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.

I continually wrestle with this dynamic in leadership of Your Other Brothers: where do I keep proper distance in the name of boundaries and self-care, and where do I let someone else enter my birdcage? Can I do both well? Can I lead and participate well?

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 joined Your Other Brothers back in 2017. I experienced the first and second camp retreats in good ole North Carolina, but then I took a break from YOB the next two years. Why? Because I was tired of it.

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.

My mom didn't start saying she loved me until she became a Christian in the early 80's. Now she says it almost every day, and I feel like she's doing it to make up for all those lost years. As far as I'm concerned, those "I love you's" are empty because she's been saying it to the straight Michael she's always preferred instead of the Michael actually in front of her. And because of that, I've learned to tolerate her acknowledged denial of my life.

Whatever the reason, this is where I find myself: apathetic toward the Church, God, and disciplines like reading Scripture and prayer. I'm not angry at the Church -- just apathetic. And in that apathy I feel ordinarily strong convictions weaken.

The latest song to get me spiritually musing is "Dear Younger Me" by the band, MercyMe. The premise of the song is thinking through what one would tell his younger self if he ever got the chance. Would it be some cheesy speech about enjoying every moment to its fullest? Would he warn himself of all the mistakes to come, even though those mistakes are now inseparable from the man he became? What would he say? What would I say to a younger me?

Don't get me wrong, I am completely and utterly attracted to men. I've never been attracted to a woman in my life. And yet my attraction to the same sex doesn't go quite as far as many others' do. Ultimately, I just have no desire for sex with other men even though I'm attracted to them.

He was sitting there waiting for me, like usual. My pastor asked if I was okay, though he knew I wasn't. He could tell I was an emotional wreck, that I needed to get some stuff off my chest. I felt numb, this deep despair inside me, like all my energy had escaped me. I only had enough to meet with him on this particular day.

I couldn't go back through this whole crap again! I couldn't go back to being worried every single minute over how to pay for my apartment. I couldn't go back to not eating for a day or two. I couldn't go back to being tempted to selling myself to the first "generous" guy that came my way. I felt the heavy weight again, and I felt like a total loser.

One day, we finally grabbed lunch together, and I just poured out my heart to my best friend. I pleaded for him to take his relationship slowly and not to forget about me. While saying that, something just clicked in my brain. I started tearing up; right then and there, I asked my best friend to forgive me for being a jerk.

It felt good to be close to another man. And yet, was it right (healthy, faithful, acceptable) to like this? Is this what acceptance in a physical sense felt like?

I didn't want to lose my best friend to this soon-to-be relationship. I already knew what it felt like to be left alone, tossed away like an old rag doll by a straight relationship, forgotten. I don't know how many times this had happened to me, and I wasn't ready to go through it again. Especially by someone I thought would be my best friend for a long time.

I knew I needed a miracle even to get out there, and now this triggering text message was stuck in my brain as I got ready. I packed my clothes for the weekend but needed to get some food in my stomach before the semi-long trip.

Deep in my financial drought, I thought about the idea of prostitution again. I'd done prostitution before, and my options for finding a job were running thin. I did love sex and hooking up with other guys; why not dive back into that dangerous field again and make some extra cash? I was in desperate need of help.

Why is it whenever we get so comfortable with our good lives, there's always something that shakes things up?