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.

I was stoked to hear about the 2022 movie, "Close." After watching the trailer, I was instantly sold. Two boys are shown to be close friends, even physically affectionate with one another to the point that their classmates assume them to be gay.

My time leading up to this year's YOBBERS Retreat came with mixed emotions. I knew a few familiar YOBBERS wouldn't be returning, but I also knew I'd recognize many other guys attending. Anxiety lingered. Had I really built the kind of connections that would help me feel at home this year?

Was I in love with him? Did we have the deepest friendship, or was it actually something more? This is for the lot of us who have gone from strangers to friends to kin to nothing.

Looking back on those bro cuddling blogs years later, after experiencing much more bro cuddling, how does it all hold up? Have any of my thoughts or feelings changed around the subject? Or have I perhaps received some new insights, especially after a lot of cuddle mileage?

It's no secret that the LGBT+ community has a complicated history with the Christian church. This culture war has bled into the church for decades, resulting in those who experience same-sex attraction in their congregations to feel uncared for, unloved, and at worst, excommunicated from the church community. These experiences create soul wounds.

Once upon a time I wrote about five times I've felt like a man. As we wind down the theme of "Love Month" at YOB, I started thinking about some instances when my heart has swelled, or exploded, or some other symphonic verb meant to translate the depths of safety, care, and affection I've experienced with other men. This isn't a "top 5" or hardly exhaustive list, but these are five stories that come to mind...

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 always feel this nervousness attached to holding hands in public. If I want to hold hands with a friend, what will others think of me? What will they think of us? Will they assume we are a couple? Will they say something? Will they be aggressive, or will they ignore us?

How was this past Christmas reinvigorated for me? Well, this song helped clarify the good parts of my sexuality related to human touch, deeply rooted in the natural instinct common to all humans since birth. I was born with a longing to be comforted, to be held, to be swaddled, to be cuddled. As I've aged, those same good touch instincts were partially absorbed by my sexuality, and now they're muddled.

Something else that astonished me over the weekend was how much like myself I felt; how proud I was to be seen in the company of my fellow queer brothers; how un-worried I was about what anybody else thought. That's not like me. At least not how I have been.

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.

How I wish there could be someone here, of a similar position in life, with whom I could fully relate. Someone with whom I could bare my soul, with whom I could freely express brotherly intimacy – a soul brother, one could say. That is what I crave.

Although the teasing continued for the rest of the school year, I honestly learned to ignore it. I became a recluse at a very young age. This reclusiveness made the other kids – especially the other boys – a bit of a mystery to me. Particularly physically. Looking back, I realize I was in a bit of a paradox: I didn't want the other boys to see any of my body, but I also had somewhat of an interest in theirs.

We never really talked about sex in any capacity, as in which girls we liked, or how our disabilities intertwined with our sexuality. The topic was a moot one, sometimes uncomfortably so. Eventually, I had the dreaded conversation with my friend. You know the one: "I'm gay but acting on such feelings goes against what I believe as a follower of Jesus." My friend then came out to me as well! He also didn't want to act on such feelings.

How do I deal with unmet sexual desire? It's a question which led me to ask, what is my sexual desire? Of course, "sexual desire" is a category with a lot of things in it. "There's a lot of different fish in that bucket," I told myself. But let's not call it a bucket. Let's call it an aquarium so all the fish have plenty of room to swim around, and so we can get a good look at them.

Here's one vocabulary term I've taken away from therapy: euphoric recall. I'd never heard that phrase until last year, and it gives language to this nebulous internal struggle I've faced since my first bout with pornography at 19.

Another Pride Month gone; another year I didn't participate. I've never been one for any kind of parade, but part of me believes participating in Pride means I have accepted the part of myself that remained hidden for so long.

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.

I still have that Link costume somewhere in my closet. Perhaps it's the wandering through the woods that I love, the isolation, the music; or, perhaps it's something deeper that has stuck with me after all these years. Perhaps it's that I feel like the protagonist: adrift in time, unsure whether I'm a child or a man. This is how I feel as I move back into my childhood bedroom – the place where my sexual trauma occurred.