It wasn't overtly apparent to me. After all, I was in the womb preparing to journey down the birth canal. Bright lights, bug eyes staring at me, faces too close to my delicate skin and loud voices all awaiting me at the end of the tunnel. Of course, there was also the warm bath to remove the crusties and a heat lamp that I would later appreciate as a tanning bed. But most importantly — even if it didn't carry a Vera Wang label — a fluffy blanket, replacing the warm swimming pool of mom's womb, awaited to warmly swaddle me and protect me from this scary thing called the outside world.
At that moment, I had my first "coming out" experience. Of course, it meant nothing to me — my mental capacity was yet incapable of grasping what "coming out" and being gay meant. Still, the DNA wire crossing was complete, never to be undone.
Age 19, hormones raging, second year in college, 1,000 miles from home, I was confused, putting on a good front, sneaking off campus to dance classes, sneaking peeks at certain male dorm-mates, wondering what the heck was happening. Finally mustering up the courage to call mom and dad and have the talk, I did it ... I came out!
Doing the best they could with this new revelation, spiritual therapy with the college pastor was the route taken to help me through this confusion. I did my best, swallowed my true feelings, set aside my thoughts about how handsome the pastor was and moved on through the therapy.
Finished college. Landed my first job. Stepped into my first experience of living on my own in a remote area of New Mexico, completely capable of exploring my sexuality. And, I did ... kind of. Mostly in my mind with a few random hook-ups, even though that phrase hadn't really been coined yet.
Moved to Texas, stepped up in my career, met a great gal and decided "Let's get married; that will fix everything." Not exactly. What it did was allow for me to shine in front of every else's eyes and pull the wool over my own, just enough for me to exist and get by ... for 13 years! Keep reading ...
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