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Show 181 While looking through the box of wedding invitations I'd received since graduating, which featured photos of these young men standing in front of various Mormon temples with their arms draped like a roller coaster restraint over much better looking women, I think I felt nearly as indignant about the regime of heterosexuality as my accuser in college. But I was in a bind, as trying to have heterosexual sex had been my main reason for living the past few years. I was unsure, then, how not to cooperate, and called it good enough that my seduction attempts usually failed. So even though she was from South Jordan, Amy was gay. This was bad news for me, though I thought I was handling it pretty well. "I think I'm a lesbian" actually went down easier than "I think the Lord wants us to see other people" or "Over time I've just come to find you off-putting," and I made a note to store the line away and use it myself if needed. Still, I missed Amy. Our break-up meant not only the standard drawbacks of turning another person loose into the world with such knowledge as how much of my free time-1 might or might not spend listening to, say, Pink in the privacy of my bedroom, but also I liked her. She could speak Welsh, had pretty, bright blonde hair, and a diverse, widespread knowledge that scanned across such topics as marine biology, 80s pop music and legal procedure. More importantly, she was used to me and liked me, too. I had endured the scrape of a million flip-flops on the sidewalk for that relationship, and now I had to return to the cruel and hideous world of singles, where I was rightly despised for having recently |