The First Night I Ever Spent With My Husband
10 years ago today, we spent the night together for the first time in PJ’s 600 sq ft house after texting each other for two days straight. How has it already been a decade? At the same time, it feels like it’s been 100 years. Here’s how it all went down…
We had been texting for the past two days and I was a nervous wreck. I had never told anyone I was gay before, and to be honest, I never thought I would. After I told PJ (whom I had a crush on for the past four years) that I was gay, I had knots in my stomach all day and night, so much so that I couldn’t even eat. I had confided in him, basically a stranger at the time, something I hadn’t told even my best friend or my family. It was an exciting and scary time, but I knew that I was grateful that I had found someone in my small, southern town that I could be honest with.
After coming out to him, and him confirming to me that he was gay, too (after years of speculation on my part), he invited me to spend the night at his house that he had bought with his ex-boyfriend and renovated himself from top to bottom. They had only broken up maybe three days before, so the wound of recent heartache was still fresh for him. What was going to happen? I didn’t let my mind fully go there. To be honest, I was just happy to get an invite.
I told my mom I was going to spend the night at my friend Zach’s house (a lie I had to tell at 19 years old and still living at home) and she thought nothing of it. I was in the clear. I packed a bag of overnight clothes just in case he really meant it and wanted me to spend the night. Oh! I forgot to tell you: I was questioning everything at this point, and wasn’t even 100% sure PJ really wanted me to come over in the first place. My mind went to dark places like, “Is he playing a prank on me and actually going to out me to everyone I know?” and “Has he just been entertaining my texts the last few days and doesn’t really even care about me?” CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? That’s what years of hiding who you really are will do to you. It can make you question everything and allow your mind to make up some pretty crazy scenarios.
But at the same time, I was a skinny 19 year old with tattoos who still lived with his mom. PJ was a successful 24 year old who bought his first house in cash at 22 and fixed up by himself. What did he see in me, I wondered? It felt like it was almost too good to be true. I had spent my whole life dreaming of a life I could live one day, where not hiding who I was the norm. I never in a million years thought someone like PJ would be living in my little southern town, openly gay and willing to give me a chance. Looking back 10 years later, it’s almost comical, but these were very real thoughts and feelings I had back then.
But back to the night of. I packed my bag, still unsure if I would actually need it or not, told my mom I was at a friend’s, blew off said friend by telling him I couldn’t come out that night (not my proudest moment), and I headed to PJ’s little house for the first time ever. After seeing him in passing at our local community college over the years, out in town at restaurants, and maybestalkinghimonMySpace, it had all led up to this moment. I was actually going to the place where PJ McKay ate and slept and called his own. How was this real life?
I called him on the way there and, because I had lived in this town forever and knew what was considered the “good” and “bad” part of town, I asked him if we were safe where he lived. He laughed and said he had lived there for two years and never had a problem. For context, the house he was living in cost him $10k to buy. I was worried, but only partially. Nothing, not even a house in a questionable part of town could ruin the thrill and excitement of driving to his home that night. It was, up until that point, the greatest night of my life. What would happen? What would we talk about? What if we had nothing to talk about? My mind was racing now.
I remember how nervous I was and what my expectations were when I walked up to his front porch. I remember feeling like I was about to throw up. I remember wondering if anybody had seen me pull in, or if someone that I knew would recognize my car in his driveway. I was terrified, but also electrified. My heart was racing. We sat on the couch, not very close to each other, but on the same piece of furniture nonetheless. We talked for hours about our pasts, our futures, and life in general. I told him I was bisexual (which I knew I wasn't) and that I would probably marry a woman one day. He shrugged and confidently told me he was gay. He was who he was. He didn’t care.
As the night went on, we decided to watch a movie. “The Jacket” with Adrien Brody. I had never seen it, and maybe he had? I can’t remember, but we put it on and sat there and tried to watch it. We got maybe 15 mins into it before pausing and talking some more. We didn’t have “nothing to talk about” after all. We never finished the movie and, to this day, I still haven’t seen it. Maybe I never will.
At some point that night, his ex-boyfriend drove past his house and, because it was at a dead-end, he pulled in his driveway to turn around. In doing so, he saw my car (though he didn’t know it was mine) and I can only imagine what he thought of the whole situation. I was so scared he would somehow find out the car was mine and tell someone I was there. That was a pretty unrealistic scenario (he had no idea what kind of car I drove), but regardless, I was terrified. PJ reassured me he wouldn’t know who’s car it was and that everything was fine. We resumed talking for the next whoknowshowmany hours. Just talking, nothing more and nothing less.
At some point it had gotten to be 3 am somehow and PJ had to be up early for work in the morning. Like, 7 am early. It was time for bed. He told me he would let me sleep in his bed (!!!) but warned me that he twists and turns and would probably kick me during the night if I did (womp womp) and that I should probably sleep in the guest room. Remember how much of a nervous, question-everything-and-believe-no-one-wreck I was? I took his warning as a sign that he didn’t want me to sleep in the same bed as him, that the night had gone terribly wrong and he never wanted to see me again, let alone sleep together. The guest bedroom it was.
As you can imagine, I didn’t sleep much that night. I kept asking myself what I was doing there. How did I end up in the guest bedroom of the man I had a crush on for the last 4 years who, after much speculation, actually turned out to be gay like me, and was not only extremely attractive on the outside, but on the inside as well? I secretly hoped he would quietly knock on the door and ask if he could come in and sleep in the same bed. We wouldn’t even have to kiss. Just the feeling of actually sleeping next to a guy that I was attracted to would have been enough for me. I kept checking my phone to see if he had texted me asking me to come to his room. After all, we had been texting all day and night for the past two days. Would I be so far off to assume one last good night text would illuminate my phone before I fell asleep?
I never got the text, or the knock at the door, and eventually I ended up falling asleep. I woke up to a quiet, empty house, and still no text. I knew I had blown it. But I remember thinking, as much as I wanted this to work out with PJ and dreamed about what our life could have been like (on the first night! getting way ahead of yourself here, Thomas), just having this one night alone with him, sharing a part of myself that I never had before, was enough for me. If I never see him again, or actually get the chance to kiss him, this was enough.
But then I saw, over on the table, a piece of paper with some scribbles on it, like it was waiting for someone (me) to discover it and read it. But it wasn’t a piece of paper, it was the back of an envelope (a detail that has stuck with me all these years-for some reason I thought it was so cute that he didn’t have a piece of paper to write on so he chose the back of the envelope of an old bill- anything would do, he just had to get his thoughts out on paper) that he probably rummaged around to find before heading out the door. Was I still asleep and dreaming? I thought I screwed everything up the night before. Why was he writing a note for me to wake up to like everything had gone so well? Was he just being nice?
But as soon as I read the letter, my thoughts and fears and doubts subsided and I let out a sigh of relief. Maybe this could be something. Maybe this could actually be something after all. Wouldn’t that be crazy? Because what are the odds I would meet someone in the same small town that I hated growing up in and always wanted to move away from? What are the odds that this 24 year old man would be interested in me in the first place? What are the odds that after all this time we would finally meet each other? I still have the letter and read it from time to time when I’m feeling sentimental:
At the risk of sounding too dramatic, it was like all of my dreams were coming true after so many years of believing I would never come out, fearing I would be in the closet forever. Even after just one night, I felt hope with him, a feeling I would feel every day for the next 10 years with him by my side. I felt hopeful that I could finally be myself to those I loved most. I felt hopeful that maybe I could have a happily ever after in a town that isn’t known for embracing those who are different. I felt hopeful that I could finally show someone how much I could love them completely, how much I had to give. For the first time in my life, I had hope, and it was because of him.
For the next few days, we texted each other nonstop, day and night, and tried to see each other (in secret) as much as possible. And then the days turned into weeks, and we would meet in parking lots and just talk (and sometimes kiss), and I would spend the night at his house and we would watch DVD’s on his laptop on his bed because he didn’t have a TV or even internet. And then the weeks turned into months and it became clear very quickly that I wanted to marry this man one day. I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone and I often wondered how I got so lucky to be able to call him mine, because there are a whole lotta guys out there and was I going to be a good boyfriend? Was I going to be enough for him? Alas, he still chose me. It was an exhilarating and scary and thrilling and hard and wonderful time back then and looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing a decade later.
I saw him as an angel, a savior of sorts, who found me at the exact right time and saved me from a life of hiding who I was, which, at the time, was no life at all. To me, he was perfect. And still is. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading about a part of my life I will never forget and cherish deeply.
The last 10 years have been filled with so many ups and downs that I’ve lost count. But the truth remains that PJ McKay helped me to be okay with myself. He helped me to be okay with living in the same small town that I hated growing up in but love growing old in with him by my side. He helped me to come out to my family and friends one by one, never pressuring me or forcing me to do anything I didn’t want to do. He helped me to see the world in a different light, to take chances, and to work hard to accomplish my goals. He helped that skinny 19 year old boy with tattoos who still lived at his mom’s house to believe in himself and understand his worth.
My helper. My crush. My realtor. My handyman. My first boyfriend. My husband. Thank you for these past 10 years, Timothy Paul Jasper McKay. What a wonderful life it is loving you.
xo