Alan Ilagan

First off, a disclaimer: my gaydar sucks. It didn’t register George Michael until 1996 when he was singing Jesus to a Child (far from his gayest song). It still hasn’t triggered for Anderson Cooper.  And if it hadn’t been for his dick in my mouth (and vice versa), I’d never have known Andy was gay.

The few times it has gone off have not yet been proven conclusively. Harold Ford Jr. sets it off whenever I see or hear him on the television. The impeccably-dressed guy at work had it ringing, even after everyone confirmed the existence of a live-in girlfriend. And then there’s Ricky Martin.

The first time I saw him was at the Grammys (it was Madonna’s big Ray of Light year, and she opened the show and ended up winning four trophys). Mr. Martin was singing La Copa de la Vida (The Cup of Life) (conveniently embedded below) and at the 0:54 mark I thought, ‘GAY.’ It only crossed my mind for a second, but then it happened again at 1:50 and my mind just went, ‘GAY.’

That night was his first big public appearance  just before he stormed the world with Livin’ La Vida Loca, so most of us didn’t know him that well. (I for one certainly hadn’t followed the many members of Menudo.) As with many semi-attractive (he does nothing for me) single men, there was much speculation about his sexuality at the time. Since he wasn’t my type, I couldn’t have cared less. It wasn’t until recently, and the following photos, that my gaydar perked up again.

Now I suppose it’s possible that straight men do wear speedos, and outside of this country many do. But aside from Daniel Craig doing a James Bond ocean scene or David Beckham being, well, David Beckham, most famous straight guys just don’t rock the speedo (which, granted, is a shame for those of us who like to look.)

These were taken a few years ago (before he went and adopted or birthed a couple of children – are they biologically his? Don’t know, don’t care. I do know he’s already posed shirtless with them, which to me seems both gay and odd…)

The point is, he’s never publicly come out, so my gaydar remains infuriatingly inauthenticated, and Ricky Martin remains infuriatingly unknown.

It’s too soon to be bummed out by the holidays, so I’ll put my present mood down to a general ennui with the end of Fall. It always happens towards the end of November. It brings me back to a story I’m sure I’ve told before, but it’s stayed with me for some reason, so here it is again.

I remember standing in my dorm room during my first semester at Brandeis at this time of the year, looking out the window while some ridiculously somber song by Enya was playing in the background. The night was descending, and the sky was the dimmest of blue. The lights along the path to campus flickered on, and the radiator hissed and sputtered. It wasn’t even six o’clock yet, and all I wanted to do was go to bed.

There was a knock at the door. My next-door neighbor, whom I’ll call Greg, popped in and asked if I wanted to go to dinner, as had become a bit customary. He was someone I considered one of my closer friends, but I didn’t really feel like debating him on his conservative views this evening. Still, I knew I’d get hungry later, so I slipped on some sneakers and we headed out to the dining hall.

Greg and I got along well, better than either of us did with our respective roommates, and he was intelligent, which made him a supportive person in the face of the ignorance so prevalent in the world of college Freshmen. He was in the pre-law track, if I recall correctly, which meant we had no classes together, and that was a relief because the last thing I wanted to do was talk about school crap. We meshed well, though we were nothing alike. But as I said, he was one of my only close friends at school, and I valued him for that.

We finished our dinner and made our way back across campus. The moon had appeared and I tried to sound smart by telling him whether it was waning or waxing. Greg paused and looked up into sky, then at me.

“You’re not turning fag on me, are you?”

It was said without menace or threat, but also without humor or laughter. Believe it or not, I was not yet out as a gay man, mostly just confused and scared, but it had dawned on me that I might indeed be a “fag”. Rather than attempt to talk to Greg about it, I simply reassured him that no, I was just relaying my Intro-to-Astronomy knowledge. I told him to go ahead, as I needed to check my mail at the student center. He walked away, relieved at my reassurance.

I stood outside, beneath the moon, and doubted my friendship with Greg for the first time. I also wondered if I would ever be able to be myself, whoever that was. Above all else, I felt intrinsically alone. Something cracked in me that night, something that would take years to fully mend, if it ever even did. I am still haunted by those words, and by the friend I thought I had.