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My first and only queer relationship was kept a secret, but not for the usual reasons. Rather, my first and only queer relationship was kept a secret because when I was twenty-two and a senior in college, I had an affair with a well-known dean at my university—a married woman twice my age.
The dean was a school celebrity—charismatic, adored—and I was the kind of young person who craved attention from powerful people. When a close friendship between us turned physically intimate, I was convinced I was in love and so I lived a double life. It was a lot for a young person, especially in this particular collegiate environment—going through the pomp and circumstance of senior year, meanwhile secretly sleeping with one of the most public figures on campus.
Our affair was both a sapphic Nancy Meyers film and a tremendous amount of stress for a twenty-two-year-old. Meanwhile, I drifted from my peers. What would they say if they knew? Only one friend ever expressed skepticism about my public closeness to the dean. In my creative writing classes, I crafted fictionalized versions of our story, feeling very grown up to have such a secret.
The metadrama of his question thrilled me, but I said nothing. When I told her what had happened, she asked me to be more careful. Her husband knew. I learned early in our relationship she had told him about her feelings long before she confessed them to me.