting characters in our elaborate productions to remain hidden in plain sight. And sadly, there were people like Tammy, who seemed to attract men like me looking for camouflage. She was far better at finding gay men than I was.
I often wondered what became of her. Years later, while working on my “making amends” list for a 12-step program, I decided to track her down and acknowledge the pain I had caused. I found her brother, who told me Tammy had moved to Biloxi and married a staunch Baptist preacher, now a vocal opponent of gay rights. He was a fixture at Pride events, with Tammy standing proudly by his side holding a “God Hates Fags” sign.
He said his sister had turned bitter and mean. That nobody in the family could stand her. Then he chuckled, “You know, Johnny, you were lucky to be gay.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if Tammy married that preacher to halt the endless parade of closeted gay men into her life. Of course, when it comes to homophobic preachers, it’s often a case of “the lady doth protest too much.” She’d have better luck finding a straight man in a gay bar than at a Baptist Bible college.
Luckily, Step 9 of my program gave me an out. It read, “Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”
I decided that bringing up our past would do more harm to Tammy than good, so I dropped it. The gesture was probably half consideration and half cowardice,
I still regret how I handled everything with Tammy. Yet, I’ve never regretted not marrying her. Although sometimes, I do miss Dr. Lake and feeling like someone’s beloved son.
Trading Up: A Fractured Love Story