Winter 2001, Austin, Texas

By Erin Donnelly

I blow-dried my hair for the first time in ages, touched up my lip gloss, and changed my shirt a couple of times (too low-cut, too boring … what did one wear in these situations?). My stomach churned and reminded me of being in the canoe at the top of the log flume at Six Flags, facing a steep descent and a guaranteed soaking. I’d always been a nail-biter but now the tips of my fingers couldn’t even be called nails, just raw bits of gnarled skin that ached. I should have gone in for a manicure.

I, the queen of short-lived romances, had never met a guy’s parents before. And certainly not the parents of a gay man with whom I was playing the part of smitten girlfriend.

The fact that, beyond helping my gay friend Joe agonize in the closet for just a while longer before his Mexican Catholic family finally put two and two together, I had no real personal stake in this meeting—no fear of being snubbed, no neurotic fantasy of my future children being shunned by their paternal grandparents, no potential acid-tongued mother-in-law with a lack of boundaries—might have made me less jittery. But it didn’t.

I had nothing to lose, but Joe, well, he had his reasons.

I tried to relax as Joe navigated his tiny battered pick-up truck to his aunt’s house. Was I afraid of being exposed as a fraud? Or pitied because I was some clueless Texas blonde in love with their obviously gay son? Maybe they’d be offended at our charade. Or maybe they’d gain some false comfort from it, allowing them to turn a blind eye to what they must have recognized.

Joe lived at home and his mother had once found a copy of the unfortunately titled, completely unambiguous gay porno “Butt Boys from Outer Space” (a gag gift from a friend, he told me later) underneath his bed and disposed of it without a word. So it’s not like there weren’t any clues.

Dinner went well. His extended family was warm, boisterous, and let me win at a Mexican variation of bingo. His sassy grandmother, who had been sunbathing sans pants when we arrived, leaned in and asked lots of questions. How did we meet? That was easy — he’d gone to school with my roommate. Was I Catholic? Yes, ma’am! What did Joe and I do when he came to town (he and his parents lived in a tiny town south of San Antonio, hence his frequent trips to Austin)? Er … I struggled to think of something that didn’t include the phrases “shop for more tight black Kenneth Cole shirts,” “make snarky comments about the guys at bars called Oil Can Harry’s and the Boys Room,” and “sit around the kitchen table with my roommate and watch as Joe draws instructional diagrams of uncircumcised penises, just in case we come across one.”

“Um, we go out to eat a lot.”

Joe’s father was soft-spoken and about a foot shorter than his wife, who chatted excitedly and had a perma-grin which Joe took as a sign of relief. When his younger brother and his not-so-perky girlfriend left the party to go to Target, Joe’s mother rolled her eyes, turned to me, and muttered, “I hope she buys a personality.” She patted my knee and said, “But you can stay.”

When we left there were hugs all around and promises of “see you soon!” Joe linked his arm with mine, more out of gratitude than affection, and as we walked to the car we might have looked like any other couple flushed with the excitement of a new relationship.

Joe reported back that his family had loved me, and a few weeks later we repeated our faux relationship show for a tougher audience: the co-workers at his company’s Christmas party. Joe worked with mostly women and often went out for margaritas after work with “the girls.” I suspected that these ladies knew better than to be fooled by some fraud girlfriend, but the promise of free barbecue and booze lured me into playing along anyway.

It had been a while since I’d been on a proper date so I couldn’t help but feel excited as I pulled on a short black dress and even pantyhose. Joe showed up to my house wearing a black collared shirt and a red tie. We stood before the mirror in my bathroom and smiled at the reflection. “Too bad you’re gay,” I mused. “We make such a cute couple.”

As expected, Joe’s female co-workers greeted me with crossed arms, raised eyebrows, bitten-down grins, and questions asked with a wink-wink gleam in their eyes. They weren’t buying it, especially with Joe “YMCA”-ing his heart out on the dance floor by himself. I gave a tight smile, self-consciously picked at my brisket, and did my best to gaze at Joe like a besotted girlfriend even though I knew our act was insulting to the intelligence of these women. They knew Joe, they loved Joe, and they didn’t give a rat’s ass who he slept with. Only Joe did.

I moved to New York and, as so often happens, Joe and I drifted apart. The last time I saw him was over Thanksgiving a couple years ago, when my then-boyfriend and I met Joe and his parents for dinner. His parents were friendly and picked up the tab, and I steered clear of any revealing anecdotes. I didn’t have a chance to ask Joe where things stood. I knew he hadn’t told them, but I also knew he didn’t need to. It was the 800-pound purple gorilla in the room, but that worked for them.

On the way home my date and I got lost and argued about missed turns, then sulked for the rest of the drive with the radio cranked up. Sometimes there’s something to be said for fake relationships.

Erin Donnelly is a freelance writer based in London. She has written for Bust, Upscale, Rave*SQ, Priceless.com, and GoGoGlamour.blogspot.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, April 2nd, 2007 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Monday, April 2nd, 2007 at 12:01 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.