Persona Non Grata

About twenty-five years ago, I attended my last college party. I never felt very comfortable at those parties, so I only attended a few. It was hosted by a young man I liked and was rather friendly with. He was a little thin, not muscular, a little short, kind of nerdish and a bit femme. In other words, he was just my type, and I thought he was gorgeous. I assumed he would never be interested in someone as low and unworthy as me, but I was content to simply be his friend. I chatted with him on campus, at the local gay bar, in town, at the student LGBT club…wherever our paths crossed. I was a little nervous about going to his party, but I went because he was hosting it.

At one point, I was standing on the porch, and he was in the kitchen making snacks for his guests. We chatted through the open window, and suddenly he unexpectedly leaned over, poked his head out of the window and asked me for a kiss. I was quite taken aback. I wasn’t used to cute boys asking me to kiss them. But I assumed he wanted a nice, friendly kiss. So that’s what I gave him, a sweet little peck on the mouth.

A couple of hours later when the guests were leaving, he asked if I’d like to see his bedroom. He lived in a pretty good sized rented house that he shared with several other guys. He had the attic room, so we climbed two flights of stairs to get to it. He had a cozy room. Lots of character. Slopping walls and a dormer window. I looked around and made several complementary comments. I honestly liked the room, and I appreciated him showing it to me. Then I politely thanked him for his hospitality and left.

I went home thinking the night hadn’t been all that bad. I was still glowing from the kiss, and I enjoyed talking to my friend and a couple of other people. I was relieved that I had made it through the evening without anything embarrassing happening. I thought this, at least, would not be a night that haunted me.

I left town for several months, and in that time, I applied for Disability Social Security, and I was quickly approved. I was happy to have a steady income even if it was small, but I feared I was approved so fast because I was a certifiable weirdo. I was still in my twenties, and I was walking around with a Medicare card in my pocket. I felt separate and different from everybody else.

When I returned to Morgantown, I ran into my friend, and I happily greeted him, told him I had been out of town for while and that I was glad to see him again. A vague smile appeared on his face, and he told me he didn’t remember me and walked away.

I was horribly hurt by that. For several days, I was even suicidal, or more suicidal than normal. And for years every time I recalled that encounter, I felt deep shame and humiliation. I took it as confirmation that I wasn’t worth so much as common courtesy, much less genuine friendship or affection. I considered that he might have been telling the truth and that he genuinely didn’t remember me, but we had talked numerous times over the course of a year, and he had invited me to his house. How could he not remember me? It was a snub, and I knew it. But why? What did I do?

I was in my forties before I figured that out. I was so insecure that I could not imagine anyone being interested in me, and like many insecure people, I was slow to think about the insecurity of others. This sweet boy had probably been flirting with me and trying to drop hints for weeks. He had even kissed me and led me to his bedroom, but I was totally clueless. He probably interpreted my actions as a rejection, and he was probably hurt. No wonder I had become persona non grata. If he only knew how honored I would have been to hold him, kiss him and make love with him.