A Girl Who Liked a Boy Who Liked Boys

"Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys," the title of a new Sundance Channel series my colleague Sarah Wildman wrote about yesterday, implies a sexual interest on the girl's part. After watching the first two episodes, I'm relieved that the relationships of the four starring couples depict close friendship, not frustrated desire.

For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to gay men almost by gravitational pull. I have found an affinity similar to what draws me to my girlfriends -- we like the same things, we laugh at the same jokes, we view the world through a similar prism, we get each other. And as not-straight-white-males, we also to various degrees share the sensibility of outsiders, the us-versus-the-dominant-world bond.

One of the most poignant moments in GWLBWLB had David, who had come to Elisa's birthday party dressed as a mime, complaining to her that he was harassed on the street on his way to her place.

"I almost got mime-bashed," he said. "People were yelling things at me -- 'Look, there's a f------ mime.' "

The scene made me laugh out loud and want to rub his arm and take off on a mime-basher bashing rampage on the streets of New York City with him.

But my gay friends and my girlfriends have never been interchangeable "best friends." Gay friends bring to the table their maleness, with all its differences and perspective. I've been richer for that since as long as I can remember -- even when, irony of ironies, my very first and best gay friend never came out to me, or to anyone in our circle, including his family.

We'll call him "Daniel." He was my neighbor from across the street, my buddy and brother growing up. He showed me his and I showed him mine in a closet when we were still too young to know if we were gay or straight. As teens in high school, he was my escort and protector, the only friend my parents would let me go out with until the wee hours on weekends. We'd leave for a night of disco dancing at midnight, show off our well-practiced steps at some club all morning and come home at 5 a.m. after having breakfast at some 24/7 joint in San Juan. My parents were fully aware of my arrival time because, no matter how much I tip-toed my way into the house, the moment I turned on the light in the bedroom the roosters in the vicinity would give me away. All my mother would say was "Long night?" Everything was okay as long as I was with Daniel.

As adults, Daniel, an executive in a government office, made more money than me, so I benefited from his largess. I rode in his luxury cars and ate at the best restaurants on his dime. I had already moved to the states, but whenever I came back to Puerto Rico on my annual family visits, we would pick up where we left off.

Then there came a time when Daniel started spending too much money, even for him. I was intrigued by his many trips overseas, by his ever-changing designer jewelry.

"You have to enjoy life," he'd say, which I found hilarious since all he ate was rice and chicken.

At one point he bought the condo next to his and tried to convert the whole place into an Italian villa, with ridiculously warm drapes for the island climate and an extravagant fountain between the kitchen and living room. (He tried to install a huge Jacuzzi in a spare bedroom, but the condo board stopped him before the thing went through the floor.)

When I left for the states to attend college, my sister (four years younger) took my place as his closest friend. I became jealous. But that bond paid off for me in a horrible way. As fate would have it, my sister ran the office of a prominent AIDS doctor on the island and one day Daniel came knocking. He had never told any of us he was gay, much less infected with HIV. She was the first one he admitted this to, because he had no choice. That explained all the spending, I thought, and, eventually, the gradual weight loss inexplicable to all the neighbors.

I didn't tell Daniel my sister had told me his secret, just like I never forced him to come out to me. Despite our closeness, and all the confidences we shared over a lifetime, I just never wanted to force the issue. But I used the information about his condition to maintain closer contact.

When Daniel died, in his early 30s, I was in disbelief. At his funeral, his family talked of a brain tumor. I was just too shocked to care what lie they had come up with. I just cried and cried and wished he'd appear to me in spirit at night, to talk about everything we never addressed before, or to at least say goodbye.

On my subsequent visits home, I made a point of crossing the street and visiting with his parents in their porch. His father wouldn't look at me during those first visits, averting his gaze and disappearing the minute I showed up.

"Is he mad at me?" I asked his wife.

"No," she said. "You just remind him of Daniel too much. You know, we always hoped you two would get married."

That would have never happened, of course. But it was my fortune to have been his "girl who likes boys who like boys" for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death did us part.