Straight men have always been scary. They've long been "the other," going all the way back to first grade. We may not share the same tastes for sports and media consumption, but we still share a common masculine heart. One fraught with hauntingly familiar masculine thorns.

Do I live the way I live purely because of the way I was raised? Do I still harbor any internalized homophobia of myself and others? Is that why I'm "Side B"? Is this all coming from a place of pious self-righteousness?

We hadn't seen each other in a while, so we caught up on each other's lives. Then came the confrontation. The tone changed, and he wanted to get some stuff off his chest. He told me he didn't appreciate my butting in on their relationship and trying to save our friendship. That if he had to choose between our friendship or his girlfriend, he'd choose her.

Last month, I wrote about my botched attempt at sharing my story at a church for the first time. Since then, I realised, I've never really reflected back on my comings out. Taken a birds-eye view of things, processing the other times I've communicated my sexuality to other people. Until today.

The voices flooded my mind. How useless am I not to protect the females on the team? I am so weak. I am nothing like the other guys on the team. What am I even doing here?! With all that had been going on, my team director decided to have a chat with me.

The morning after, I processed this dream over and over. This "dad of my dreams" was unlike my dad of reality. He was affectionate and involved. He helped me — didn't just tell me to fix whatever was wrong. And he stayed with me.

Many men dealing with same-sex attraction have told stories of being coldly rejected, while men who struggle with heterosexual sins are given compassion and support. My church, however, has actually helped me follow Jesus Christ, allowing me to be happy while fighting homosexual temptations.

We will face temptation in this life. There is greater nuance for those of us with fellow "Side B" relationships, as the gender with whom we often need the closest relationships is the gender we are also generally attracted to. Temptation will happen, but it cannot be the only — or primary — litmus test for whether we can be safe in friendship.

The Sunday service started, and I was excited to speak. I'd been praying for this moment for quite a while now — I was about to give my testimony in front of a whole church. The service started, and two songs into worship I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the pastor, and he was motioning me back to his office...

In my pre-YOB days, I still felt a lot of self-loathing and internalized homophobia over my sexuality and had yet to come to terms with it. I spent that whole day unsure what to think or feel about PULSE. Dismayed by seeing so many people brutally murdered, of course, yet conflicted about how I felt about my convictions with my own sexuality.

God could have prevented my attraction to men. Whatever your beliefs on causation, I believe God is powerful enough to have adjusted whatever needed adjusting to have prevented my attraction to men. Since this did not happen, I can only determine one reasonable possibility: my sexuality was something God wanted for my life. Therefore, I see it as a gift.

I like men in more than just a friendly way. I am a man who is attracted emotionally and sexually to other men. I am also married to a woman, attracted only to her out of all the women on earth. Somehow, it works. I am queer. And for much of my life, that has terrified me.

It's Easter season, and I've been reflecting on the meaning of the cross. Not just the meaning of the cross for the bigger picture of salvation for humanity, but also the tangible effects the cross has been having on me.

Did I want to be in leadership, or did that role need to be filled? I felt inadequate. To lead. To be an example. To show my non-Christian roommates Jesus and love. To be a good friend.

I begged God for forgiveness. I asked for the wisdom and guidance to uproot the idols I had placed around my life, rooted firstly in my idolization of my friend.

This Lent, I'm giving up masturbation. And I realize that might sound really wrong or off or like I clearly didn't grow up in a liturgical tradition and have no idea how this Lent thing even works. But regardless. I'm doing it. I'm not masturbating for the next few weeks. It may not quite be a "fast" by technical, theological terms. But it's a necessary refocusing.

How was I to respond to my friend's declaration? After everything that had happened in France, I felt even more confused about relationships and sexuality. My faith seemed in limbo, without much support from my summer community, so I didn't know where to put my friend in my life and understanding of faith.

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.

I'm a sensitive man who feels things, feels things all the time, and no amount of oversleeping or overdrinking or pornography or promiscuity will turn me off.

My friend was not a physically affectionate guy. He showed his discomfort with my physical affection. I was aware and relented some. But I still tried to show him physical affection when I could. I believed it was healthy. I told myself that this physical affection was necessary for us as friends.