“The Bush administration last year rewrote the rules for allowing gay men and lesbians to receive national-security clearances, drawing complaints from civil rights activists…

“Rules approved by President Bill Clinton in 1997 said that sexual behavior may be a security concern if it involves a criminal offense, suggests an emotional disorder, could subject someone to coercion or shows a lack of judgment.

“The regulation stated that sexual orientation ‘may not be used as a basis for or a disqualifying factor in determining a person’s eligibility for a security clearance.’

“Bush removed that categorical protection, saying instead that security clearances cannot be denied ’solely on the basis of the sexual orientation of the individual.’”

– The Associated Press, March 17, 2006

In August of 1988, I moved to Moscow to begin my first post-college job, working as a nanny for a U.S. diplomat’s family. I’d studied Russian in college and couldn’t believe my luck; at that time, before the Soviet Union collapsed, it was extremely difficult for Americans to find work – and the all-important work visa – in Russia. I turned 21 a few days after I arrived, which I celebrated by strolling around Red Square for the first time. It was a warm late-summer evening, and as I stood on the cobbles of that magnificent square, I felt as if my life was becoming an adventure whose pages I couldn’t wait to turn.

The newly built U.S. embassy compound was the size of a large city block, and it had all the comforts of home: Western-style apartments, a small grocery store, a barbershop, a gym, even a bowling alley. In fact, you could spend months there and never have to leave the brick-walled, tightly guarded compound – which was just what the U.S. security officers would have preferred. With the Cold War in full swing, every Russian had to be considered a potential spy. This, combined with the fact that the embassy buildings were known to be riddled with Soviet listening devices (the legacy of an infamous 1970s bureaucratic blunder), created an intensely paranoid mood around the compound.

A year earlier, a Marine guard named Clayton Lonetree had been court-martialed for allowing a Russian woman – a beautiful spy named “Violeta” – to wander around the embassy’s secure area. The scandal had led to the expulsion of all Russians working in and around the embassy; no longer would they be allowed to work as secretaries, janitors, cafeteria chefs or nannies at the U.S. embassy compound. Suddenly, there was a plethora of crappy jobs that needed filling, and young Americans like me wasted no time in snapping them up.

But with this influx of young Russophiles came new security concerns. The U.S. security officers (CIA? NSA? I never found out for sure) knew we weren’t moving to Moscow for a chance to hang out in the embassy’s bowling alley – we wanted to get out and meet people, to spend time in Russian homes and learn the language. Because this was exactly what they preferred us not to do, they imposed certain restrictions on us. We had to undergo special training before receiving permission to meet socially with Russians. We couldn’t meet them alone – there had to be at least two Americans present at any time. And we had to report back to U.S. security all the details of our visits – who we’d seen, where we’d gone, what we’d talked about. I felt terrible reporting on my new Russian friends, so I tried to make my reports as short and vague as possible, which probably didn’t endear me to the security team.

Nannies, unlike janitors, mail sorters and the like, didn’t require a security clearance. We were hired independently by our families, even though the embassy officially supported our visas and we had embassy ID cards. I’d been a little relieved that I didn’t have to go through the security clearance process, as I had a potential red flag. I’d had my first girlfriend while in college – a relationship that had lasted 18 months.

In theory, you could be gay and still receive a security clearance – but you had to be completely out of the closet. The reasoning was that, if you were gay and trying to conceal it, you were a prime target for blackmail. In my case, not only did my parents and grandparents not know, but the family I was nannying for had no idea either. Looking back, I suppose that should have deterred me from what I did next.

A few months into my nannying job, I decided to apply for part-time translation work in the economics division of the embassy. I needed the money and thought it would be good for my language skills and my resume, and even though it was a security-sensitive position, I figured I could talk my way through any issues that might arise. After all, I’d had relationships with men, too – and in fact had starting seeing a handsome twenty-something American guy at the embassy, partly because I liked him, but partly, I admit, because I knew he’d make a good “beard” (sorry, J). I figured if the issue came up, I’d just say I’d done some experimenting in college – who hadn’t? – and that would be that.

I submitted my security clearance application, and the agents went to work. They met with my high school teachers, high school friends, and former employers. They dug around my hometown, asking personal questions about me to anyone who might know something. After three months went by, I got a call from a security officer. It was time for us to have a meeting, he said. We arranged a date and time for the following week.

Because the embassy compound was rife with bugs, two pre-fabricated conference rooms had been shipped in from the States and assembled on site. They were designed to be super-secure, built with double walls separated by a thin space through which radio waves were pumped when the room was in use, thereby thwarting any outgoing signal from listening devices that might be inside.

On the appointed morning, I walked into one of the conference rooms and took a seat at a long table. Two men entered room with me. One shut the door with an elaborate locking mechanism, creating a hermetic seal, and the other sat placidly with a yellow legal pad in front of him. A stack of papers – my file, I realized – sat in the center of the table. Reading upside-down, I could just make out the words “Base has been informed that the subject” – but the rest of the sentence was obscured by a folder.

I didn’t have to wonder long what the next words were. “We’ve finished the first part of your background check,” one man told me, eschewing pleasantries. “And we have information that suggests you’re a homosexual. Is that correct?”

I was surprised we got into it just like that, but having anticipated the question, I was ready with my first line of defense. Because I’d recently gotten a part-time job at the Moscow bureau of a major U.S. magazine, I’d withdrawn my name from consideration for the embassy translation job. “I’m not applying for the job in question anymore,” I told the two agents, “so I don’t need a security check. I don’t think we need to go any further.”

This threw the men off. They conferred briefly, then decided they needed to talk in private. “Could you step outside for a moment?” one asked, before unsealing the room with a twist of the lock and ushering me out.

I sat nervously outside the room for a few minutes, until the door suddenly hissed open and I was invited to return. “We’ve decided to move ahead with the questioning,” one agent said, at which point I should have just said, “No thank you” and been on my way. But I didn’t, partly because I was a military brat and still naïve enough to trust my government, and partly because I figured if I refused, I’d be treated with suspicion around the embassy and probably suffer the consequences anyway. So I went ahead with the plan I’d originally hatched when filling out the security clearance paperwork three months earlier.

Yes, I told them, I’d had a one-time thing with a woman in college. Youthful experimentation. It didn’t necessarily mean I was gay. And by the way, had I mentioned I was now dating a man at the embassy?

This tactic, which had made so much sense to me in the abstract, turned out to be a horrendous mistake. Because now these two G-men in coats and ties, in this suddenly suffocating room, started on a line of questioning aimed at discerning whether my relationship with my girlfriend truly had been a fleeting thing or not.

How often had I had sex with her? Who had initiated it? Had we taken our clothes off? Every time? Or just sometimes? Was I drunk when we had sex? Had we ever had sex when I was sober? Had I ever had sex with other women? Had I ever wanted to?

I was astonished. It had never entered my consciousness that a scene like this could possibly take place. With every answer I gave, I found myself sliding deeper into embarrassment and shame – yet I was afraid not to answer. And the questions were tinged with threat; very often, my interrogator interjected comments like, “We know this is true, so don’t make it harder on yourself by lying.”

I was trapped. The questions continued, now moving into new territory. Had I ever been alone with a Russian woman? Had I ever been drunk with one? Had I ever kissed one? Had I ever wanted to?

I don’t know how long this went on, but it felt like hours. I ended up in a kind of catatonic haze: I was answering questions, but in as detached a way as I could. I just could not acknowledge what has happening, even as I continued to answer questions, slumped like a teenager in my chair.

Go to My gay secret, part II.