When I was in college, I had a gay boyfriend. No, he wasn’t my queeny bestie who helped me match my purse with my shoes and went clubbing with me; he was my actual boyfriend—we had sex, I met his parents, the whole deal. To be fair, I didn’t know he was gay. He didn’t act like it, and even though all of his best friends were campy and out ‘n’ proud, I just thought he was an enlightened dude who didn’t care about their sexual orientation. I knew his gay best friend was in love with him, and hated me because we were dating, but I was secure enough to just deal with it and all the bitchy glares he threw my way whenever I showed up at bars or parties. This went on for about a year, and while the GB and I had a somewhat rocky relationship, I ultimately thought we were in love, and really, quite the adorable couple. 

I realized I’d been cruelly deceived by someone whom I’d not only thought was faithful to me, but was also straight. 

One night, by coincidence, I wound up at the same artsy design party that my GB and his best friend were at. His bestie was so angered that I showed up, thinking my boyfriend had invited me that he started hissing to GB as soon as I waved and walked over to where they were. “What’s up guys?” I asked, smiling, giving my boyfriend a kiss. 

“I’m going to tell her, I swear to God,” said GB’s friend.

“No don’t!” pleaded GB.

“Tell me what?” I asked, still smiling.

The bestie looked at GB, then looked at me. And then, he spoke. “I just want you to know that GB and I f**k all the time,” he said. Then he threw his red wine at me and stomped off.

Well then. I’m sure you can just picture my slack jaw and red face, feel the hot rush of shame and grief that ran through my body as I realized I’d been cruelly deceived by someone whom I’d not only thought was faithful to me, but was also straight. But, while I was beyond shocked and hurt, I don’t know if I was actually terribly surprised. The guy, while gorgeous, had been a pretty lame lay and never went down on me. In fact, whenever he was in the shower in the mornings, I used to quickly use my vibrator so I could get off. He just didn’t seem to know which buttons to push, and there was always something about him I just couldn’t quite figure out. I guess I was just too naïve to get at the truth.

The GB was totally flabbergasted, and quickly tried to explain that he was truly in love with me, and just trying to find out who he was sexually and that as soon as he realized I was walking away from him it made him see that he was straight and I was all he ever wanted, and that he’d do anything to make me stay with him. (I suppose this meant no longer giving blow jobs.) For a split second I actually felt bad for him, and considered telling him everything was okay. But then I looked down at the wine stains on my shirt, realized he could have given me some disease (I was on the pill for him) and felt nothing but anger at his bizarre deceit. At that moment, I only had one thing to say to him: “Well, no wonder you never made me come,” I said.

I can’t help but still laugh out loud when I think about my retort that day. I really don’t think I could have come up with anything better had I had years to create a perfect line. So, there is a lesson to be learned from all of this, and it’s not have a handy homophobic retort on hand at all times. It’s this: If your boyfriend’s best friend is gay and hates your guts, trust me—they’re probably screwing. And never date guys who won’t go down on you.