I was queer in 7th grade when my class daydreams floated over to an 8th grade girl’s desk and I saved her from a fire and my unlimited imagination’s reward was a passionate embrace and kiss.
I was queer the first time I kissed a girl later that year and my mind drifted off to her sweeping me away into the future while she looked at me with a look I’d eventually come to recognize as, “Aren’t you going to make another move on me?”
I was queer when I was thirteen and discovered that I just liked sitting around in my mom’s skirt and wondered who’d want to be with me.
I was queer when I was fourteen and confused a girl by getting her incredibly turned on by only massaging her breasts and not being very interested in doing anything else.
I was queer when I figured out I was trans, not gay.
I was queer at fifteen when I would imagine myself to be the centerfold models I saw in the magazines that came my way.
I was queer when I lost my virginity at sixteen and spoke of wanting to swap bodies when we made love.
I was queer at eighteen when a drunken fraternity brother I suspected was gay kissed me during a room party and I wondered why he thought I was the person to kiss in the room because while it didn’t bother me, I wasn’t attracted to guys.
I was queer at twenty when I realized everyone else in that room when I was eighteen was gay except me.
I was queer throughout my twenties, like the time a naked woman who was not my girlfriend crawled into my bed and I spent an hour trying to figure out what to do until she became exasperated and climbed on top of me and the times I saw the, “Aren’t you going to make another move on me?” looks, which I still hadn’t figured out.
I was queer when I married for the first time at twenty-five and wished it was me wearing the wedding dress and the bridal trousseau on the first night of our honeymoon.
I was queer through that marriage as I walked up to the point of taking hormones and transition and walked back in fear.
I was queer when I dated after my divorce in my thirties and saw many more, “Aren’t you going to make another move on me?” looks and the answer to that question began to arrive when a woman said to me, “Well, it’s strange. We’ve been on three dates and you haven’t even tried to kiss me yet.”
I was queer when I purged all of my women’s clothes and convinced myself I was a guy.
I was queer when I remarried and had a kid and then another kid.
I was queer when I realized I couldn’t live as a guy any more in my forties.
I was queer when I started to take hormones and a few months later my body started to change and I made some more progress answering the, “Aren’t you going to make another move on me?” question.
I was queer when my ex moved out and I started to think about dating.
I was queer when I went on my first date as myself with another woman and began to get an inkling I was queer.
I finally realized I was queer when I collided into another woman and the resulting pleasure explosion was exactly what I had been looking for my entire life and answered the, “Aren’t you going to make another move on me?” question because it didn’t come up at all.
And just like that, I turned queer.