From The Guardian, July 31, 2015:

In my early 20s, I found myself in New York City doing an internship in Midtown Manhattan. I didn’t know that many people in New York, I was always shivering in the heavy air-conditioning, and my boss didn’t seem interested in being my friend. I found myself thinking about Rebecca, the first girl that, as a queer kid growing up in the late 1990s, I ever kissed courtesy of the internet.

Coming out, at least in liberal areas, isn’t the big, risky undertaking that it used to be, even 15 years ago. But it’s still a life step, and it can still cause hiccups in fledgling gay relationships that people in straight ones never have to consider.

Rebecca and I found each other on Planetout.com when we were both 15. I took a chance and messaged her: “hello” and “I like your pic.” She wrote back the next day, telling me that she thought I was cute. We messaged for a few weeks about books and movies we liked. When I finally asked her to meet up, I already wanted to have sex with her.

The nature of where we both lived – her suburb was a 45-minute drive from mine – didn’t help us achieve that physical closeness. Rebecca didn’t have a car. Neither did I, but my mom was pretty cool about driving me lots of places so I just asked for a ride. I explained I wanted to see a friend who lived in Vernon Hills. When my mom asked me how we knew each other, I explained that we were friends through soccer. Rebecca and I set a date for the following weekend. We couldn’t wait.

Then during one of our frequent AOL chat sessions, Rebecca messaged me something: she wasn’t out to anyone, not even her mom. She assumed I knew that, but I didn’t. I was surprised, since we’d been chatting for what felt like a long time. Rebecca insisted I was the only person who knew that she was gay.

Still, I was floored. I had many queer friends in my regular life, I went to a queer youth group at church every Monday, and my parents knew about my first-ever girlfriend who I met in-person. I didn’t care. I wanted to meet her.

I knew that Rebecca wouldn’t look like she bought her clothes from one of these strip-mall department stores — I was certain that she was as arty as I was, purchasing cool vintage t-shirts from thrift stores and The Salvation Army, despite her parents’ disapproval. We would bond over how important it was to not dress like everyone else, to be non-conformists, and then we would steal her mom’s car and drive to said thrift store to score some delightfully hideous holiday sweaters. We would wear them as a joke because we were awesome.

My mom drove me to Rebecca’s house on a Sunday morning. I took out the crumpled piece of paper with her address. It was warm because I had folded it so many times, burying it deep into the pocket of my vintage maroon corduroy pants. We drove past a fabricated pond, where a few ducks and geese gathered. Not their natural habitat. I was sure Rebecca’s house would be covered with cool Christmas lights or something out of the ordinary, because she was so special.

Rebecca opened the door to her room and quietly stepped out. She looked exactly like her pictures. She was even cuter than her pictures. She invited me into her room. Her mom left. My mom left. It was just the two of us. It didn’t take more than 30 minutes before we were cuddling and making out under the sheets.

I found out later that the day after I visited, Rebecca’s mom confronted her over dinner. She said she knew what was going on when we had closed the door to her room, and accusing her of making out with me. Her mom told her that was wrong, that she was probably just experimenting with her sexuality and was actually straight and that I wasn’t allowed over again. Rebecca told me she knew that none of that was true, and that she was lesbian. I wasn’t sure what to say. I asked on AOL chat if she wanted to hang out again. She said she’d get back to me but one day turned into one week turned into three. I eventually gave up on messaging her.

A few months later we hung out again on AIM. Rebecca told me she’d come out to everyone at her school, and her mom too. I said I was proud of her. I was sorry that I couldn’t be there. But at the same time, she was going through something I couldn’t relate to. We tried doing a “long distance” relationship, but to no avail. I ended it. Rebecca said she was heartbroken and could never talk to me again. I said I’m sorry. She said that I was her first.

Years later during those long intern days in New York, bored and shivering, I made an impulsive decision to email Rebecca. We traded phone numbers. Around the same time, I discovered texting. For some reason, I wanted to text with her. Texting felt like letter writing but more immediate and intimate, feelings and thoughts appearing in the palm of my hand.

Soon my tiny, battered flip phone was suddenly lighting up gray block-y text against the green background, like an early MSDos screen. I felt so distracted, but I didn’t mind and my boss didn’t seem to notice either. Soon we were texting all day; I was asking her what she was up to, where she was, if she was thinking about me, and what she was going to do that day. It was like no time had passed. After a few weeks of this, I convinced her to visit me in Brooklyn, where I was living that summer. I wanted to see her. I couldn’t wait to re-meet my cute high school girlfriend.

I should’ve requested a picture of her from the present day. It’s not only necessary but vital to ask for a recent photo of an old fling — or better yet, make it a selfie shot today. Because when the day came, as I stood sipping my gin and tonic, I watched a frumpy-looking girl wearing oversized cargo shorts walk in. I stopped mid-swallow. Rebecca had grown up. She was a different person-. I was stuck in my teenage dream of her.

I smiled as she ambled toward me, and opened my arms for a hug. Rebecca ordered a whiskey sour, which sounded sophisticated to 21-year-old me, and then we stood there talking and drinking and reminiscing somewhat about high school days. I realized that I really did not know her at all. But by then we were both a few drinks in, and Rebecca was starting to slur her words.

“You know you really broke my heart, Alicia,” she said, hitting her third vodka shot.

“What are you talking about? We dated for like two weeks or something right? I mean, you’ve totally had so many girlfriends since then I’m sure.” I said, winking.

“You were my first, Alicia. I came out, and it was all because of you!” she said, now shouting a bit.

We got drunk. What other choice did we have? We’d come this far, and so I invited her over. At my place we lied down in my bed and kissed until we both passed out; the next morning I woke up with my hands in her pants. I apologized for everything. And then I asked her to leave, ready for our shared fantasies to fade.