On homo neurotic friendships

Being unlabelled has never affected me in my life. It isn’t discussed or brought up in conversations; I haven’t had to defend my sexual preferences or prove my sexuality when my dating choices didn’t match with society’s expectations. I’ve fallen for men, I’ve dated girls, and I don’t necessarily see it as something I need to define or explain. It’s unlabelled; no need to discuss.

So why did my last friendship turn this all around? 

Even though I have queer friends, I’ve never been so aware of my sexuality as around this particular individual. You might raise your brows and reduce this to a simple crush; it isn’t, and it never was, but I understand this way of thinking.

Being friends with someone so painfully aware and open about their sexuality makes you want to spread yourself open, too. It made me question myself and my ceaseless attempts of keeping my sexuality private and something no one would feel the need to uncover. Was this a different way of being ashamed? I don’t necessarily think so, but rather a way of reclaiming privacy in a world where you’re used to sharing everything. Sexuality is private, and one can be content by choosing not to share it.

 There’s something so tender and intimate about befriending someone with the same sexuality. Someone who shares your feelings about sexuality and manages to present it while setting boundaries. Someone who knows and understands. Even without romantic feelings or sexual attraction, I feel like a relationship between two WLW people always becomes so intense. There’s no real proof for this, nor can I properly explain it. I actually never had such an intense friendship before, but I’ve seen it, I’ve read about it, and I’ve felt it. Are these intense and raw feelings the same between people who share the same trauma, family history, or niche interests, perhaps? 

Was our special quirk our isolating sexuality that we try to protect from the public eye?

All of these things make me feel like homoerotic friendships can only become neurotic once they’re over. It is as intense as a breakup between two lovers because you lose your companion, your trusted partner, your other half in a world where people share and talk and label. Queer friendships are rare diamonds in Luxembourg – we used to joke that “the gays” have already dated everyone that there is in the country – so losing them feels like you lost something that could have been so great. Every place you’ve ever been to is haunted and seeing them in public after a “friendship breakup” only feels like an actual breakup. We used to share something so personal, and now it’s gone? A secret you have with a stranger? It’s depressingly neurotic to grieve a pretend relationship, like a perfect world you just made up.   

I mean, I hate to make it all about me, but who am I supposed to talk to if there’s no you?