I miss one thing.
I grew up in a classic 70’s burb. No gays. All whites. Little life. Worse: nylon clothes. Worst: no deli.
At 13 I forged a heart-bond with a mate at school. We listened to Brahms and Gershwin together. Even Bartok. We went through puberty together. By 16, he was climbing through my bedroom window at three in the morning to talk about the world. Heck, we shared a girlfriend. Or two. We talked constantly about authenticity, faithfulness, character.
I wasn’t gay then and neither was he. But our friendship was deep. Confusingly deep.
As we grew up together, we faced and denied the complexities of our sexualities. But we never kissed. Our shared girlfriends were our proxies.
As we hit our 20’s I had that damascene moment and came out. It doesn’t matter whether he was gay or not. Perhaps the crisis was/is all mine. I still don’t know if I had fallen in love with him, or he with me.
But he has never spoken to me since then.
And that’s the thing I miss.