My Own Coming Out

For all the writing I’ve done, it did just dawn on me that I’ve never talked about my own coming out.  I’ve done stories on people coming out, read some of my friend’s own coming out stories, and never written about my own.  Haven’t a clue on why, either.

OK, taking a trip in the Way-Back Machine we’re heading to 1975.  I’ll save you the mental math problem also; that makes me 11 years old at the time.

I never considered myself “different”, I just knew that looking at guys turned me on.  For me it was a simple fact of life.  I would see pictures of guys with their shirts off or some such and I knew that I was attracted to them.  I had never heard the term “gay” so it would be a couple of years before I was able to put a name to what I felt.

At 13, I met a man who would change my life forever and he was my physical education teacher.

Nine years older than me, I was his star volleyball player in school.  After matches, I would always hang out in his office and we’d talk about games, plays, and life in general.  In the shower one day he caught me looking at his naked body, one thing lead to another and that was that.  I certainly had no skills in giving my first blow job, but he gave me an “A” for enthusiasm.

(Now before you start screaming “pedo” and looking for a stick to club him with you need to hit the brakes.  At this same time in my life, my parents made life a living hell on earth for their kids.  My father was a mean drunk and a violent one.  My mother was a mental abuser who was having an affair with somebody three years older than me.  I’d have done anything to get out of that house and I proceeded to do just that.  I was declared an emancipated minor at 14 and moved in with Dean that same year.  We stayed together for 9 years, and we loved each other very much.  To this day he is a wonderful friend.  More on this later.)

Our relationship was very sexual, and Dean was a very patient teacher.  The sex wasn’t one-sided and he saw to my satisfaction just as much as I devoted myself to his.  In short order, we knew we were in love.  His being my teacher didn’t pose much of a problem because the next year as I was excelled through the rest of my public education and enrolled in college under a full scholarship.  My teachers always knew I was a brainiac and to keep me in gradeschool would only mean I would be bored senseless.

I didn’t consider myself different or weird because I didn’t like girls, but the questions did keep swarming around why I didn’t have a girlfriend.  I couldn’t very well lead off with the fact that I’d been banging my teacher, or that we were in love. Most kids my age were virgins for God’s sake, and sure couldn’t identify what love was if it came up to them and bit ‘em on the ass.  I was already in college, taking full credits and had a full time boyfriend.  Suffice it to say I didn’t exactly fit in.

I’d love to say that I had this very well rehearsed moment of telling my parents that I was gay but it didn’t happen quite like that.  Dean had come to the house so that we could tell my mother together.  She ended up working far later than we had expected, one thing lead to another and she came in while we were having sex.  Surprise!

That wasn’t her first exposure to the fact that I was gay, however.  She had already found and confiscated my stash of Playgirl magazines that I thought were skillfully hidden.  Up until that point, we had never had “the chat” about them however.  Our family wasn’t particularly skilled at having heart-to-heart talks.

Mom took it in stride as fate would have it.  She didn’t exactly accept it willingly, and proceeded to inform me that I would have a tough life and take alot of shit for being gay.  There really wasn’t much she could say; the guy she was having an affair with at the time was a senior in high school – a fact I reminded her of.  Nobody in the family bought the excuse that they were in the same bible study class, least of all me.

People didn’t like fags I was told, and I was setting myself up for a lifetime of abuse.  She did suggest that I find a girl and try it before I decided I didn’t like it.  To this day it still makes me laugh when I think about it.

My father got the phone call at work from mom explaining what she’d come home to and it still boggles my mind to this day that he wasn’t really phased at all.  I was convinced when he came home he’d shoot Dean and beat me to death but he didn’t.  He came into my room, returned my stash of Playgirl magazines to me and that was that.  No disappointment, no beatings.  My father could have cared less that I was gay, he didn’t want me dating any black men (not the word he used).  Dad was an incredible racist until the day he died.

My being gay notwithstanding, our family life was a disaster and within a year I was declared an emancipated minor and moved out.  My test scores were off the charts, I was already in college and for purposes of the court proceedings I had a “friend” that I could move in with.  The entire thing took all of 20 minutes and that was that.  The only downside to my new living arrangements was that Dean and I could never been seen publicly by his school peers living under the same roof.  We took great pains to hide that fact until I was 18

For the next few years, people found out when I told them that I was gay.  I didn’t lead off with it, but I sure as hell had no plans to lie about it either.  Some friends in high school wanted nothing to do with me and I really didn’t care that much.  As soon as I got put in college there was an immediate distance between us anyway so their disapproval just widened the existing gap between us.

Oddly, the only people that have ever not been accepting of my homosexuality have been my brothers and an uncle.  All three are what’s best described as religious nutjobs, and they take every opportunity to tell me they’ll pray for my eternally damned soul.  Yeah, whatever.  I got the same reaction from them when they found out I was Wiccan.  To them I’m a devil worshiper and a homo – there’s just no hope for me.

The only downside is that I don’t get to see my nephews; my brothers won’t hear of it.  I might teach their children my wicked ways – a direct quote.

I’ve tried to understand why my coming out wasn’t that traumatic of an event and it’s a bit hard to put a finger on.  I think it’s a combination of a disastrous family life and the fact that I was truly different from other kids thanks to my educational background.  I was 13 years old and running with people almost twice my age.  Nobody treated me like a kid, instead I got treated like an adult that had some learning to do along the way.  I was automatically insulated from the people that could have made life hell for me because of who I am.

The other saving grace for me was that I was brought up to believe that if I don’t make a big deal about my being gay, nobody else will either.  It wasn’t something that I hinged every facet of my being on – it was just who I was.  Like it, don’t like it – it’s all the same.  I’m going to be whether or not you approve and I think I got alot of respect for that.

So there you have it.  I wish I could say that there’s more to the story but there isn’t.  I know some people will read this and think about the remarkable life I had as a kid, but I don’t see it that way.  This is just how I grew up, and why I have been an out gay man for the last 33 years.

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