One night, one of the men from behind the screen texted me asking if I’d like to go out with him and some friends. A couple of fumbling encounters in the backseat of my Chevy Suburban later and I was not only gay, but I was a man. That summer I would find out what it was to be gay.įor the most part, this meant trolling online message boards as a cascade of dicks standing at various states of attention threw a series of increasingly foreign acronyms at me: ASL, DDF, BDSM. Between days folding cotton v-necks at the Gap and nights smoking cigarettes and drinking warm liquor in local parks with high school friends, I’d set myself a goal. The summer after my freshman year of college, I returned home to Texas. What I didn’t know at the time is that those two short words, spoken quietly and hastily, had inducted me into a community. I also knew, from the entertainment industry, that being gay meant dying… either from a hate crime or AIDS. I did know, from personal experience, that being gay meant being called “faggot” and being ostracized. It was probably only the second time I’d said it aloud. “I’m… gay” I stammered to a friend as she sat in the passenger seat of my car.
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