The Big Gay Weekend (Part 3...)

So here we are, a week after my first Pride.

Last Sunday morning had my mind slightly preoccupied with visions of the previous 24 hours. I lay in bed, a body beside me for the first time in months, and took in my surroundings. My legs sort of hurt from the night before, and for some reason I had the twitching of a headache. I heard the sound of the sky opening and rain slapping concrete...

Oh shit! Don't rain on my first parade!

We eased awake at around 11:30 a.m. and did some rolling around between the sheets. But my heart wasn't in it...a little because I didn't feel top notch, and a little because I started to feel that little feeling creeping into my mind, that annoying voice that quietly said maybe I'm really not that interested in him...maybe we're not going to work...

I tried to shut it out of my mind, and made us some lunch. We threw on some clothes and hit the street to full sunshine; the clouds had parted and we were on our way. A quick stop at Starbucks and I had some nourishing coffee in my hand...then all of a sudden James' hand grasped mine.

I reeled. We've already talked about what we are and are not, and we both agreed we're not 'there' yet, but there was his hand in mine again. Only now, it wasn't heat of the moment gay pride, or post-clubbing sex appeal. It was just walking down the street to the parade.

As subtly as I could, I slipped my grip from his and inserted my coffee cup in it's place. I still feel sort of childish not actually just saying aloud what I was thinking, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings or anything... it's such a fine line between being honest adults and making someone upset at the smallest thing. If he noticed, he didn't comment, and we walked toward the parade route.

On the way, he called his friends. The few of mine that were supposed to be coming with me all ditched me for various reasons of varying importance. I was a little sad, considering I thought people were coming with (the more the merrier)...and I was also relieved. I mean, had I not been there with James, I would have been alone.

But we wound up alone. His friends were at the beer garden, having a few drinks before the 2 p.m. start time. We didn't want to slog through the crowds to get back to where they were, so he said to call him when they figured out what they were doing. It all seemed a little weird to me. After all, these were his friends, and they weren't insisting that we join them, or telling us to wait at a certain place to meet.

I asked James what was up with that, and he guessed maybe the wanted to give us some alone time.

"Oh God, they hated me that much?" I asked, joking but genuinely nervous. It crossed my mind that they may not have wanted some random tag-along at the parade...but then again, they didn't care about me tagging along Saturday night...my brain tumbled it around a while, and in the end came up with nothing other than a vague disappointment that I wasn't going to get to know any of them during daylight hours. If James cared, he really didn't show it.

We chose a lucky shaded spot on Yonge St. and waited for things to begin. We stood there, side by side, and James hugged me out of nowhere. With me already slightly on edge about the whole touchy-feely thing, I asked him what was up.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just glad I'm here with you."

Sweet sentiment, but I was trying to figure out just what he meant. For the rest of the day he became increasingly quiet and distant, lost in thought about his parents and what lay ahead at home. I kept reminding myself how alone I felt during those moments, and how great it would have been to have someone's hand to hold for support. So we hugged.

The parade started. I went in with a very open mind about what would pass us by, refusing to believe that it was all nearly-naked men shooting water guns at each other. It wasn't...far from it, actually.

Down the street they marched, the young and old, representing all the different community groups, sub-communities, political parties, police forces, varieties of sports, clubs and bars. For every guy in underwear, there were three fully dressed, representing an AIDS foundation, community interest or other support.

Of course, the hot nearly-naked guys were more fun to look at, but it really hit home the number of people who were out to support sexual equality. Not just that, but the differences in ages was staggering; union members that looked to be in their 60's were marching alongside Amnesty International's contingent of under-30 paraders. It was all a big love fest, and sort of gave you that flicker in your heart, the affirmation that you are not alone. Support the other 364 days a year may not be as visible, but everyone was out for the parade.

I've read elsewhere that once you've had your first pride, you become a little jaded. It doesn't mean as much, the second or third or tenth go-round, because you're less 'new' to the whole thing. People seem to agree that if it's your first pride, you think it's some holy groundbreaking event, but as the years go by you become less and less engaged with it. I'll happily admit it was a fulfilling experience for me, one that I'm glad I had and I'm glad was full of the naive glad-tidings other people seem to regard as being foolish.

Of course, there had to be one moment that hit home for both of us. PFLAG marched by, with lots of moms and dads holding signs like "I love my trans child". It was all nice to see, but the last three marchers of their group really got both James and I choked up. There was a guy our age, standing between his parents, and holding a handwritten sign, scribbled on a cotton sheet.

"My parents rock."

It all came gushing forward for both of us, how elated and envious we both were of this boy. Here he was, marching in the pride parade, surrounded by his accepting, encouraging parents who were comfortable and legitimate enough to walk with their homosexual son. For a moment my eyes stung as James leaned into me.

"Oh Jesus, just don't think about it, don't even say it out loud," I said, knowing what would happen to us both if we started talking about it then and there. He nodded and we focused on what was coming down the street behind them.

After three hours, the parade ended and we started walking back to my place. James wanted to walk through the village 'one more time' to experience the whole thing again before the world went back to normal the next day. I didn't really want to, I was more interested in avoiding the crushing crowds, but he grabbed my hand and led the way. It took us half an hour to walk a block through the masses of people, and I have to say the magic of Saturday night didn't carry over to Sunday evening. Instead of enjoying the diversity and beauty of the spectacle, I just wanted to push through the crowd and get to the other side.

The rest of the walk was quiet, with James lapsing into long moments of silence. It didn't look like anyone was home as he walked on autopilot beside me. Seeing him like that, experiencing it all firsthand in another person, was hard; I ached for him. When we got back to my apartment, he put his arms around me and squeezed. Hard. I pulled him in as tight as I could, and we stood there at my door.

A few moments of me trying to be lighthearted, and we were packed up and ready to go. He phoned his cousin as I told my roommate (who had just got back from out of town) about the weekend so far. Any thoughts of us fooling around once more while we had the chance were removed; the mood was awful and neither of us would have had fun.

The ride home was similarly depressing. When we started down the road, James really looked as if he were going to burst into tears. I grabbed his hand and held it on his lap, and we sat in silence as I drove home.

I dropped him off at his cousin's house, so he could feel out the situation at home before going there himself. In the car he gave me a really quick kiss and a big hug.

"There really are no words," I said, almost squeezing his hand off his body. Any attempt at me trying to distill what he was feeling and what I felt would have been laughable; it was a moment of rawness and I hope he understood how much I wanted to give him strength to walk in the door.

"Yeah, I know," he said quietly. "Thank you Steve."

And he left.

I hurried home, exhausted and a little worried myself. My mom knew exactly where I was...but would my dad have realized I was downtown on the gayest day of the year, and coming home in the early evening after the pride parade? I started worrying myself that I was going to be walking into a house full of questions.

But when I arrived, I found both of my parents in upbeat moods. One of the first things out of my mom's mouth (after dad had left earshot) was to ask if I'd had fun at the parade. I took from that that he had not questioned where I was, and I didn't need to worry.

A very short time later, I was tucked in my bed, quietly reviewing my 24 hours. So many firsts, all of them things that I've wanted. And while I wanted to stew, to wonder if it would be another 21 years before I had those experiences again, the questions didn't take hold in my exhausted brain.

My eyes closed, but the smile didn't leave my face.