The first time we met, Chris spit an entire glass of milk at me. He was disgusted that a straight girl was going to be wiping his ass and changing his dirty diapers. That was before I’d come out as bisexual. And before he made up his mind to like me.
It was my first day as a volunteer at Horizon House. Harry, the owner, was baking bread and I was sitting at the dining room table chatting with the half-dozen men during breakfast.
Harry was a bear – I had no idea what that meant at the time – I’d learn a lot during my time at Horizon House. He made a mean omelet and his blueberry pancakes were to die for. The guys loved me. To this day, most gay men do. But not Chris. Along with the milk that splattered my face, he rubbed sticky maple syrup in my hair, and smashed the aforementioned pancakes and stuffed them down my shirt. Toxoplasmosis eats away at the brain. Harry told me Chris couldn’t help himself. He was like a 28-year-old toddler.
I wasn’t sure I’d last very long at Horizon House. Day one sucked. What would the second day bring?
I’m not sure how we ended up becoming best friends. Maybe it was because I attended to his vomit without gagging and rubbed Vaseline on his chaffed anus without flinching.
And in return, he never questioned that I could love both men and women.