When You Know You’re Gay

You have to try it to know

This is not a coming-out story. It’s a story about self-discovery. The question is answered in June of 1998, and that’s where we’ll end. This is how we got there.

I always had an idea I was different from the other boys. I didn’t think other six-year-old boys sat on the toilet staring at Charles Atlas ads in comic books. (Why were there Charles Atlas ads in comic books?)

Spending the night at other’s homes was commonplace. I once had a kid over with whom I wanted to be affiliated because he was sporty (I wasn’t), and he was very cute. I thought hanging with him would make me appear more masculine. For the record, I was growing up in hyper-masculine West Texas.

At the same time, I was known for chasing girls all over the schoolyard! What could be more straight than that? I truly loved girls, and they were some of my best playmates. I’m still in contact with a girl I’ve known since the first grade. We have a lifelong love for horny toads.

In the middle of the fourth grade, we moved to Ventura, California, and I was ready to have a real girlfriend. I found her in Darla. Our walks to school led us down the same pathway. She played cello and had to schlep that huge thing back and forth, so I began to carry it for her. We got on well, but a few weeks in, she ghosted me. I never found out why, because after a month in California, we moved back to Texas!

In the fifth grade and in California, I attempted to give a girl I really liked a “St. Christopher, Protect Us” necklace. They were the symbol that you were going steady, like rings used to be. I think it was a California thing. As luck would have it, she was already taken by one of the cool boys. Not a geek like me from Texas with a funny accent.

Most of my friends were girls (dead giveaway) throughout school, but I always managed to have one best guy friend who was overtly straight. I even had a real girlfriend in high school who stole my virginity. She was not a virgin. I was usually drunk and/or stoned anyway, so it didn’t feel forced.

She and I went on to have a long-distance relationship when I shipped off to Nebraska to go to college. But a couple of years in, I was out. Not out-out. Just tired of pretending with her. I spent the rest of my college days single—four more years of them.

I threw a party for my 23rd birthday. I remember getting one card that said, “Let’s Celebrate!” on the inside, but they had scratched out the word celebrate and replaced it with “Celibate.” I interpreted that as I was asexual. It was close enough to being gay that I was uncomfortable with it.

At the same time, a girl was hitting on me big time, so much so that I left my own party because I couldn’t take her advances. So, of course, I went back when I saw her leave. That probably caused some suspicion about my sexuality. But fuck it, it would soon be time to move on to a new city.

After college in Santa Fe in 1982, I was met with many real-life gay temptations. It was a city of free expression, and most of the gays were out. But, unfortunately, it was also the era of the AIDS crisis, which terrified me.

One night after closing up a party there (if you’re starting to see a theme, you’re right), I headed upstairs to go to bed.

There’s a naked man in my bed!

He was sound asleep. You could tell he was drunk as he was snoring and not responding to his name. After thinking about it for a while, I decided to hop in bed with him. He was very sexy. I fantasized that he would turn over and start touching me. I waited and waited and then fell asleep. When I woke up in the morning, he was gone.

One weekend I hosted a friend from college. I had a roommate, so the only place for her to sleep would be in my room. So naturally, I was hoping we’d have sex, and we did. The second night she was there, I threw a party. (Another party!) I didn’t know a few people who showed up ; they were friends of friends. A particularly handsome guy was following me everywhere. Then he whispered in my ear:

“I just want to rip your clothes off of you!”

I wanted him to rip my clothes off of me. But I then motioned to a girl across the room and said that I couldn’t play. Finally, he got the hint and left me alone, but for the rest of my life I often dreamed of how that scene would have played out. Our paths never again crossed.

The next 13 years (the 13 just occurred to me) were spent in marriage and raising two kids, now living in the Chicago area. We did the typical suburban stuff. There are volumes of stories, but I’m tired of telling people about that nightmare — which, by the way, I still have. Besides, that was more than twenty years ago. It’s time to turn that page.

I started a new career in the airline industry when our divorce became final in 1998. I knew that now I would be surrounded by many gay men at work, and the thought of that was intoxicating. Maybe I’d meet someone.

But I still lacked confirmation that I was really gay.

One evening I attended a celebration for someone at a local bar. It was in the suburbs, far from Lincoln Park where I was living at the time. I had a huge crush on one of my coworkers who was there. I flirted with him, and we became instant friends.

The night wound down, and I was pretty drunk. It wouldn’t be wise to drive the 15 miles back to the City. My new “boyfriend” said he lived close by and suggested I stay at his house. How do you think I responded?

I was wearing work clothes, and it was boiling, so I asked him if he had “anything more comfortable to wear.” He gave me a pair of short-shorts and a teeny-tiny tank top; both must have been size S. He was at least a large as was I, so I had no idea who theclothes belonged to. Maybe they were his trap! All I know is they made me very horny. We had a beer, and then I popped the question:

Would you have sex with me?

His answer was an immediate “yes.” However, he did ask me to rinse my mouth with mouthwash. I was a smoker.

I was already hard when we laid on his bed, but I saw fireworks when we began to kiss. Off our clothes went piece by piece. We did a lot of making out, mutual masturbation, and oral.

Towards the end of our session, I asked if he wanted to be fucked. He said that was reserved for his boyfriend who was out of town at the time.

That was June of 1998.

Driving back home on The Kennedy the next morning, I felt a new source of freedom. I opened up all the windows and the sunroof and blared “Hole,” one of my favorite Alt-bands from the 1990s.

My one-night-stand and I had a debriefing dinner because I needed to know what to do next. He suggested a bathhouse. I’ve still never been to one.

That’s all it took to confirm I was gay after forty years. Next came the fun part.

Coming out…