Fag Hag: Troubled and Trouble

Olga Wolstenholme's picture

Remember when “fag hag” was part of the vernacular, where did that term go I ask you? Do people still use that expression?

It was 1998, Will & Grace had debuted on network television, I shared an apartment with my then best friend T. and according to the Urban Dictionary I was a true fag hag.

One summer, when T. and I were, uh*, taking a time out from our own apartment and invaded our friends’ place for a week I happened to picked-up a book that was lying around and begging to be read.

Fag Hag by Robert Rodi the story of a woman who is madly in love with her gay best friend. When this particular fag hag’s best friend finds true love and she is no longer able to sabotage her intended lover’s relationships, she kidnaps him, locks him up in her basement (or something like that, 1998 was a long time ago) and tries to force him to love her. Obviously this plan fails. Miserably.

This is in no way mirrors my own life experience. I was never in love with T. I loved him. We were as close as two people can possibly be, but I never desired him in that way. I’m pretty happy about that, because unrequited love sucks balls.

T. and I met in high school. He asked me out actually. I said no. About a year later we became friends. Admitted to each other that we were bisexual. Then moved towards either end of the sexual orientation spectrum and assumed the identities of gay and straight, respectfully.

We lived together for four years. I’ve never been more comfortable or open with another person. This created tension in our other relationships. We were closer to one another than we were with our boyfriends, lovers, family and other friends. It made for some strange dynamics at times. Created jealousies, from them (the outsiders) and from us (when one of the outsiders got too close to one of us).

We were troubled and we were trouble.

His mother blamed me for making him gay. My mother blamed him for giving me bad ideas.

T.’s mother died from breast cancer last year. I never called.

* We were vacationing from our apartment, because T. had bought a pair of roller skates from a Hell’s Angel on credit, which he neglected to pay back. Fearing for our lives we vacated the premises after receiving a “warning” call. Packing a bag full of supplies we escaped through the back fire escape and “visited” our friends for a part of the summer. Actually, I’m pretty sure, at the time, we just wanted to hang out anywhere but home.

(Posted at Cuntlove)

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