Coming Out Story

Coming out is a rite of passage, and obligatory for all who realize and eventually want to live fully into their sexual minority status. And then we have to come out again and again throughout our entire lives. We are never done coming out. 

For gay men, learning to tell our coming out stories to each other is also a rite of passage. As we gather in groups, over cocktails, dinner or coffee, and when the sharp quips and skittish banter lose out to our desire for sharing a little deeper and more personally, gay men will gravitate to this topic. 

"When did you know you were gay?" 

"When and where did you come out first?" 

"What happened when you told your family and friends or colleagues, or did they somehow find out and confront you?" 

Some stories are caustically tossed out into a group to prove the teller's resilience in the face of horrible, traumatic pasts. Some are painted with pride, or gratitude, or awe at how easy things were for them. 

There are many messages hidden in this tale telling. But that we all have a story of coming to terms with our sexuality and coming clean to our world is a raft of shared experience we gay men ride down the river of our lives together. 

Probing the coming out story of a new lover is also a right of passage in relationship building. We must share this crucial piece of our personal history to parse the places of trust from the potential for betrayal. We have to see from the other's perspective how this courageous act of being born again into a new part of our culture shaped us. In the aftermath of the telling, we may find out where and how it will feel safe to show our physical affection in public, or to show our budding romance to our families and longtime friends. 

I've told my own coming out story to many personal growth groups and social gatherings through the years, and also to many lovers, so that now the telling serves easily as a scaffold upon which to build my case for being a vulnerable sharer of tender intimacies, for being a good storyteller able to hold an audience's attention, for being a safe listener and one who can relate to someone else's story of survival. Telling my own coming out has also been occasionally useful for playing catch with the flirting interest of a man I have my eye on. 

This story has to be here, in this collection of stories. This thread is an essential color in the tapestry of who I am. My coming out story is important also because loving a woman first taught me so much about how I wanted to love men. 

*** 

I'd felt my attraction to boys very early, but never knew what to do with it. I grew up in the Midwest without role models, no ideas about what my attraction might lead to. I kept trying to date girls, but that went no where. And amazingly, in 1969, at the height of the sexual revolution, I managed to keep my virginity secure throughout my college freshman year. 

I cowered away from both sexes my first quarter at Kalamazoo College. Once I switched from biology (to which I was ill suited) to the theater department, I was surrounded by a small, tight-knit group of expressive, joyful 

romantics, and immediately began to recognize myself as one of these people. What a relief to find 'my tribe.' Surrounded by bright personalities and a broad spectrum of body types, I could be sweet and innocent, awkward and galumphing, quick witted or dimwitted, sharp tongued or calmly commanding. I could be a loner or a player. I could play roles that fit me to a tee or roles for which I was completely unsuited. And with any role, I was still accepted as one of the gang. 

Joining the theater department came with a ready made social circle. We ate together, roomed together, hung out, got drunk and played together. We shared our attractions and our passions. Because our lives revolved around rehearsal schedules, we found it hard to fit in with the rest of the campus life, or maybe just easier to hang around with classmates whose interests and experiences we shared. Who else could relate to our obsessing about the way one of us had nailed it with a snappy comeback in an improv comedy sketch? Who else could follow our babbling excitement and reckless forecasting of who would get the lead in the next production? Who else knew the emotional range we had discovered in the last acting class? 

But even here, among my people, I managed with abundant shyness and naivety to avoid any erotic explorations throughout the rest of that school year. I still trembled like the cowardly lion at the gates of the emerald city, unable to let go and enter the glistening land of sex. 

I had crushes on a couple guys--the square-jawed, lean-limbed Paul with his quick intelligence and deep resonant voice; the innocent, broad-shouldered Brad, a blond mid-west farm boy who liked to roam around our suite in his underwear, giving me ample time to admire the smooth details of his youthful nakedness--but held those close to my chest, never laying out even one card in that game of relationship rummy. 

But there were three women from the theater department who were all over me that year. One or the other would sit with me at lunch. In class discussions, there were winks and innuendoes. In rehearsals, where the cast was guided into movement, breath and sound games to expand our vocabulary of more vulnerable expressiveness, I would find one or the other of them next to me or "accidentally" brushing up against me. These three young women vied to be my first, and let it be known to others as well as to me. I heard there were bets about who would be first to relieve me of my virginity. 

At the start of my sophomore year, while on campus for orientation before going to New York City for a three-month arts internship, I finally gave in to one of these women. She was three years older, and married, but didn't seem to be paying much attention to those vows at the time. 

She initiated it, luring me, but without any protest on my part, to her off-campus apartment. Getting naked together was smooth and easy, no fumbling or clumsiness. She smelled sweet, and her mouth melted into mine. She was thin and agile and met my less practiced movements with finesse. The skin stretched over her flat belly and tiny breasts was intoxicatingly soft, and kept my hands and mouth occupied for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes. 

Caressing her, stimulating her arousal, entering her, even timing my orgasm to match hers--it all went off without a hitch. I felt like a natural. With that one night's delights, and the confidence that came with it, I saw myself passing through a gateway from the tempestuous and troubled wilderness of adolescence into the fertile and manicured expanse of adult lovers. 

I pleased her, and I pleased myself. It was so simple. I was happy. And I was no longer a virgin. Task accomplished. 

Then off I went to New York City, and moved into a shared apartment near the Brooklyn Academy of Music where I was interning with the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, one of the most prominent modern dance companies in the country at that time. My apartment mates were also Great Lakes College Association interns. All of us were still feeling like kids, still innocent from our Midwest upbringings, but excited to be in the center of all things artistic. We were also getting an immersion in arts organization politics--a sea of bickering, back-stabbing, brilliant artists--and sometimes a bitter taste of life in the Big Apple. 

Mostly, I hated the noise and pace of that semester. Life in New York took too much attention. I was overwhelmed by the rush of crowds coming out of the subway, by the stink and grit of the trash swirling in the wind tunnels between tall buildings, by the assault of homeless panhandlers, and even by the startling beauties, decked from head to toe in elegant couture that would dash out of mid-town high-rises. It was all too much to take in at once. I didn't yet know how to find my own pace, nor how to slow down inside while the world swirled pell-mell around me. I would learn later the New Yorker's special trick of narrowing my visual aperture from wide-angle to distance view in order to see only where I was going and not get distracted by everything and everyone between here and there. 

Through the fall, I also grew frustrated that I was not loving dancing as much as I'd hoped I would. I merely tolerated the dance training I was getting in Cunningham's school since the technique wasn't a good fit for me -- too tight and angular for expressing my inner emotional yearnings. But I loved being able to go back stage or sit in one of the otherwise off limits box seats for performances of the Cunningham Company, Martha Graham Dance Company, Elliot Feld Ballet, and others. 

One night in early December, my apartment mates and I hosted a party for all the dozen or more GLCA interns that were in the City at the time. As the party wound down, one young man hung out till everyone else had gone. He was too drunk to make his way back to his apartment, he said. I said he could crash with us, knowing full well that meant he would sleep in my bed. 

We hung out awkwardly together for a while, finishing yet another beer. Then, without any conversation, nor any subtle seduction, he pulled me down on top of him, rolled us over, and kissed me. I loved his weight -- solid, compact, muscled from outdoor work, not from the gym. I welcomed his tongue into my mouth, even though I had not yet acquired a taste for hops-flavored kisses. I melted in his bear hugs and got more and more excited when his soft lips caressed my face and ears. 

Without hesitation, he pulled off my Christmas sweater and the layers of cold weather clothes beneath, while I tussled with his jeans and turtleneck. Then, finally naked together, I looked up into his watery eyes and breathed in the lusty scent of his skin, along with the sour smell of spilled beer and the acrid haze of cigarette smoke that lingered from the long-departed party guests. He stayed quiet for a bit so I could memorize the velvety contours of his backside. My fingers became entranced with the feel of the dimples on either side of his sacrum. I would later learn that touching this V-shaped juncture between a man's muscled back and the roundness of his buttocks was nearly always a turn-on for me. We slid up and down, soft animal bodies seeking what they loved, and rolled back and forth until our testosterone fueled libidos couldn't hold off any more. Climaxing together in the slippery space between our bellies was an explosive joy. 

And then I was surprised that it had all felt so natural. I felt like I was a natural, born to do this sexual loving stuff well, no matter the sex of my partner. I pleased him and I pleased myself. It was simple. I was happy. Until the next morning. 

My initiator into gay sex left without a word. The young man, not yet twenty years old, who gave me the key to my closet door and showed me how easy and natural it was to open it, gathered up his clothes, dashed out 

into the cold cross winds of the City, and left me flip-flopping between pride in my newly awakened awareness and both frustrated and confused at the abrupt ending. 

I don't remember his name, or what kind of artist he hoped to become someday, and I would never see him again after that night. He was a pin-prick in my life, but one that quickly deflated my bubble of self-delusion, the delusion that I was getting a good grip on my life. I became aware of the internal psychological and social consequences of giving outward expression to my desires for male sexual connection. 

I stewed and agonized alone for several days. I had no image or idea of what should come next. What did sexually-confused young men do then (or do even today)? There were no crisis hotlines to call. There were no support groups to join, neither there in the City nor once I got back on campus. There was no community center even in the heart of the biggest gay community in America. There were no older, wiser friends I could confide in and get guidance from, nor even any cohorts in my age group to share with. There were all sorts of bad choices I could have made to bury my confused feelings, choices that, because of a functional family and values like self-worth and relying on others, would never have occurred to me. It would never have occurred to me to turn to drugs or alcohol or try suicide. Choices others in my confused state were making at the time were certainly not what I did. 

With no idea what I wanted to say, I called my parents. 

I cried on the phone. I told them I wanted to come home early. I hated the city. I was depressed. And confused. 

"About what?" they asked. 

"About relationships," I said. "And about sex." 

"We thought that might be bothering you." It was my mom who spoke these devastating, but also reassuring words. "We think that might have something to do with us, so you should probably talk to a counselor rather than to us about this. Would you like us to set that up for you?" 

As marriage counselors themselves, my parents were up on prevailing theories about sexuality. They knew that homosexuality was no longer viewed as a horrible curse, an abomination, or a criminal act. The prevailing theory at the time was that too strong an attachment to the parent of the opposite sex created sexual confusion in adolescents. And that men who displayed homosexual tendencies were probably reacting to a domineering mother. 

This was the era in the therapeutic community where the view of homosexuality was beginning to shift from being seen as a disease that needed to be cured to the idea that its expression demonstrated an immature psychological development that would respond well to therapy. They said that embracing and expressing one's homosexual tendencies was merely a risky lifestyle choice, not a disease. It was a condition that needed counseling only because it predicted a life likely to be fraught with trauma and depression. 

It wasn't until 1987 that the opinions of these forward-thinking therapists would push for revising the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). And it would be another 30 years before "Born That Way" would be born into our American culture. 

I went home a couple weeks early from that Arts Internship, and my parents paid for me to see a psychotherapist for a few sessions over the Christmas holidays. The content of those sessions I don't remember. Then, concerned that I get the help I needed to make good choices for my life, my parents arranged for me to 

see a counselor as soon as I got back on Kalamazoo College campus. I was lucky that the man they found for me to talk to, although a rather conservative Methodist minister, was a good listener and relatively non-judgmental. 

"Do you know any gay men or anything about a gay lifestyle?" he asked. 

I didn't. 

He explained that my confusion was a normal part of growing up and that attraction to both sexes was not unusual for teenagers. He supported my parents well-intentioned belief that it was probably a phase I would soon grow out of, and also that I could choose to live as a straight man if I wanted to. 

His prediction that this sexual confusion was just a phase in my psychological development proved true. Only it was my attraction to women that I eventually grew out of. 

Before that happened, though, a long-legged blond bombshell with an expressive face detonated her disarming innocence right in the middle of the tight-knit community of Theater Arts majors, and I found myself caught in her sight-lines. I quickly fell for her charms, and was rescued from my own inner conflict and colliding desires by her accepting spirit. 

Beth was two years younger than me, and everyone agreed she was beautiful, both thin and curvy. Her long blonde hair and hourglass figure attracted the attention of all the men around campus, while her glorious voice and significant acting chops triggered the jealousy of women competing for ingenue roles in the theater department's productions. I didn't meet her until halfway through my junior year when I returned from a semester in Europe, studying art history and German language. We were cast in the winter production together and hit it off immediately. 

On our first date, I confessed to her that I was often distractingly attracted to guys. She paused to take that in, turned the spotlight of her shy sexy smile directly on me, and said, with the kind of untested confidence that only a 19-year-old possesses, "I'll keep you interested." 

And she did. For almost four years. 

She was a good lover, confident in her sexual attractiveness, affectionate, talented, playful. I rose to meet her in all these traits. Lovemaking for us was hours of emotionally charged caresses, and passionate kisses, and, I believe, mutually satisfying intercourse. Her body fit beautifully with mine, and I loved the floral aromas of her skin, the sweet taste of her tongue. 

We were not particularly adventurous in bed, although that thought would never have occurred to us then. This whole sex thing felt adventurous enough, and even in those newly liberated times, with flower-power campus love-ins and anti-war demonstrations across the country, it felt a bit edgy and rebellious to be sexually active. And my confidence in myself grew simply from being part of a recognized couple around campus. 

We were naive about the potential dangers of sexually transmitted diseases and simply followed instinctually whatever our bodies wanted to do in bed. But we did have enough sense to go to Planned Parenthood together to get her birth control pills. 

I proudly introduced her to my parents. I needed them to know that their support a year earlier, through all my self-doubt and identity struggle, had really helped. I think they were relieved, as well as pleased that I had 

chosen the easier life path of heteronormative behaviors, but they took her presence in my life without a lot of fanfare. We never discussed my earlier confusion. 

I continued to have crushes on various guys on campus, and because I'd revealed my attraction to guys at the beginning of our relationship, I was able to tell Beth about the crushes as they emerged. This was a huge relief for me. Not having to hide my erotic fantasies gave us exciting lusts to share. I learned with her that I could share fantasies about others as a way of igniting the flames of passion for the one I was with. 

After I graduated and moved to Boston to join Concert Dance Company, she still had two more years of school to complete. We talked a lot on the phone those two years, since we could only see each other on school breaks, and only then if one of us could afford the long journey between Michigan and Massachusetts. 

I remember one such winter journey when I hitchhiked from Boston to Rochester (about the midway point) to join her during Christmas holidays with her family. Her parents did not approve, I guess, because even though we had been together for a couple years, I wasn't allowed to stay with her in their home. It baffled us that they would imagine that somehow this would keep us from having sex. After all, we knew they knew we'd already been at it for two years. 

As sometimes fate arranges it, one of my college crushes, a broad-shouldered and lean waisted guy named Loren, was now living in Rochester. So I arranged to stay with him while I was there to see Beth. 

Two events from that trip are still clear in my memory. 

One freezing snowy night, I remember I left Beth at her parents' house after dinner, and made my way back to Loren's place to sleep on his couch. 

I remember his small rented room was not well heated. But not wanting to go to sleep right away, we curled up in separate cocoons -- me in a tight ball in the corner of the couch wearing six layers of clothes, him fully dressed under a load of blankets on his bed -- and huddled into a long conversation in which we shared some of our more painful growing up memories. 

Our vulnerable verbal sharing about our pasts steered the mood into treacherously new territory. I had probably (certainly) confided in him earlier that I was sexually attracted to him. I had a habit even then of being a bit risky in my self-revelatory honesty. He had probably confided in me that he didn't think he was gay, but also wasn't sure he was 100% straight. 

I don't remember how it happened or exactly the tone of voice he used, but eventually, after a long, awkward pause in our conversation, he asked, "Ya wanna climb in here with me for a while to keep warm?" 

Wasting no time getting naked together under the covers, we kept our tentative skin-to-skin fumbling fairly devoid of emotional expressions. We probably didn't kiss much. I just remember how exciting it was to be naked with him. And how natural it felt for me. And when I say natural, I mean not only easy and unchallenging, but also as nature meant. Sex-play with Loren confirmed my inner sense of self. 

Somewhere in the middle of our sensual explorations, he must've also expressed how much he was attracted to Beth, because the next night I conveyed his interest to her, and invited her to come to his apartment with the express purpose of giving the three of us the chance to explore our first, tentative three-way fantasies. 

The sexual details are no longer clear for me. I know the experience was thrilling. And also confusing, as I attempted to track all three of our experiences as we wove in and out of each other. And somewhere in there, I discovered I had a taste for his male hardness. 

Due to an overactive self-critic, this exciting night left me with more sadness than delight. Sadness that my erotic attraction to Loren was stronger than to Beth. Sadness also at the realization that my choosing to try to live a straight life-style wasn't going to remove my body's craving for men, nor the male/male fantasies that dominated my daydreams and my artistic visions. 

When Beth finally graduated, I expected her to join me in Boston, to live with me there, to get an apartment together, and go more deeply and with greater commitment into our relationship. I felt so comfortable with her, I even asked her to marry me. I thought that would be the perfect way to keep me centered so I could put my attention on my dance career. Given how undeterred she'd been by my attractions to men, I imagined that those homoerotic fantasies wouldn't get in the way of a joyful and sensual life with her. It's a good thing she didn't say yes. 

Although she did move to Boston, she didn't move in with me. She got her own apartment. Separate from any concerns she might have had about a life with me, she was floundering in her own sense of career direction. And she was not so convinced that she wanted to get married at this point, or in any other way commit more deeply to our relationship. 

I remember the night, not too long after she moved into her tiny apartment. We sat together on her bed through long and tearful conversations. I paced in circles, pleading with her. She cried, dismayed with her uncertainty. We hugged, and reassured each other over and over. 

Finally, we agreed it would be best for both of us if we broke up. We vowed to remain friends, but to let go of a committed future. We gave each other permission to start dating other people. 

Late that night, I walked unsteadily out of her apartment, slightly stunned by the unexpected turn my life had taken. I sat in my car for a long time, not knowing what I would do, but feeling somehow relieved and breathing easier none the less. 

I can see now that the walls around my heart that I'd been fortifying for the last few years were crumbling. I'd been relying on a "good little boy" persona to mask the disconnect between what I thought the world wanted me to be and what my soul intended for me to experience -- an as-yet-unimagined wilder and freer life. That persona would no longer work for me. 

I felt disoriented, like a man who'd been in prison would feel if suddenly the constraint and security of the cell walls dissolved in front of him. I also felt the anticipatory excitement one would feel when sitting in a small rubber raft as it's swept into the powerful main channel of a river after languishing safely in a side eddy for too long. I wanted to ride in the strong center current of my life flow, even as wild and potentially dangerous as it might be. Without second guessing myself for once, I drove straight to the only gay bar I knew. 

It was a time in our US cultural evolution when people of all ages were experimenting with new sexual possibilities. For me, in the following years, the sexual revolution of the 70's was my personal reinvention. Lots of quick sex, one-night stands and dating multiple guys at once would serve my personal maturation and my inevitable separation from my Midwest societal and parental models. Letting go of my attempts to fit my swirling, circular nature into the square hole of straight monogamous relationships was crucial for me and for my artistic growth. 

I had a clearer image of what I wanted future relationships to feel like -- warm and intimate but still open, sexually charged and emotionally rich, artistically stimulating and socially integrated. And I was determined not to take too long to find partners to join me in my exploration. 

Remarkably, unlike many other gay men coming of age in the sixties and seventies, I moved into a period of expansive self-exploration carrying no crippling relationship scars, no paralyzing self-hatred, nor any severe trauma to recover from. Just newly opened eyes, and an intense desire for more unfettered life experience.