My I Am So Not Coming Out Story Part 1

I have watched just about every coming out video on YouTube. Social media has changed the world and it scares the ** out of me. I don’t have any other platforms for that reason. I don’t post videos, I just watch videos. I have spent so much of my life in the shadows that I could not imagine exposing my true self to anyone else. I am so emotionally damaged that I have not even considered entering into another relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to whomever I chose to be with. So, why am I even typing this?
I think it is just for me at this point. The problem is I come from a very different era. I don’t see any real representation of my experience. Please understand I am not trying to take away from anyone else's experience. Every video I have seen has been very brave and authentic. God love you guys for having the guts to put yourselves out there. I know I would be terrified to do half of what you have all done. Call me a coward if you like for commenting like this, I know it's true. Nonetheless this is my story…
I am a 52 year old man if that helps with context. However, I never felt very manly, not that I wanted to be a girl or a femboy as I guess they are called. Besides I am not all that great looking as a guy, I would make a very ugly woman. No one has ever accused me of being cute, so that rules out the whole femboy perspective. I am just too soft hearted and easily hurt for my apparent masculinity and I guess it would help to say I am Gay, if that isn’t apparent from this conversation.
So let’s start in 1978, I would have been 6 years old. I started Kindergarten almost a whole year late as my birthday was in November and missed the age cut off the previous year by a whole month. I guess I should preface this experience by saying my siblings were all teenagers by the time I started school, so there was a huge age gap between us. Going into school, I did not know how to interact with other kids. Before I started school I was always alone. I had high hopes that first day of making friends and finally not being alone. The main thing I learned that day was kids were horrible little monsters and I was better off being alone. Thus that day set the tone for the rest of my academic career.
I was picked on, bullied, and teased from almost the moment I walked in the door. To be fair it was kinda my fault. I just gave them so much to work with. I was almost a head taller than anyone in the class. My hair was a dark coppertone red, I wore glasses because of my very noticeable lazy eye. I had a scary red scar on my forehead that came almost down to my right eye so my bangs couldn’t cover it up. This was before Harry Potter made scars cool. I should also mention the only haircut my mom knew how to do was a bowl haircut. My height and scar quickly earned me the nickname “Frankenstien”.
A real boy in my shoes would have used their size to their advantage and bullied the bullies. That wasn’t me, I was truly hurt that they didn’t want to be my friends and just withdrew inside myself until I could scurry home with my tail between my legs. Once home I locked myself in my closet for a silent cry. I know, so early in the closet? You have to understand nothing set my dad off more than a boy crying. I learned very early on to find a quiet place and to be silent if I needed to let off some emotion. I even had a little nest of blankets where I could cry myself to sleep. That should tell you, I used that closet a lot.
If my dad ever caught me crying his response would range from somewhere between a taunt to a violent spat of anger. “ Oh God what is the little girl crying about now?!” or “Come here! I will give ya something to really cry about!” Makes ya wonder where I really got that scar from? I don’t honestly remember the incident myself but the accepted narrative from my mom was that I fell down our stairs when I was four. Not very original, kinda cliche. I wouldn’t question my moms narrative, if not for the scars I would collect later in life from dear ol’ dad.
More to the point of this story, my feelings towards boys were much stronger than girls. Girls rejected me and it kinda stung. Boys rejected me and it broke my heart. After a while I just accepted the fact I would never have friends and quit trying. I found the quietest corner of the playground and hid away. Sometimes that meant going out of bounds where the teachers couldn’t see me. When I would get caught, it would mean spending the rest of recess sitting in time-out on the stairs leading back into the school. I didn’t mind because kids avoided those stairs, it was as bad as San Quentin in our childish eyes. Sometimes I would sit there on my own accord as if I was in time-out, just to avoid the other kids. When the teachers noticed they would run me off and try to force me to go play.
My first crush was the preacher's son. I think we were both 7. It was the only time I ever stayed over at another boy's house. The preacher was new to our church and young. He asked my parents if I could stay over as they were new in town and we were a small church. I was the only boy his son’s age. He didn’t want his son to feel lonely not having his friends around. I was excited at the prospect of having a friend. To top it off he was really cute, sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, ruby cheeks. I was too young to realize it was kinda weird to think of another boy as being cute. Their son was really indifferent to me being there. I was eager enough for the both of us. I played whatever he wanted to play and always let him win. I could have easily beat him at wrestling or anything else he wanted to play. I was bigger, taller, stronger, but I wanted him to be happy. In the end I tried too hard to make him like me. It was evident when my parents came to pick me up and I tried to hug him goodbye. He shrugged me off. I got a good lecture when I got home about boys shouldn’t hug other boys. Needless To Say, I was never asked to come over again.
It wasn’t like I knew I was gay. I just knew I felt too much as a boy. Boys were supposed to rough and tumble not giving a ** who liked them or not. I was rough and tumble enough. I could take a punch with the best of them. My dad would pit me against my brother who was 6 years older than me in all out fights growing up. They would tease and torment me until I would come out swinging. Then my dad would look at my brother and say, “Get Him!” My brother would be waiting like a coiled rottweiler for my dad’s command. He was twice my size. He would punch me, and I would fly across the floor. I would rebound off the wall and come back for more. This was my dad’s favorite sport. Every once in a while I would surprise my brother by actually landing a good blow. Then he would really hurt me enough to end the match. Dad always looked so proud of him and looked at me with such disgust. Somewhere deep inside of me, I just wanted my dad to look at me one time the way he looked at my brother.
As you have figured out my father was very abusive not just physically,but mentally and emotionally as well. I was his favorite target. That really isn’t the point of this story. However, it played a major part in my road to self discovery. I believe my dad always knew I was gay. It’s not like it was hard to figure it out. I think everyone knew but me. He was always calling me Sissy and girl. He would never come out and say **. I think he thought he could beat the gay out of me. Surprise Daddy ol’ boy, it doesn’t work that way. If anything it made me more determined to be anything but whatever the ** he was. He’s dead now presumably rotting in the seventh ring of ** somewhere. I wish sometimes I could have had the ** to tell him about some of the things his favorite son and I got up to when he wasn’t around.
My brother was a different person when dad wasn't around. At times he could actually be nice to me. Yes, we did mess around but before you get too freaked out, I was adopted. I was 13 and he was 19. I am not saying it was right. I am just being real here. In a way it made me feel less of a freak as messed up as that sounds. Just knowing I wasn’t the only one that was questioning their reality. Turns out he wasn’t gay, just raging hormones. He went on to get married and raise a family. Before some troll tries to figure out who he or I am, you should know he passed a few years ago. Nothing to be gained there. Ok, I have veered way off topic.
The first time I was ever called Gay was in the fifth grade. I knew I was different but I led a sheltered life and didn’t have the vocabulary to express my weirdness. We were participating in a school play. Actually, I was forced into it by my fifth grade teacher Ms. Webber. She didn’t like the way I avoided interaction with really anyone. I didn’t talk in class, didn’t raise my hand. I did just enough homework to get a C. I was as unremarkable and unnoticeable as I possibly could be. To most teachers and students, I was completely invisible.
I had mastered that craft so convincingly that for an entire year, I let a teacher call me by the wrong name. Jason, the kid she confused me with, was really confused when he got his third quarter progress report saying.” Wish Jason would take a more active role in class!” He asked her about it in class, the cheeky ** pointed out by doing so he was actively engaging in class, which gathered some laughter. I even smiled not that anyone would notice because I never looked up from my desktop where I silently drew pictures with my **. Her response was priceless,” Wait your Jason. Then who is that sitting there??” She pointed directly at me. The whole class collapsed in laughter. I got her confused expression because everyone called him Jace, still one of the coolest nicknames I ever came across, and well no one spoke to me so they didn’t call me anything. To Be Continued...

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