By Kathryn Fitzpatrick
My first boy crush was on Adam Lambert. It was seventh grade. It was an awkward time. Middle school is supposed to be a time when everybody is changing and growing and learning new things and stuff—at least, according to those awkward puberty movies, it is. I wasn’t learning anything new, but I was certainly seeing new things.
“Did you see how tight his jeans were? His penis looked so big.” I didn’t exactly know what that meant, but I had heard people say it on YouTube, so I figured it was a good thing.
“He definitely puts a sock in there.” said Allison. She was the antagonist in literally every conversation we had in middle school, and literally every conversation we had in middle school was about Adam Lambert.
“No. He has a naturally big penis.” Like I said, middle school was an awkward time.
A lot of times, I would drag the teachers into my fantasies.
“Did you see him last night? When he did ‘Play that Funky Music’? Gahh… So good.” I’d say to my fourth period science teacher. Everyone would groan.
“Nobody freaking cares about Adam Lambert,” someone would yell from across the room.
Then the teacher would laugh a little and be like, “I saw it, Kathryn. He’ll probably win the whole thing.” See? I wasn’t the only one who cared.
I started an Adam Lambert Fan Club that year. It was me, and Allison, and my friend Kaitlyn, who was equally dedicated. Allison was just there to cause conflict.
The sole purpose of this fan club was to draw pictures of Adam, watch videos of Adam, and irritate other people with Adam. I remember once, we compiled an Adam Lambert-based glossary, because, why not?
“An Adamgasm is an Adam Lambert-induced orgasm.” One of us found on Urban Dictionary.
“What’s an orgasm?” I asked.
“I dunno.” said Kaitlyn.
“You guys are so dumb. You don’t even know what an orgasm is? Pfft.” Allison rolled her eyes and gave her usual bitch-face, one of her favorite expressions.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s like, sex. Or something.”
Every Tuesday and Wednesday night my whole family would watch Adam on American Idol. He’d run around on stage, screaming the notes at the top of his lungs, and holding the mic like he was about to give it the most intense blow job of its life. He’d scream, and I’d squeal, and he’d straddle the mic, and I’d squeal, and then Simon would give him a standing ovation or whatever, and I’d squeal.
“She’s so boy crazy.” My dad would say. And my mom would give a nod of approval and say, “Good.”
I remember the night Adam Lambert didn’t win American Idol. The previous night I had called in probably one-hundred and forty-two times to vote for him. I was convinced that I had the power to control the outcome of the whole competition.
When Ryan Seacrest stood beside Adam and his irrelevant competitor, my face was glued to the screen, literally pressed up against the glass, my cheeks smushed against Adam’s face. He had been consistent all season—he had never fallen into the bottom three, and his talent far surpassed that of Kris Allen. How could he not win?
Ryan Seacrest sure took his time announcing the winner. He stretched it over the course of five minutes, though for me, it felt like hours.
“And the winner… of American Idol… Season 8… is…” he paused.
“IS?” I screamed at the TV.
“Kris Allen!” he announced.
I sank down, away from the TV, and sat there in silence. I was happy my parents weren’t there. I didn’t want them to see me cry.
I didn’t cry, though. I just sat there, a lump on the floor, unable to move.
Adam Lambert, the most talented man on the planet, the man I wanted to bone (whatever that meant), my future husband, was a loser. I was engaged to a loser.
Then he came out of his giant loser closet, on Rolling Stone, CBS, 20/20, Good Morning America, and the VMAs.
I couldn’t go anywhere without seeing Adam’s newly gay face everywhere. It was as if God was mocking me.
In hindsight though, I really, really should have known it was coming. I mean, was I blind? Did I watch the entire show without wearing my glasses?
On the show, he wore eyeliner, excuse me, “guyliner.” He had teal-blue streaks in his asymmetrical hair. He painted his fingernails. Black. He wore cowboy boots. Ironically. In interviews, he sometimes referenced gay sex. At the time, I had thought nothing of it; I’d thought they were genuinely talking about bunk beds, when an interviewer asked, “So, at the mansion, you guys are roommates, right?”
Adam and Kris both said yes.
“Which bunk do you prefer?”
Kris started to say, “Well, it doesn’t really make a diff—”
Adam cut him off. “I like the top.” He smiled. Everybody laughed. I hadn’t seen what was so funny about bunk beds.
And if that wasn’t enough, I definitely should have known when the pictures of him in drag, and then the pictures of him macking on other dudes, surfaced online.
He was just curious, I rationalized.
All the other kids at school said he was gay way before he actually came out. Allison and I even debated it. I was hardcore in denial.
After he came out, I should have dropped him. I should have come to terms with the fact that I would never be Mrs. Kathryn Lambert. If I had, it wouldn’t be as embarrassing for me today.
I just continued with my obsession, however. I used to tell people that I would get a sex change to be with him.
“He’s twenty-eight,” they would say.
“Please. Age is just a number.” I would laugh them off.
After Adam came out, the fan club dissembled. It was just me. I didn’t have anyone to talk about him with. Everyone was annoyed. They’d had enough. At that point, I decided I should take my obsession to the next level and do something that was really, really weird and stalkerish.
I bought a pillowcase with his face on it. It wasn’t an authorized pillowcase, either. It was just some sketchy pillowcase that somebody probably made in their basement. When it arrived, it smelled like cigarettes and stale beer, but I didn’t care. I ran upstairs to my room and put it on my pillow immediately. It’s a wonder I didn’t get lice. Or one of those STDs we learned about in health class. Every night, I slept next to him, and when I woke up his face was next to me. This was what it felt like to share a bed with someone. This was what it was like to be married, I thought.
Just like middle school and other disgustingly awkward things in life, I eventually grew out of Adam Lambert. He put out an album full of bland dance music, got a boyfriend, then disappeared off the face of the earth. At least, he disappeared from my earth, and my reality.
“Hey Kathryn. Remember in seventh grade when you, like, worshipped Adam Lambert?” People remind me of this all the time.
“Remember that shrine you had in your room?” Somehow, people that I barely even talked to in seventh grade knew about the extent of my problem. People still bring it up today.
“I sure do… That was a bad year.”
“He was gay, though. Why did you even like him?”
“I don’t even know. Middle school was an awkward time.” Then the conversation ends, because middle school was probably an awkward time for them, too.
Kathryn Fitzpatrick is a senior at Thomaston High School in Thomaston, CT. She got into writing completely by accident when she took a creative writing course her junior year of high school. She is the state champion of the 16th CT Young Writers Trust competition.
Kathryn has matured from her days as an Adam Lambert fangirl, and is now an avid listener of Tegan and Sara. This is her first published work.