I waited until my late thirties to “come out” to my parents. I swore for years that I would never do it, but I finally caved. Eventually, all the filtering, editing, and compartmentalizing just grew exhausting. As difficult as it was, I knew that the time to come out to them had come. I decided to write them in lieu of a conversation. 

For decades I couldn’t even admit to myself that I was gay. I thought I was bisexual, at best, because I’d had sex with five women in my teens and early twenties. Honestly, I still can’t believe I ever did that. I was so determined to be straight that I thought having sex with women would make that a reality for me. It didn’t.

I met a dear friend at summer camp. Both of us have struggled with loneliness and despair. Neither of us was very strong or “masculine” growing up. We both took our religious faith seriously. In our adult lives, we both went to seminary. And we both like poetry. And today, whenever I struggle with stuff, his words comfort and encourage me to keep going.

We often speak of friendships in processing our attractions toward guys. How to reclaim brotherly bonds amid tides of crushes. How we learn to venerate the image of God in men, letting our attractions capture beauty without claiming it as our own. But it gets all the more complicated when one of the guys to whom you’re attracted is yourself.

I remember being particularly excited about the fact that he wasn’t just coming over for a bit — he came to stay the night! We would be able to spend so much time together, and I couldn’t imagine any version of that scenario that wouldn’t appeal to me. That is until, of course, something went wrong.

As I consider my history with broken New Year’s resolutions, I notice that they almost always fall into the three categories of faith, sexuality, and masculinity. This is true of resolutions I made many years ago, even before I heard of YOB and was simply trying to organize my life goals as best I knew in such a way that honored Jesus.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it might look like to share my last days with another man. Sharing my life with him in a way that’s pure, platonic, and rooted in Christ — a lifelong companionship without crossing lines that my faith tells me are off-limits. This same-sex longing didn’t come out of nowhere. It started building a couple years ago, around another lonely Valentine’s Day.

When I decided to commit myself to celibacy as a gay Christian, one prayer became the focus of my personal prayer life. Not having a boyfriend or a husband? That was difficult, but it didn’t cut to the heart of how I envisaged my life. But not having children? That was the real thorn in my flesh.

As I entered adulthood, I faced pressure from my dad to get hitched. My parents thought that I “used to” struggle with same-sex attraction after a most complicated religious experience. I could likely write an entire post on that experience alone, but to put it succinctly: I encountered grace in such a way that made me know and love God more and caused lust to lie low for years.

For years, I was caught in a strange paradox. I was drawn to gay men — compelled to be around them in clubs, bars, and cruising spots where I knew I’d find a connection, even if it was fleeting; yet I also harbored a deep dislike for the men I met and even the ones I saw on screen. I was, in a way, anti-gay — primarily from the way I was raised.

Even if you did acknowledge a girl’s heart, it felt as though you also had to plot hotness and holiness on a grid, determining the benefits and pitfalls of dating a woman at, say, a “7 hotness, 6 holiness.” I suppose you could find this plotting helpful if your hotness detector is somewhere south of a Kinsey 6, but what should you do if it’s not and you want to get married by some act of God?

A common theme I’ve noticed in male Side B spaces is that of the mythical “straight best friend.” Namely, that if we could only find a straight man who was the right mix of masculine, sensitive, and cuddly, we would be cured. Cured of what? Childhood traumas, daddy issues, feeling like an outsider, lack of masculinity, or even same-sex attraction itself?

The other day, while digging through some years-ago writings, I came across a letter I wrote in 2012. It was raw and honest, meant for a guy I’d had a crush on for two years. Reading it again, I felt nostalgia – not for him, but for the version of myself who poured his heart onto that page.

This bike race wasn’t about beating any of those men. It was about merely existing with men. Breathing their same air, riding in their same lanes. Climbing, descending, finishing with them. A silly little bicycle race isn’t a substantive piece of where I find my masculinity. But there’s something about this rare experience of dressing athletically like these men and pedaling with them that viscerally reminds me that I am a man, even though I may also starkly differ, living like one of them for a few hours at least in the same three dimensions.

I hear yelling and laughter down the hall – they're out again. Our dorm's nudists don't have a shower party every night, but they seem to occur more and more frequently now. If I wait long enough, maybe they'll be done before I need to use the bathroom. I work on some backup plans; worst case scenario, I can take my stuff to another bathroom. It’s a little more inconvenient, but I'd rather walk a little further than wade through a mob of exposed genitalia.

Picture this: a young, skinny, pale, little boy, dressed in baggy, light wash jeans and an oversized graphic t-shirt. This was the dress code of the 90s and early 2000s, and it was great for me as a kid: lots of fabric for comfort, as well as protection from scrapes and bruises, with the ability to hide much of my gangly awkwardness common to pre-pubescent boys.

Late one night I started thinking about Bernard, my dad – though I haven't called him "Dad" since I was 9 years old. It dawned on me that I've never given Bernard a present for Father's Day. There are two reasons for that. He never lived with my family as I grew up. He's also dead now.

I've been rereading "Unwanted" for therapy, and it continues to reveal my uncomfortable reflection – all of it, all of me. It often feels like fluorescent lights buzzing overhead at midnight. And yet Stringer's premise encourages me: sexual brokenness almost paradoxically revealing paths to healing.

When I started meeting guys who also experienced same-sex attraction, some did start to receive my aggressive style of hugs. However, like my kids, some weren't quite ready for them. As I navigated who I could tackle-hug next, one guy invited me to hold his hand. I rolled my eyes a little internally but took him up on the offer, not expecting much: a simple gesture that would soon be forgotten. That is, until I noticed how much pressure I exerted on his hand as we sat together – and how gently he touched mine back.

This missionary gentleman asked if I'd consider participating in a Bible study he'd be leading. After some thought and prayer, I agreed. The first step of joining this group required each participant to share his or her testimony. I knew this upon agreeing to attend, and I had time to prepare. Of course, part of my testimony is being a gay, celibate Christian. I knew I'd have to share this detail; why wouldn't I be completely transparent in my testimony?