Coming Out

I just started reading 'Boys Like Us,' which is a collection of comming out stories by gay writers.  I've always found coming out stories to be interesting and fun, but this collection has the added benefit of being well written!

I've learned a few things, one of which has been rattling around in my head for a couple of days and won't go away.  It's the whole question of the term 'Coming Out,' what it means and how it came to mean what it does today.  It's all very historical. 

Science Fiction writer, Samuel Delany, who came of age in the 50s in New York City, says that 'Coming Out' used to mark the day you had your first real homosexual experience -- horsing around with the other guys at camp doesn't count.  It was related to and actually came from the term applied to debutantes who were showcased at Debutant Balls -- Coming Out Parties.   I guess originally it had more to do with losing your gay virginity than with acknowledging to yourself and others who you are.

That was all pre-Stonewall (for a quick and magnificently written history of that riot, see my blog, Pride (August 2, 2004) -- it's burried in there somewhere, I promise.  But that event on June 28, 1969 -- the day of Judy Garland's funeral -- changed everything.  For the first time, a ragged and beaten band of cowering queers (the term commonly used back then) stood up to Police harrassment, shouted, 'Hell No!  We won't take it anymore,' and held their oppressors at bay for three days. 

While the riot was newsworthy, it was hardly seen as a big event.  It was reported and forgotten by the press of the day.  But looking back it takes on the significance of, say  Columbus arriving in America, or the invention of the printing press.   Well, maybe that's stretching it a bit. . . but we homos consider it a major event in our history.  It marks the beginning of modern gay pride, the founding of the Gay Liberation Front, the beginning of the strategy that we could change attitudes by simply having the guts to be who we are out in the open. 

Suddenly 'Coming Out' had a new meaning:  it meant acknowledging to the world (and to yourself) who you are.  And that's pretty much where we are today. 

Me?  I was a late bloomer.  I mean, a very late bloomer.  Yes, I had horsed around with the other guys at camp, so to speak, but like I said earlier, that's not supposed to count.  I didn't have my first real homosexual experience until 1990, just before my 40th birthday.  I'd half-acknowledged to myself that I was gay (with a big stack of safety-net caveats tossed in) before the actual event and I saw the act itself as the logical next step, the now, therefore that took me down my path.

My wife had asked for a divorce some months earlier and we were in the midst of that process.  Having acknowledged to myself that I was finally old enough to have anything I wanted, what I wanted became very clear and I gave myself permission to pursue more intimate relationships with men.  After years of constant vigilence, dedication and discipline, denying, denying, denying and refusing to consider, it was as if the Wicked Witch of the West (who turned out to be not so wicked at all) wrote 'Surrender, Dorothy!' across the sky of my psyche . . . and I did.  A huge weight was lifted.

Unfortunately, I didn't know how to be gay.  Really:  I had no gay friends, had never been to a gay bar, was terrified of them, didn't know how to successfully cruise . . . I was a total babe in the woods. 

I needed a coach, a big brother, someone to show me the ropes (and whips and chains oh my).  I thought back to those horsing around days.  My best friend and most frequent horsing around partner was Charles.  I'd lost touch with him over the previous 10 years or so and we really hadn't seen each other since we were 15.  He'd never told me he was gay, but he was the closest thing to that in my life . . . so I set about finding him.  I located his  parent's address in Florida and sent a short letter there to him, just telling him I was thinking about him and asking him to get in touch.  I never expected anything to come of it.

But a couple of weeks later, there was a phone call.  Amazingly, Charles was living in Atlanta, just like me and was delighted to hear from me.  We arranged to meet for lunch -- where he came out to me, told me about his life and lover and I came out to him and asked for his help. 

Charles was amazing.  He went into high gear and had me set up with a really wonderful circle of friends within a week.  They picked me up one evening and took me to my first gay bar, Blakes in Atlanta, where we drank and danced 'til closing.  It was my Coming Out party, and everybody in the place knew it. 

But the next day, my secret was still my secret.  My new friends knew, but nobody else did.  And I was still just as naieve homo-sex-ually as I had been the day before.  So the night before was really more about being a debutante than being gay.  It did start a few things in motion however, that led to much bigger things in my life.

I began to have casual semi-sorta sex with other guys. We mostly  just 'horsed around,' played and had fun -- nothing serious.-- and there were really only a few.  But those few got me comfortable with the whole scene, comfortable with the bars, comfortable meeting strangers (never my strong suit), comfortable pursuing friendships that might turn sexual. 

One night in the Fall of that year, I was another Atlanta gay institution, the Armory (to this day I maintain it is the best gay bar I've ever been to).  I'd been dancing and drinking and having a generally wonderful time.  I was leaning against the wall in the small dance room when I noticed a young man across the room staring at me.  I stared back.  He didn't drop his eyes.  I walked over and asked him to dance . . . and woke up in his bed the next morning.

Andy was in his early 20s, and his early adult life was a mess -- but he was perfect for me at the time.  After all, I was doing something most guys do when they are about Andy's age (or earlier), so it made sense that I would seek out someone that young to have my first experience with.  I even became smitten:  he was very  nice looking and had a near flawless body -- even caught myself fantasizing the impossible, the curtains, the cookware, the picket fence . . . And I dove into him like Greg Lougainis at the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul. 

There was only one little catch.  I had already accepted a job in California and was going to be leaving Atlanta permanently in a month.  It was a fact I kept to myself (for no particular reason, I might add) for the first week of Andy and my torrid affair.  When I told him, we were both in that haf light fantasy spot and the news hit him like a train.  He cried, he stormed, he slammed.  I felt like a shit. 

'Why is it always like this!' he bellowed at me.  'Why do I always let my guard down and then get kicked in the teeth!'  I was speechless and about as effective at soothing him as a Weight Watchers meeting at the Hometown Buffet.  But somehow, we got over it.  Knowing full-well that we'd probably never see each other after I left, we dove into enjoying the time we did have. 

So, by the time I moved I'd had my pre-Stonewall coming out event: the loss of my gay virginity.  I had pretty much acknowledged who I was to myself -- even told my wife on the day our divorce was final -- but had enough conditions on the admission that I'd hardly call it Coming Out.  That took several more years.

I became a mystery man at my new job.  Nobody knew what I did in the evenings or on weekends . . . and after a few vague answers, nobody asked.  I started to know a new terror:  the fear that somebody I knew in my work life would see me out in my gay life.  As in a great Star Trek episode, I was sure the collission of the two universes would mean the destruction of everything.  It was to be avoided at all costs. 

Things became more complicated when Robert Rivera moved in with me in 1991.  My terror rose another notch.  What if he answered the phone when my parents or someone from work called?  How would I explain that? 

I'd already hidden him away for the week my parents came to visit.  But we really weren't co-habitating at the time, so that was just a matter of not seeing each other for a few days.  Now I did everything I could to keep him in the murky unknown darkness of my personal life; everything short of forbidding him to ever answer the phone. 

Then came the day I played hookey from work for some reason -- I don't remember what -- and went down to Tijuana.  I checked in with my office before I crossed the border and as soon as I got back so that I'd be informed of any emergencies before they picked up the phone and called me at home where Robert was.  The call on the return side of the border, though was as important an event to me as Stonewall was to gay liberation. I got my secretary, Winnie, on the line and she said, 'Oh!  I just talked to Robert! I told him to tell you . . . '  I didn't hear much of anything else.  She had pulled back the veil of my life and seen a very large Puerto Rican gentleman standing there.  Did she make the connection?  Was my secret out?  I was in a panic over my return to work the next day.

But nothing happened, nothing was said. 

The event gave me the impetus to begin thinking about Coming Out in that other more modern sense:  Coming Out of the Closet, telling the world who you are.  I decided that living in terror was not my style and designed a strategy for telling those around me that I was gay. 

I'd begin with my closest friends at work, and then my brother.  After that, I'd go back and pick up my best friends from high school and college.  I'd be prepared to be very frank with anyone at my office, but would wait for the question to be asked.  I was silly enough to believe that who I was sleeping with was as important   to my co-workers as to me and considered the question inevitable.  Oh; and I'd look for the right moment to tell my folks. 

Close friends at work were no problem.  They were surprised but accepting. 

My brother and his wife feigned no surprise.  'It's about time,' my brother proclaimed.

My friends from school were difficult.  One has never spoken to me since.  Another tried to do the same but found our bond too great to tun his back on.  Still our friendship is a bit tentative. Several others could not have cared less.

The inevitable question never came at work.  And I never told.  I've learned since that everyone knew -- it was just an accepted fact.  But nobody wanted to make me uncomfortable, so they just left it alone.  So I never got to share what I did over the weekend or during my vacation with the people I saw five days a week.  Isn't that stupid?

My father died before I could tell him anything.  That was too bad, but it wasn't the big regret for me that it is for some people.  My Mom had a few questions at first but ultimately blessed my happiness and urged me to be careful.  It was a year later when she raged at me about going to Hell and reading my Bible.  After that, we left it alone. 

When I got laid off from that job -- my 'Career' -- I became a consultant and took a four year job with a company in New Jersey.  I was  known quantity there and had worked with a number of their people in the past.  But I determined that this time would be different.  This time I would tell. 

And I did.  Not everyone.  Just those in my immediate work circle. For the first time in my adult working carreer since my divorce, I felt like a full member of my team.  I felt lighter.  More focused.  It was wonderful.  My co-workers met Robert (the then new and still current one) and became friendly with us as a couple. 

Since then I never make any bones about it.  I assume it's obvious.  I'm not flamboyant, mind you, nor am I over the top nelly; but I'm pretty sure most people figure me out within minutes of meeting me.  If I ever encounter any misunderstanding, I correct it immediately.  I can't tell you how many times I've responded to a question about my status with something like, 'Yes, my spouse -- HE -- and I  . . . '   It usually gets an 'Oh!' and a chuckle. 

In the third interview for my current job -- the one where I got the offer -- I asked my new boss if he was going to be ok working with a gay guy.  He cocked his head . . . 'Who?' he asked.

'Me!' I replied and we both had a big laugh.  It never was and never has been a problem here. 

So I guess I've finally gotten through that second kind of post-Stonewall Coming Out:  being out of the closet, out to the world. 

But there is a third definition.  Up 'til now, I've held it as a subset of being Out to the world.  It's being out to yourself.  You'd think that would be a natural pre-requisite to being Out to the world.  But it's not.

Not that I have any doubts:  I am a gay man.  Period.  This is what I'll be 'til the day I die.  I came to that conclusion some time in the first year I lived with Robert Rivera. Having said that, I must admit that acknowledging my gayness is not the pivotal or defining statement of my life.  Oh, it's important -- make no doubt about that.  But it's not the essential what of who I am.  I am a man.  I am sexual.  I think, I love, I work, I play.  And that's the way I see myself. 

I had a shrink for awhile.  She was a nut case herself, but still, lots of fun.  She said to me once, 'I think men are neither heterosexual nor homosexual . . . they're just sexual.'   At the time I took the statement as rationalization for the fact that her own husband frequently and openly took male lovers on the side.  But the more I think about it, I believe that statement to be as true as any I've heard on the subject.  Men are sexual.  Women are nesters.  We all get along as best we can and the species survives. 

Coming Out is important to the cause.  It helps the world at large see us as human beings, more like them than not, and with every new instance creates a less bigotted society.  We have an opportunity to change the way people think and all we have to do is to continue to stand up.  That's what Gay Pride is all about.

National Coming Out day is October 11.  It's a long way off, but it doesn't hurt to start preparing now.