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.

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.

Our biggest culture war debates lately have been raging over transgender issues, including gender identity and gender norms. One side says that gender is just a social construct with purely subjective expressions, while another says this is the nihilistic death of traditional masculinity and femininity. Either way the debate rages, is there a line between proper “masculine” or “feminine” gender expression? Or should there even be a line?

Another thing we can easily do is carry delight for masculine beauty into lust. There’s a sense of claiming, entitlement, and ownership in lust that’s fraudulent, a lie to myself. The moment I do so, I start to make the beauty point to me.

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?

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.

It would be easy to write a few paragraphs about how virtuous all these wonderful men were; how they showed me the (gender-neutral) love of Jesus; how bravely they pursued vulnerability with one another. But I want to do something stupider. I want to write about a vibe, an aesthetic, a rumor of masculinity which I seemed to detect at my first YOBBERS Retreat.

Do I fast because I truly desire to hear from Him more clearly, walk with Him more closely, and feel less spiritually cloudy? Or do I fast because, well, it's comfortable to be uncomfortable? Because it almost feels good to deprive, if not punish my body – particularly after I sin?

Despite all the incredible people in our online community, I've recognized my need for more men in my city on whom I can depend. This has been a sobering searching process because YOB has become such a pillar of my identity. If I'm no longer close or as intentional with a large lot of our YOB community, who even am I?

I'm not sure the "vulnerability hangover" has ever hit me as strongly with a blog as it did that one. It's been one thing to confess I'm attracted to men as a sort of "blanket confession" for all the world to see; it's another to invite people into the specific workings of my sexuality. Particularly with something as personal and hardly-talked-about as masturbation.

I'd love all straight people – straight Christians – to watch "Love, Simon" because it will show them how gut-wrenching (and also beautiful) the coming out process is for a gay person: of finally letting another human into the biggest secret of one's life.

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?

He's the guy who has clarified my boundaries with cuddling and physical touch more than any other. The guy from whom I've sought comfort in touch more than any other. The guy who has made me feel seen and warm and laugh and cry like no other. He's the first (and to this point, only) guy I've fallen in love with.

You're probably reading this thinking, "Oh boy, Eugene is going to settle this debate once and for all on which label is the right one to use!" Nope, that's not the case at all. The simple fact is that both sexuality labels have their benefits, but both are simultaneously problematic. I want to look at both labels and weigh the pros and cons of each.

Sometimes you just have to be honest with yourself about who you are. After another year and a half in Germany, I woke up one morning, walked down to my first sergeant's office, and told him I was gay – that I didn't want to be in the Army anymore. My colonel had to sign off on that paperwork; he refused. And I was arrested. The Army rushed the investigation, and I was court-martialed.

Many conservative Christians don't believe I've ever really tried to change. Those with this position assert that my goal must be to become heterosexual, that God wants nothing less than that for me – and from me. Thus, if I haven't received this orientation change yet, then my faith must not be strong enough, or I haven't ever truly wanted this change.

I was anxious our "vibe" would be too new, too foreign, too strange, and too uncomfortable for too many people. Would the ratio just be off? Would our vibe be off after 27 months apart? Beyond logistics and numbers, I felt anxious about the purpose of this retreat more than either of our previous ones. It all goes back to that nebulous definition of YOB: what are we here for?

It's now been three to four years since I've written those blogs on cuddling and nudity, and I've shared many cuddles since with guys I've met through YOB. But have any of my thoughts changed since I wrote those posts?

I pictured him crying in his bed when he woke up that morning, or even going to bed crying right after leaving me; knowing I'd hurt him, knowing I'd been the one to cross physical boundaries. It destroyed me, if I'm honest.