Zucchini continued

Zucchini (cont.) by Mar ybeth Bass

We never made love with anything but our hands. When he would grab hold of me, tug me through the crowd, I felt safe, guarded, guided. When we sat side-by-side in a restaurant booth and he’d hold my hand under the table all throughout a meal, I felt wanted. When I would make him my little spoon and hold him close to me as we slept, he knew he was wanted in return.

A zucchini, in many queer circles, playfully refers to a partner of nonromantic significance. My brother was my partner of the soul, my soulmate. I belonged to him in the way that a zucchini belongs. I belonged with him with our hands firmly clasped, with his kisses dotted over my skin, with his arms around my shoulders. An old ex-boyfriend told me once that girls have it all wrong: a tall guy is fine, but a boy of equal height makes it fun. And me and my brother, we stood nose to nose. He'd rub his nose into mine and kiss me.

Some argue-- what else do we have genitalia for, if not to rub against the genitalia of another? Yet, not all who possess, desire. That strange absence of desire marks the garden walls.

Does my queerness become inferior in the absence of any sexual relationships? I’ve been monogamous and polyandrous and polyamorous. I’ve dated girls and boys, often at the same time. I enjoy loving and being loved in return, even without sex.

Do I not love my brother as deeply, do I not devote myself as rigorously to him? Is our commitment somehow worth less because we are not romantic in nature?

Are we not wrapped in that same rainbow flag?