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.

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.

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.

The air felt thick with something heavy as I rolled up to this year’s YOB retreat – nothing like the old days when I’d show up buzzing with excitement, counting down the moments to new insights or good laughs with the crew. I'm just gonna be real with you: the start of this story might feel dark, but stick with me.

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.

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 want to talk about rape – specifically, my childhood rape. I want to tell this difficult story for two reasons: healing for myself, and more importantly healing for anyone else reading. Please read at your own discretion.

I found myself constantly dealing with doubt, low self-esteem, loneliness, and feeling unloved. As I sat there looking around, I saw so many guys, including the newbies, hanging out with one another, playing games, laughing, and hugging. I felt like I was being avoided because of my stuttering.

I understand some people have to portray themselves in certain ways for cultural reasons, or because they don't want to hurt their families. But how many more mornings are we willing to wear this mask around people just to cry into our pillows at night?

I honestly don't know the meaning behind dreams – whether they're because of the subconscious, or for something God wants to tell us, like He did for people in the Bible. Are dreams, in part, resulting from what's happened to us, things that we need to relive, or are they something altogether different?

Even if all the sexual stuff with men is wrong in God's eyes, I still just want to be with a man physically from time to time. Is that wrong too? Does God really care if I share my bed with another guy, as long as there's no sex?

I honestly didn't think I'd write anything else about my mom, basically feeling as if I'd said it all the first time around. But turns out I was wrong. I've had some health issues through the years, including six strokes. I had a session with a psychiatrist, telling her how my mom and sisters are the direct cause of my stress, making my catatonic episodes worse each time.

I found myself getting sucked into a world of fantasy. Porn was way better than watching some blockbuster: I could still be with guys without actually being with them. After all, I never cared about those guys anyway. It was all about me and getting off. The more I watched porn, the more I was hooked.

I was so afraid of what people thought of me that I was willing to hide who I was from family, friends, the world – and to some degree, myself. I was willing to live a life of lies to be accepted. I explained that's just how things were back then. Sadly, some people are still living this way.

I'd already been with German guys, so I thought it was a good idea see what guys from other countries were like. I figured the chances of ever again being with other guys from that many countries would be slim. The sad part about having sex with all these men was that I never once gave thought to my relationship with God. It was all about me and those European men.

Like most of you reading I begged, cried, yelled, and tried to "pray the gay away," only to have it all go ignored. For years I thought God ignored me. And if He didn't care about me, why should I acknowledge Him and His Son?

I had sex for the first time on May 3, 1979. Funny how you always remember your first. It was with my sister's best friend. I was 17; she was 16. Everyone in the neighborhood swore we were already having sex, but we weren't. I really wasn't interested in her or any other girl for that matter; even if I was, I wouldn't have known what to do anyway.

All I wanted was to live a fantasy every weekend: to believe that some man wanted me. That he loved me just so I could take my mind off all the negative things I felt about myself. After 29 years of living that life and never once finding happiness or love, God in His own way brought me back to Him and the church. However, I also started experiencing added health issues.

How many of us have decided not to come out to our fathers because we knew it wouldn't go well? How many have been wrestling with the idea of telling our fathers for fear of the unknown? And how many of us have already come out to our fathers, a topic never again spoken about?

All the other gay films I'd watched were nice, but this was the first gay film I watched and thought: I wish I knew what it was like to be in a relationship. All the other men I've ended up with were only about sex. I didn't care about them or their feelings, much like the son at the beginning of this film. This film brought up feelings I never knew I even had or wanted, for that matter.