We’d met through a website, which wasn’t very strange considering Temecula doesn’t have any well-known gay establishments. Not that I would have gone to one, mind you, I was only 17. I wasn’t sure what to expect when he rolled up in his big black truck. He was in his early 20s, so I knew to expect mature. But I’d never met anyone this way before.
The night was like most summer evenings in Temecula, warm and calm. I remember being this ball of nervous excitement the entire time. He had spearmint gum in his center console, a smell that filled the truck and continues to paint my memory of that evening to this day. He had dark stubble, and an unaffected expression. Great smile. We drove around aimlessly, just talking.
The city is known for its suburban sprawl, and it was there we found our hideaway. In a jumble of partially completed tract homes, we pulled the truck over and decided to go for a walk. We meandered through the skeletons of houses and found a spot in one that overlooked the valley. We spent four hours getting to know each other; the conversation unraveled into a surreal affection. He turned out to be really funny.
He asked me what I planned to do with my life, and at that point I really didn’t know. I conjectured that I might someday be in advertising. Yeah, that sounded sharp. Or maybe I’d go into medicine, whatever that meant. He said he’d thought about opening up his own business, becoming a master of capital. We were both so young. The night ended with us building the house whose framework had offered to accommodate our prattle. It would be colonial, but with a very modern feel. Lots of windows. Warm.
That’s the night I met my first boyfriend.
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