Date #48: You Were Cuter in 8th Grade

It's amazing the tricks our mind plays on us.

Recently, someone I went to junior high with myspaced me to say hello. The person's myspace page featured a morose, clearly cocky, brooding fellow who apparently has turned gay since the days when he and I were in school together.

The message was simple:

"Hey, what's up? I remember you from middle school. We should hang out sometime. Jesse."

I was going to delete the message. Nothing about the guy seemed dateable, and if it hadn't been for one simple little tidbit from my past, I wouldn't have given this guy a second thought.

That little tidbit was the fact that in 8th grade, this guy was a god, and I had harbored a pre-pubescent crush on him before I even realized that I wasn't destined to wind-up with Joey Potter from Dawson's Creek.

This was enough to accept his friend request, and message him back an acceptance in regards to his wanting to hang--and my phone number.

A complete reversal simply because almost ten years ago this guy had been attractive? Back before he had even fully developed into a teenager? Back when there was still hope that Buffy and Xander would get together and Angel's spin-off would mean I could finally see my favorite vampire slayer with the partner of my choice?

BRIAN: It's understandable. Your mind remembers this kid as a catch. It just can't let go of that notion yet.
ME: But my mind is let go of so many other notions.

This discussion was bringing out the Freud in myself and Brian over lunch at the NC.

BRIAN: Yes, but there's also a challenge associated with this boy. You could never get him in middle school because he was straight and you didn't even know you were gay. But now the chances seem good.
ME: But the prize has changed.
BRIAN: The prize being the guy?
ME: Yes!
BRIAN: But you see, the prize was probably never the guy. The prize was probably the idea of the guy.
ME: I'm not following you.
BRIAN: The person you are now--Kevin Broccoli.30, let's say--wants a guy whose confident in his sexuality, who's fun and fun to be around.
ME: Okay.
BRIAN: The person you were in eighth grade--Kevin Broccoli.05, let's say--is ashamed of himself, loathes his sexuality and doesn't even realize it, and would probably want someone he could fool around with in his tree house. Someone who can keep it a secret.
ME: Um...all right, I guess.
BRIAN: Subconsciously Kevin.05 probably hates gay men--
ME: But I didn't know any gay men in eighth grade.
BRIAN: Just go with me on this one. You probably had an image in your head of what a gay man was, and you didn't like that image, so instead, you were attracted to your ideal version of a straight man.
ME: Who turned out to be gay.
BRIAN: See? There's all kinds of superego at play here.
ME: So what do I have to do to satisfy the inner Kevin.05 in me?
BRIAN: Have sex with Jesse in a tree house.
ME: Yeah, I might try and stifle that urge--you know, like human beings do--as opposed to rabbits.
BRIAN: Good luck with that one, Sarge.

Jesse and I met up at my house, where I fed him pizza and we reminisced about the old times. He relayed how he didn't come out until college, and even then he'd had a girlfriend and just messed around with boys on the side. When I asked if he was fully out of the closet now, he replied with--

JESSE: Now I just do whatever.

Okay then.

Time had not been altogether kind to Jesse. He now exhibited the remnants of the old college beer gut. His skin wasn't doing too good, and his hair made a good case for needing to be perpetually covered by sometime of baseball cap. He wasn't a good dresser, a good conversationlist, or for that matter, enticing in any way.

And yet I wanted him.

I wanted him so badly, I was embarrassing myself. After all, I knew it was all coming from that deep, inner place where Kevin Broccoli.05 was screaming--

"He's such a rebel! He told Mrs. Hutton to go screw in Social Studies! Do him! Do him!

And indeed it seemed that the odds were good I could if I wanted to. As I've admitted many times, I'm no supermodel, but having been subjected to the social rigors of both a public middle school and a private high school, I have developed the ability to be able to look at someone and instantly know whether or not they are above or below me on the dating ladder.

Jesse had reached bottom rung.

He was mine.

After the pizza, we watched a movie on televisiona, and after about ten minutes, I noticed Jesse was shifting around a lot in his seat.

Okay, I thought, here it comes. He's going to make the first move.

Secretly, I thanked God that Turner and I hadn't scheduled our big "this might be us becoming more than friends" date yet. I refuse to be a cheater, but even worse would be cheating on Turner with someone who looked like they stepped straight out of a Van Wilder movie.

Finally, Jesse stopped moving and got up--to leave.

ME: Uh, is everything okay?
JESSE: I'm sorry. I can't do this.
ME: Excuse me?
JESSE: I know we were supposed to fool around--

What? How dare he insinuate that! Just because I was ready to jump him--

JESSE: --But I can't do it. I mean, you're Kevin Broccoli.
ME: Excuse me?
JESSE: Don't get me wrong. You're totally hot, and way cuter than a lot of the guys that are normally interested in me, but I still think of you the way you were in middle school. You know, geeky, loud, annoying--
ME: Yeah, I get it.
JESSE: I mean, I'm attracted to you. But I just can't be attracted to--to--
ME: Kevin Broccoli.05?
JESSE: I don't know what that means.

I told him not to worry about it, and showed him out. It always amazes me when life gives you those little ironies. It's sort of like God admitting that he used to write for Three's Company.

FRIEND: Honey, a beer gut? I'm not even sure what that would look like.
ME: It's weird. It's like my mind is intentionally trying to make me miserable.
FRIEND: It's the same way with my alcohol addiction.
ME: So you're admitting you have a problem?
FRIEND: I'm sorry, what were we talking about?
ME: Isn't there anyone whose not really attractive that you still find attractive for one psychological reason or another?
FRIEND: Michael Crawford.
ME: I'm sorry?
FRIEND: The man must be in his late seventies, but every time I see him, I think of him kicking up his heels in "Put on Your Sunday Clothes" from Hello, Dolly! and a part of me just wants to grab my ankles and scream "Holy Cabooses!"

Just for kicks, I went into my closet--no pun intended--and found my old middle school yearbook. I found the photo of Jesse, and now all I see is an 8th grader with a smirk. That's all. Nothing spectacular.

But like most things, the memories seem to hold on even tighter.