The Husband Who Thinks I Want His Wife (Honey… I’m So Gay I’m Practically a Historical Monument)

Let me tell you something about getting older.

You don’t end up with more friends. You end up with fewer… but the ones you keep are the real ones. The ride-or-die, bury-a-body, know-all-your-secrets kind.

For me, that number is basically two.

Two girlfriends from grade/high school who have been in my life for thirty+ and 40+ damn years. YEARS of boyfriends, bad haircuts, questionable fashion, dramatic letters, and enough shared memories to fill a small museum.

One of them is (currently) married.

She’s basically my BFF. The sister I chose. The woman who has seen me through almost every phase of life… from teenage chaos to full-grown adult chaos with better credit.

And then… there’s her husband.

Now listen. I’ve always tried to be cool about the husband. You know how it is when your best friend is married… you don’t just gain a brother-in-law, you gain a gatekeeper to your friendship. Suddenly every visit, every trip, every plan has this extra person attached to it.

Fine. Whatever. I can work with that.

There were signs early on that maybe… just maybe… this man did not fully understand the concept of homosexuality or “agree” with it.

Let me take you back.

One time, not too long ago, my husband and I stayed overnight at their house. We’re chatting, hanging out, being normal adults. I go near the front door and notice this big wooden stick leaning behind it. Like some ancient artifact. A club. A staff. A medieval weapon from the Renaissance Faire.

Naturally I ask, “What’s that?”

And he casually goes,

“Oh that? That’s my fag basher. I use that to bash faggots.”

Cue the awkward silence.

Now when you’re a gay man in America, you develop this little survival mechanism called the uncomfortable laugh. It’s the “haha… okay… moving along…” laugh. The laugh you use when someone says something so wildly inappropriate that your brain short-circuits.

So my husband and I kind of looked at each other like:

Did he really just say that?

We shrugged it off. Because sometimes people make dumb jokes. Sometimes people say weird shit and you move on.

Or so I thought.

This wasn’t the first awkward encounter with the man either. Rewind a few years to my birthday trip to New Orleans.

They had never been before, so I said, “Come on! Let’s celebrate in New Orleans!”

I love New Orleans. It’s chaotic, loud, ridiculous, dramatic, and a little drunk at all times.

In other words, it’s my natural habitat. (Or at least it was before I became sober and obviously heterosexual 😳😂)

For my birthday we booked one of those little dinner boats that cruises down the Mississippi River. Cute little vibe, dinner, drinks, music, the whole thing.

Now I was feeling festive. My friend was feeling festive. We’re laughing, being silly, living our best birthday lives.

Someone offered to take our picture.

Now I have this stupid thing I’ve done since high school. Anytime someone takes a picture of me with a friend, I stick my tongue out and lick their face. It’s ridiculous. It’s immature. It’s completely harmless.

So I did it.

Just a quick blep on her cheek.

Honey.

You would have thought I tried to steal the nuclear launch codes.

Her husband LOST. HIS. MIND.

Immediately furious. Stormed off. Told me to get the fuck away from him or he was going to punch me in the face. Refused to eat dinner on the boat. Sat at the front of the boat for the entire 2 hours sulking.

Meanwhile I’m sitting there like:

“Sir… I am gay. I licked her face like a golden retriever, not like a seductress.”

The boat docks. He bolts off. Finds a restaurant nearby. Eats gumbo by himself like a tragic Southern soap opera character.

Then they go back to the Airbnb, pack all their shit, and leave.

Gone.

Checked into a hotel in the same city because apparently being within 50 feet of me was too much to bear.

And I thought:

Well damn. That escalated faster than a Housewives reunion.

Eventually things cooled off. Time passed. Life moved on. I figured we had all gotten past it.

Apparently not.

Because now it’s Spring Break.

The plan was simple.

My best friend was going to come visit me in Galveston with her two adult daughters. Just a chill week. Hang out. Eat seafood. Talk trash. Be normal human beings.

My husband was even going out of town that week to visit his sister in Oklahoma.

So it was perfect timing.

Girls’ trip energy.

Except today she calls me crying.

CRYING.

Because her husband lost his mind again.

He’s convinced that if she comes to Galveston, we’re going to run off together like some kind of forbidden lovers in a Tennessee Williams play.

That I’m secretly in love with her.

That we’re going to have sex.

Let me be very clear about something.

On the Kinsey scale, I’m not just gay.

I’m off the scale gay.

I’m what the gays call “strictly dickly”.

Women? Lovely. Beautiful. God bless them. But sexually? Absolutely not.

I don’t touch pussy. I don’t want pussy. I don’t think about pussy.

I was a C-section baby, which technically makes me a platinum gay… because I didn’t even come out of a vagina. I was surgically removed like a limited-edition collectible.

That is how aggressively gay I am.

And also… let’s just use basic math for a moment.

I have been friends with this woman since high school.

Thirty years.

THIRTY.

So let me ask a reasonable question.

If I secretly wanted to have sex with her… why exactly would I wait until I’m fifty years old to make my move?

Why would I wait until gravity has started doing experimental art projects on my body?

Why would I wait until my back makes Rice Krispie noises every time I stand up?

Why would I wait until I’m one ibuprofen away from qualifying for AARP?

Now suddenly I’m like:

“Tonight’s the night. Time to explore my heterosexual side.”

Sir.

Be serious.

If I had a sudden straight impulse, I probably would have tried it sometime around 1997 when Britney Spears was still in a school uniform and my knees worked.

But no.

Because I am, in fact, fucking gay!

Here’s the thing I’ve come to realize.

I don’t actually think he believes we’re going to have sex.

I think something else is going on.

Religion. Politics. Whatever ideological cocktail he’s been marinating in for the last decade.

It’s a kind of worldview where gay people aren’t just different… they’re wrong. They’re a threat.

And I think the real problem is this:

His wife adores me.

We’ve been best friends since we were kids.

That bond existed long before he ever showed up with a wedding ring and a suspicious stick behind the door.

And I think it drives him absolutely crazy.

For someone who supposedly thinks I’m such a threat…

this man has already allowed it.

He’s allowed her to come stay with me in Galveston before while he went on a hunting trip.

He himself has stayed at my house in Texas.

A few years ago my husband and I traveled to Daytona Beach with her and we all stayed in a gorgeous Airbnb together.

Just the three of us.

No drama. No scandal. No forbidden romance novel plotline.

Just adults hanging out.

So suddenly now, after all of that, now it’s a problem?

After thirty years of friendship?

After vacations, sleepovers, football games, and a thousand shared memories?

Now we’re supposed to believe I’ve been secretly plotting a heterosexual coup?

Please.

Let’s just call it what it is.

He hates fags.

And unfortunately I am a very visible, very unapologetic, extremely gay fag who happens to be deeply loved by his wife.

And that combination apparently makes his brain short-circuit.

But here’s the part that hurts.

When you’ve been friends with someone for thirty years… they’re family.

You’ve grown up together. You’ve survived life together. You’ve seen each other through heartbreaks, bad decisions, marriages, divorces, everything.

And suddenly there’s this weird wedge that you didn’t create and can’t control.

And yet… this man is fully convinced I’m trying to steal his wife.

Which honestly says way more about his brain than it does about me.

At the end of the day, she has to choose her husband. That’s the reality. Marriage comes first.

I get that.

But it still hurts like hell to feel like you’re being pushed out of a friendship that’s older than some people’s mortgages.

All because someone can’t wrap their head around the fact that gay means gay.

Not “secretly waiting to seduce your wife.”

Not “plotting some romantic betrayal.”

Just… gay.

Which honestly raises the bigger question:

If your wife’s best friend being gay makes you this insecure…

what exactly does that say about YOUR relationship?

Spring Break may be canceled. My best friend is crying. Her husband is somewhere on the highway spiraling into a jealous meltdown.

I think this might be the end of our friendship the way it used to exist.

Not because of her.

But because of him.

If a man truly believes I’m lurking around waiting for the moment to pounce on his wife like some gay home-wrecking panther, then I’m not comfortable being anywhere near him. I’m not interested in spending time with someone who clearly despises me for existing.

And she can’t exactly come visit me if it detonates her marriage.

So I guess this is what thirty-year friendships look like when they collide with somebody else’s insecurities.

Phone calls. Text messages. Memories.

No more beach weekends.

No more random trips.

No more sitting on the couch talking shit for six hours.

Just… distance.

And that part really hurts.

Because this wasn’t my choice.

I didn’t start this fight. I didn’t change. I didn’t suddenly wake up at fifty and decide to begin my secret heterosexual phase.

I’m the same gay best friend I’ve always been.

But sometimes someone else’s fear is louder than decades of friendship.

So I guess all I can really say is this:

I love you, girl. I always will.

I’ll miss the way things used to be.

But this wasn’t my decision.

XOXO, AB 💅💄💋