Bjarke. Bjarkè? Maybe it was my then obsession with Bjork or the fact that he was Danish, had blonde hair and a lip ring, but the foreign exchange student was making me feel all kinds of things that night. It was the middle of the summer after grade 11 and the police had just showed up at some house party my friends and I were at. The party was ending quickly and some people were running away while others were getting rides from their parents. I didn’t really know what we were doing, as I had wandered away from my group. But then I found Bjarke. He was sitting in the back seat of someone’s car all alone. I looked at him with my drunken eyes and started walking in his direction, not really knowing what I was doing or what was going to happen next. I asked him how his night was and if he was heading home. Not waiting for a response, I leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “kiss me on the lips.” And he did it. HE ACTUALLY DID IT. It was just a soft kiss, maybe 3 seconds, but it was enough for me to blurt out, “I’m gay!” to my friend Yve when I found her outside the house looking for me. She smiled the biggest smile and let out an excited cry. In turn, I started to cry, happy and confused tears, while she sat me down and told me, “we all knew it already, stop crying, this isn’t a sad moment!” We shared stories of past crushes, how I had never had a girlfriend and the fact that I loved Madonna so much. I was out. I had finally said, “I’m gay” out loud. One of my best friends knew and by Monday morning, so would most of my grade. It wasn’t scary. Nothing changed except for the fact that I had now kissed one of the hottest guys in our school, and most of the girls were really jealous of me. Bjarke left at the end of that year. I still have a picture of him in a bodysuit that I stole from a friend when she wasn’t looking.