What I had with Craig confused me. With the sex and all, I knew we weren't just "friends." But I also knew that both of us were unwilling to find out just what we were. Maybe that's why I sat through On Golden Pond with him 12 times. I wanted him to save me from myself. And the more time I spent with him, the more I could be in denial about my true gay self. But Craig wasn't Jesus, and I wasn't a saint. And that's why I did the unthinkable. I had sex with other men.
I told Craig what I had done. He was the only person I could tell that to. But like Brokeback's Ennis, he didn't want to hear it. I'd already become his worst nightmare: a fag. And making my way through a brand-new gay world, while still being very much a part of his straight group of friends, was like driving blind on a busy highway. A crash was inevitable.
One summer night, being stupid enough to think my friends accepted me no matter what, I brought a new "friend" to a party. Gordon was tall, dark and handsome. But he was also openly gay, which was unheard of in the early '80s in our town. Whether I was aware of my actions or not, that night I'd made my choice: to move forward and away from Craig. By bringing an out queer inside my isolated, homo-fearing community, I'd effectively turned another Saturday-night kegger into my coming-out party. This group wasn't having any of it. After a few awkward moments—and whispers—someone asked us to leave.
And that's just what we did. I never saw much of that gang again, except the straight dudes who wanted to make sure I knew they weren't "that way."
But I did see Craig one more time. He called, said he wanted to talk. And so did I—I missed him so damn much. So we went for a ride, out behind our college campus, on a road that led to nowhere. I don't remember much of what was said, other than how quickly it turned from talking about the weather to how I "messed everything up." He told me he wasn't a "faggot" and that I'd better keep my "mouth shut." He was so angry he started punching at me. I got out of his car. He sped off. As I walked the two miles back to town, alone and freaked out, I didn't realize then that I'd spend the next 20 years torturing myself trying to recapture the initial gut feeling of love that I'd first felt for Craig.
Brokeback Mountain isn't a place you find on a map. It's a state of being in love. And it can tear you up if you're not ready for it. But I still consider myself one of the lucky ones. That's because, after all those years, I found Juan, a great guy who's taught me that love doesn't always have to hurt to feel right. Brokeback's Jack and Ennis didn't get that chance. I don't know about Craig. Years later, I got a letter from him, saying how much he missed me and my "energy." Last I heard, he was a youth minister. I hope he found what he was searching for, too.
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