Tim Pescari



Nicole, you're my best friend. You're kind, you're thoughtful, and you've always been there for me through thick and thin. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd find a woman who complements me so well, knows me inside and out, and unconditionally allows me to repress who I really am. And yet here you are, standing before me.


Honey, will you say yes and make me the happiest closeted homosexual on earth?

From the moment I first saw you I knew you were the woman I'd waited my whole life to shamefully hide my true self behind. And all this time later, if it's possible, I'm even more in denial about my unshakable sexual attraction to men than I was the day we met. I've thought a lot about the person I want to walk hand-in-hand with down this long, painful road of denial and deception that I have paved for myself—and that person, sweetheart, is you.


Oh, my dear Nicole, these past eight months have been like a dream! A sick, delusional, ultimately life-ruining dream! The nights we've spent strolling in the park talking about the details of our day together have been the most gratifying, platonic times I've ever known. And when we're together, every single fiber of my being knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are the one person I want to be my daily reminder of the urges and desires I violently stifle in a never-ending cycle of guilt and self-hatred.

I promise to do my best every single day to provide for you, build a life for us, and treat you not as a lover—no, Jesus no, never that—but as my closest pal who is by no means of the gender I truly yearn for. And when that twisted promise eventually erodes your self-esteem down to nothing, I vow to be there for you with a passionless hug and kiss, a bouquet of flowers, and a bizarre, intensely emotional outburst that I won't explain the cause of, to convince you and myself that everything will be fine.


This is my solemn vow to you, my darling.

You see, many women have tried to get me to commit to a lie this enormous before, but none was as beautiful as you, or as wonderfully supportive of my inability to get an erection around you unless I'm drunk and it's pitch-black. None of them have been so patient when they found gay porn sites on our web browser's history and I try to laugh it off and laboriously explain how it must have been my coworker, Greg, playing a trick on me, and it's all just some big mistake that you have nothing to worry about, I swear to God, Nicole, it's not what it looks like, okay, so just drop it already, just drop it.


Yes, there will be tough times. I guarantee that at some point, one or both of us will finally just snap and go out in search of the nearest guy to shack up with for one glorious night where we can just be ourselves for once and break free of the shackles of mainstream society and its cruel expectations. But I also guarantee that if I don't ask you to be mine, I'll have to come to terms with powerful truths that I have spent years trying not to face, and I will regret that for the rest of my life, just as I regret not facing up to my demons earlier instead of succumbing to them like a fucking weakling, goddamn it, why can't I be strong and overcome this?

I know that, in my heart, you're my soul mate. And if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life denying my needs and desires to all of our loved ones until I go headlong into a depressed, closeted rage I may never come back from because all I can think about when I look into your eyes is how I want to feel the strength of another man's body, my dear, kind, trusting Nicole, and it's killing us both, I am so sorry.


Please say yes, Nicole. Make me an honest man.