I’d had my first kiss somewhere around the age of twelve or thirteen. It was with a boy, of course, as girls were, in my mind, forever off-limits. In keeping with my outdoorsy, countryside childhood, it had happened when we were sitting in a field of tall yellow flowers; so tall that they stood far above our heads, swaying in the summer breeze. And the boy I’d sat in tree houses, splashed in rivers, and run through wheat-fields with since we were nine was the one who’d decided to kiss me.
It was a first kiss that almost anyone would treasure, picturesque in location and with someone I cared for. But I felt nothing for him beyond the platonic friendship we’d always shared. My heart was wired differently, so I couldn’t reciprocate his attraction. So my first kiss, despite being a happy memory because of our friendship, was not one I felt a romantic connection to. At the time, I wondered if maybe I would feel something for other guys; perhaps he was more like a brother than a boyfriend to me, I’d thought.
Several other interested boys came and went during my high-school years, mostly just friends I bonded with over guitars. My heart would sink if those guys began looking at me differently, as I knew what was coming. They’d tell me about their feelings, and I’d be forced to choose: try dating them and see if any feelings appeared or admit what I already knew, that I was gay and attraction to boys would never be there.
When one of these male friends tried to kiss me at a bus stop, nothing about it made my heart skip a beat or gave me butterflies—but I did feel all of those things when I looked at the girls I liked. Kissing somebody male felt unnatural and awkward to me, like playing a forced role in the film of my life, an understudy for the person I was trying to become. But it felt important to explore this—I was figuring out who I was, and I was desperate to fit in.
I said yes to dating a few of my male friends, but they were deeply hurt when I broke up with them only weeks into our fledgling relationship. I couldn’t tell them the truth about why I had no attraction to them—so I was left grasping at clichés like “It’s not you; it’s me” or “You’re more like a brother to me.” It was an emotional car crash for both of us every time; we both walked away hurt, and they had a sense of confusion because my reasons for breaking up were never fully convincing.
As my female classmates and I arrived at the legal age of consent to have sex (sixteen years old in the UK), conversations about “fancying boys” became more serious and progressed further. Some of the older girls were claiming to have “gone all the way.” I’m sure much of it was just bravado, but a number of my peers at school were now sexually active. This, in turn, would bring a new degree of heartache for me.
Once, on my way to a science lesson, the blue-eyed girl in my class whom I’d fallen for three years earlier and still couldn’t seem to get over said she wanted to go on a walk with me at break time to tell me something. Getting to spend time with her alone was the Holy Grail for me, and I thought about nothing else all morning.
We met at lunchtime and walked across the school field to the secluded area where tall trees lined the edges. It was June and unseasonably hot with scorching sunshine, so we tied our sweaters around our waists and kicked at the dry grass.
Leaning against a tree, she looked around nervously, scanning for teachers, and reached into her bag. Pulling out a cigarette, she lit it and inhaled the smoke to calm her nerves. Perhaps one reason I liked her so much was because she was my polar opposite. Known as a troublemaker, she always seemed so sure of herself and willing to challenge the status quo. There was something beautifully dangerous about her.
She cleared her throat, preparing to tell me her news. Ever the optimist, I wondered if she was going to tell me that she liked me—that she was gay. (Of course, she had no idea that I was or that I liked her in that way, as I put immense energy into hiding it.) That lunchtime, as she looked into my eyes, nothing could have been further from her mind.
“So,” she began, “I’ve decided … I mean, I think I’m ready to …” She paused to take another drag of her cigarette. “I’m ready to … have sex with him. I think I’m … in love with him,” she said, her face flushed.
Her boyfriend had been keen to sleep with her ever since she’d turned sixteen, and here she was, telling me she was going to do it. I coughed and looked away. She thought I had cigarette smoke in my eyes and apologized, exhaling slowly in the opposite direction.
“So what do you think?” she asked. “I mean, I know your faith wouldn’t condone it, but apart from that, what do you think, as my friend?”
“Friend” rang in my ears. That was all I would ever be to her. All I would ever be to any of these girls, now or ever. All I could mumble in response to her question was “Well, I guess only you can know when you’re ready …”
My heart broke into a hundred pieces as I processed the news she’d shared. It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep with her—my feelings were far more innocent than that, plus I believed that sex should only happen within marriage, as that’s what my church had raised me to think. I just wanted some sort of emotional exclusivity with her, where I was the one she ran to when she was frightened or happy. I wouldn’t have allowed myself the “sinful” behavior of kissing or dating her even if she had been interested, as my faith made that impossible for me. Liking her had felt much easier when she was single, but now that she was seriously dating a guy, it was a constant reminder to me that she was falling in love with him and not with me.
Anytime I found myself thinking of her in that way, I shut the feelings down at once, as guilt and shame rushed in. But as we stood there talking, I felt lost in her gaze. She seemed closer than ever, and yet now, based on this news, she’d never been further away.
“I guess we’d better go back for afternoon class,” she said, stubbing her cigarette out on the trunk of the tree. We started our walk back, and when we reached the school entrance, I told her I’d see her later.
I made my way to one of the bathrooms, locked the stall door behind me, and stood with my back against it. Silent tears fell down my cheeks, creating a mess of black mascara. I slid down the back of the door until I was sitting on the floor and, pulling my knees into my chest, I sobbed into the thick blue wool of my school sweater.
July arrived and the heatwave continued, but to me it felt cold and overcast as I processed the news the beautiful blue-eyed girl had shared with me. A few weeks later, I found out she had gone ahead and slept with her boyfriend. I managed to avoid hearing the finer details from her, but was told enough that my heart felt stabbed by a thousand knives.
I couldn’t wait for August and the long school vacation. The only glimmers of happiness on my horizon were the big Christian youth camps I attended every summer break, so I busied my mind by looking forward to those.
I’d had great experiences at those camps throughout my teens—several thousand young people all camping in tents, eating way too many hamburgers and donuts, gathering in a big venue to sing, and listening to energetic speakers firing us up about our faith. They were always a highlight for me, mostly because I was around other people like me: young, Christian, and passionate about God.
Those camps taught me a lot about developing into a well-rounded adult: about how to be a good leader, put others first, keep your word, dream big, and live a meaningful life. And they always had fantastic music with some of London’s finest session players. Watching them during the meetings and sneaking in to see their rehearsals if I could, I grew leaps and bounds in my own understanding of how to play in bands.
Nursing my broken heart, I was glad when August finally arrived and I could head to Soul Survivor, a camp held in the southwest of England. It was as great as ever, and I came away feeling inspired and encouraged. After a few days at home to get clean laundry and catch up on sleep, I headed to my second camp, one that would be held in a large showground in Warwickshire, and I couldn’t wait for it to start.
Initially,