I was not gay.

Before any of this. . .disaster that was my life came about, that was my
motto.  I was not gay.  I wasn't.  Really.  I stood in the locker room with
all the other guys in the gym class.  I never looked over to see what the
other guys had to offer.  I would just shower and think of Buffy, or
Cordelia, or whoever I was in love with at the time, rinse off, and move on.
I was not gay.

Even when Larry told me he *thought* I was gay, and that he would help with
anything he could on my quest to come out, it gave me the wiggins.  Because
I was not gay.

However, Anya decided I was.

It wasn't her fault.  Not really.  Four days before *the* fight, she and I
were in bed at my new apartment, doing what Anya and I did best - yes, that
would be sex, thank you very much - and she did this. . .thing.  I can't
really explain what it was she did exactly.  Some. . .grinding thing,
tightening of muscles, something along those lines.  It felt *really* good.
At the very beginning.

And then it started to hurt.

Badly.

Bad enough for me to go to the doctor the next day.

Of course, I couldn't *tell* her it hurt, because she was completely
enraptured, having the time of her life.  I always did like the way Anya
made me feel like I was the *best* lover in the world.  Granted, I don't
think she had sex in the thousand some odd years that she was a demon.  I'd
think *anyone* was good after that long.

So Dr. Livingston told me there was mild tissue bruising and asked how it
happened.  He gave me a strange look when I told him it was just normal sex
with my girlfriend.  Apparently, as I overheard the nurses chuckling when I
left, they all thought I fucked a vacuum cleaner hose.  Incidentally, I
wouldn't be seeing Dr. Livingston again any time soon.

However, his diagnosis was for me to not have sex for four to six days.
Give my pal time to heal.  How the *hell* was I going to explain that to
Anya?

The first night was fine.  I pleased her orally, and she was happy and
content.  The *next* night, when I started to go down on her, she whined a
little and said she wanted to have sex, and I told her that I just wanted to
make her happy because she always did so much to make me happy. . .she
relented, and fell asleep shortly after I made her cum.

The third night she pouted, crying that I didn't love her.

I assured her that wasn't the case, just that I was in a very giving mood.
Too bad she wasn't in a receiving one.  Nothing happened that night.

*The* fight happened on the fourth day.  My mother called the apartment and
said there were a few things she found that she thought that I would want.
She'd put them in the basement and I could come and get them at any time.

I shouldn't have taken Anya with me.  She wasn't talking to me, arms
crossed, sulking the entire way there.  However. . .if she hadn't of went, I
wouldn't be as happy as I am now. . .

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So we go to the basement of hell, and I was gathering the few things my mom
was nice enough to box up for me.  Anya was sulking in the corner, watching
me through tear filled eyes.  Finally, with a loud sigh, she stood up.  "I
think we should break up."

I looked over at her, mildly shocked.  "What?" I asked.

"Break up.  You know, where one of the parties in a couple realizes that it
isn't working out for them and they proceed to stop seeing each other?"

"Yea, An, I know what breaking up means.  Why?" I asked.

"BECAUSE YOU ARE GAY!" she screamed hysterically.

I blinked in shock, opening and closing my mouth.  I frowned slightly,
wondering *what* was going through my soon-to-be former girlfriend's mind.
"What?  Anya, I'm not gay."  I wasn't.  I wasn't gay.

"You are!" she sobbed, much louder than I was comfortable with.  She knew to
be quiet when we were in my parent's house, especially when there was no
other source of sound.  Who knew what could be heard - which drunk parent
could hear the arguing, the fucking, any of it.

"Anya!" I exclaimed.  "What the hell makes you think that?"

"We haven't had sex in *three* days, Xander!  You only go down on me!  You
are gay!  I knew it!  I knew it from the second that I laid eyes on you!"
She wiped her tears away.  My heart would have broken at how upset she was,
but I was in too much shock to think about it.  "I don't know why I even got
involved with you!  You. . .you. . .you gay man!"  She stormed out of the
basement, and I turned, just watching her walk out of my life.  I didn't
know what else to say, what else to do.

I heard the door from the house open and a pair of feet shuffle down the
stairs.  "Alexander?"

Great.  My mom.  Just whom I wanted to see.

I cringed, and turned.  "H. . .hi, mom."  She was wearing her normal 'around
the house-get drunk' attire:  a tropical muumuu, her bangs pushed out of her
face with a headband.  My mother never was the most fashionable.  I supposed
that I got that from her.  She had a pained look on her face and reeked of
vodka.  I shuffled slightly, bouncing from foot to foot.

"Alexander," she said, stepping into the basement.  "I know your father and
I haven't been the best parents. . ."

And my mom gets the award for the understatement of the year, ladies and
gentlemen.

". . .but I want you to know that I support you."

"Thanks, mom," I said, turning back to my boxes.  Suddenly, I remembered
Anya's last words.  "Uh. . .you support me in what, mom?"

"I support you even though you are gay."

What?  WHAT?  "What?" I asked weakly, turning around.  "Mom. . .I'm not. . ."

"I heard your little girlfriend say you were, Alexander.  I just want you to
know that I support you."  She shrugged a little, looking down.  "Your dad
might beat your ass, so I think it would be better if we keep it between us.
. .but I'm here for you.  I saw Sally Jesse Raphael today.  She is a very
informative person, in case you didn't know.  She said you should love your
children, gay or straight, because they are still your children."

I stared at my mother in shock for a good five minutes before I spoke,
watching as she fluttered around, going from flustered to irate.  I was
amazed.  I hadn't felt love from my mother in more years than I could
remember, but now, because of some little blonde bitch with red glasses and
one hour to blab to the bored housewives of America, my mom was going to
tell me she loved me?  Finally, I said, "Mom, I'm not gay."

"Sally Jesse Raphael said denial was the first sign," she said, nodding her
head.

I just covered my face and prayed for the Hellmouth to open in my basement.
 Surely hell couldn't be that bad.

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