Page 12 of Ambiguous
It’s a beautiful, sunny day in San Marino, and we’re at some huge verdant bungalow estate that’s decorated in an explosion of red, white, and blue.
Taking a deep breath, I paste on my smile. I have a slight headache. “Hey, Mom.”
She gives me a hug, knowing that people are watching and we’re being photographed. My father’s off to the side, talking with a few reporters. We’re headed toward a party full of dressed-up people eating passed hors d’oeuvres and sipping champagne cocktails. Some of whom are famous, either entertainers or politicians, and some of whom are the plus-ones. I’m pretty sure they each paid $5,000 for the privilege of attending this shindig. She steps back to inspect me, but I know I’m flawless. “Is Kurt coming?”
I nod. “He’ll be here.”
“Wonderful.” She beams at me. “Go say hi to your grandfather. He’s around back. Remember to take pictures for the ad campaign once Kurt’s here.”
I follow the bunting-clad railing on the wraparound porch, punctuated by American flags flying in the gentle breeze, and locate California’s top Democratic state senator—who also happens to be my grandfather—in front of a team of reporters in the backyard.
He lifts his chin as he sees me coming and puts on his huge politician smile. The one that makes me feel conflicted, because I know he loves me… but he also uses me. I’m the token gay, after all, here to prove that even though Fred Stone’s an old-school middle-aged White man, he’s honestly into the liberal causes California Democrats support. I give him street cred.
Lingering on the sidelines for a moment, I wait for him to gesture for me to come to his side. When he does, I approach all jolly smiles, like we’re buds from a 1950s sitcom. “Hey, Pop-Pop,” I say, shaking his hand.
He puts an arm around my shoulder and faces me to the cameras. “Everyone, I’m sure you all know my grandson Sam Stone. Because of him and his partner, I’ve dedicated my life to ensuring California leads the way for LGBT rights.”
“Dedicating his life” is pushing it. I restrain an eye roll.
Oh, he cares about the cause, and he loves me, sure. But heneedsme—for votes—as much as he loves me.
Still, he’s family, and I care about those votes, too, so I open my mouth and say the words I’ve been trained to say by his speechwriter. “I’m very proud that my grandfather is supportive of the gay community.” I smile and get my picture taken, my bow tie and suspenders feeling tighter than usual. I answer a few questions, stand by my grandfather while he does the same, then excuse myself to go find my “boyfriend.”
I don’t have a boyfriend. Never again.
But that looks bad. Which, yes, is a judgment steeped in heteronormative prejudices. So while I combat those, I have a friend who’s also gay and coincidentally related to the Democratic leader of the state assembly. She and my grandfather long ago made up the fiction that Kurt and I are dating.
It works, because neither one of us does relationships.
An image of Julian Hill comes to me, together with a memory of the way his body felt under mine. Like he belonged there.
Not sure where that thought came from.
Anyway, Kurt and I are very good at posing for the camera, reciting sound bites, and then leaving each other alone to go about our own lives.
Kurt texts me that he’s almost here, so I return to the front of the mansion, where he emerges from a black town car. Smiling, I approach and dutifully give him the safe peck on the cheek and hug that are expected of acceptable gay men.
Yes, I spend my life putting up with other people’s ideas of how I should behave, but it’s for the greater good.
Kurt’s a graphic artist, the kind who designs junk mail, but he’s passionate about government policies. He makes political posters in his free time.
I want to make the world a better place for LGBTQIA+ people and stop legislation fueled by hate—like taking away health care for trans teens. I will do anything to keep some kid in an intolerant society from suffering that prejudicial crap. And Kurt’s the same way, so he’s as on board with this pretense as I am.
“Hey,” Kurt says, brown eyes shining, his dress shirt and slacks well tailored. “Glad to see you, sweets.”
“Likewise.” I squeeze his shoulder.
Our friendship has kept me grounded and able to play this charade. Kurt and I both wish our relatives’ politics went further than lip service and a few sponsored bills. Our relatives “care”—but they also “care” about global warming, taxes, immigration, schools, health care, and myriad other causes. Kurt and I want to improve queer rights so badly that we’re willing to play this dating game to have as much access and visibility as we can… even though we’re just buddies.
Buddies who have maybe blown each other a few times when fundraisers got interminable.
Still, I wonder what it would be like to have an actual partner at these things—one who cared about the issues as much as me, but also caredaboutme.
Ha. That’ll never happen.
I take Kurt’s hand and tug him into the party, where we’re soon surrounded by women in high heels and salon-styled hair who want us to be their best friends who dispense fashion advice and opine on style. Kurt’s better at it than I am, but I do all right. He flirts and laughs and hooks his chin over my shoulder, causing more than one person to go, “Aww, aren’t they the cutest?” We see other activists like us, doing the circuit to help our respective causes.
Eventually we get pulled aside for a photographer to take our pictures for some PSA ad campaign.
