My First Boyfriend Was an A**hole

I recall two things exiting the front door of his house my senior year of college: the wave of fear beginning to crest and the song on the radio. Little else is clear but the aftermath.

 

It was 1987 and I had recently acknowledged to myself that I was gay. In the ensuing years, the scariness of that admission is often forgotten.

 

He was 34, had the most beautiful chest of hair and was an asshole. The signs were there from the start and largely ignored because he was my first boyfriend. College was not something he thought I needed. He actively worked at getting me to skip class to be with him. It got so bad one of my professors called to inform me that missing another class would earn an F grade.

 

The arguments escalated from light teasing to threatening within a matter of days. Graduating college was a life goal and not up for debate. “Are you kidding, I’m in my final classes. What, you want me to be a mailman like you?” This was an ugly thing to say heightened by the dismissive tone in my voice.

 

It seemed like a typical fight. One of many over recent days. Only minutes before we were catching our breathe after an intimate afternoon. Now I needed to leave to finish a paper for class and the argument erupted. As I started to leave, the temperature in the room dropped. “I’ll never allow you to leave me,” came off his tongue with an eerie reverberation. I froze – unable to
move.

 

We stood in his bedroom at the corner of the freshly disheveled bed staring at one another. My thoughts were scattered. My pulse felt like an endless high impact aerobics class. Looking back, I must have been trying to think of exiting. Without taking my eyes from his harsh gaze, I grabbed some recently laundered clothes and made my way to the door.

 

I am scared and befuddled. I am a guy. Why am I afraid of him? This is crazy, right? My unfocused thoughts are of little help. Approaching the car, my hands were fumbling around for the keys. Tears began to form. The keys struggled to find the ignition, yet the doors were locked.

 

The radio bursts through the speakers. Loud music is to youth like tequila to a margarita. Kim Wilde was somehow comforting me with You Keep Me Hangin On. It calmed me as he stood on the walkway. He knew there was fear. Asshole.

 

He spent the next couple of months attempting to win me back. The vacillation from promising to change to threatening to tell everyone I was gay was mentally cruel. It seemed endless and overwhelming. There was a constant fear of being outed to all my friends.

 

Then one day it stopped. No more phone calls. No more unannounced visits to my apartment. For a while, I saw him in shadows or just ahead in the distance. My heart quickened and my palms moistened. It was never him.

 

Funny how something from so far back in the past can appear front and center through the radio. At first, I would change the station. Then, I stopped being afraid of it. When the song comes on the radio, I sing along rather loudly. Sometimes bits and pieces of that day slip into my memory. What if I had stayed? To be sure, there have been other assholes. None as frightening.

 

Shortly after, I came out to my mom, siblings and a few friends from college. For me, the fear of being ‘outed’ was more detrimental than actually telling people. Nowadays, we refer to it as owning the narrative.

 

I have retained the facts of the situation with the passage of time. (No dramatic additions for effect.) People, mostly men, have told me it was not abusive because he never hit me, or they questioned my fear of the situation. The most painful part was giving credit to him for ‘giving me the courage to come out.’

 

The responses received from sharing that experience at the time caused me to fear talking about personal experiences. Opinions can muddle a story casting shadows of doubt. Opinions strip away a narrative to benefit others. Abusers do not deserve credit for being the catalyst to healthy decisions. EVER! Now looking back, that song makes me smile and I am only a little anxious about sharing this story to a bunch of people I’ve never met.