I actually find myself decreasingly needing — or even desiring — touch with other men. It's not completely gone, mind you. But the need/desire is considerably less. This is a fairly new development. I'm still unpacking the reasons, but I have some theories based on how my male friendships have transpired the last decade — many of them imploding.

I'm feeling an ache from an empty space in my life. The ache seems to be crying out for something I haven't felt much desire in — well, forever? I'm feeling a longing for affectionate, brotherly touch from another guy: a hug, an arm around the shoulder, a tight embrace, an encouraging pat on the back, a caring hand on my neck. And I have no idea why.

And so, as we walked through a local park, barely past our first month of dating, I told her about my same-sex attraction. I told her of my failed dating history, that I wasn't sure I could be attracted to women, that most men who were SSA, despite years of prayer and trying to make things work, would not be attracted to women and that my SSA would possibly never go away.

I usually head to porn when I'm stressed, anxious, confused, tired. My counselor once asked me if I go to porn to feel power, to be in control. My first response was no — I don't feel powerful at all when I seek out porn. I feel weak and helpless. But maybe there is a control aspect to my porn usage.

I've had at least a decade to process my sexuality, why certain men "do it" for me and why others do not. I've already written about what kinds of guys I'm attracted to and my cycles of physical and emotional same-sex attraction. But am I sexually attracted to men? The answer has become so clear over the last couple years: no.

After about a year, the little gay boi in the closet started knocking again and wanted to come out. The desire to be known started to germinate from that dark, cold, humid corner. The next person placed on my heart to tell was my mom. From my point of view, we weren't that close and I didn't feel very loved. Coming out to my mom was probably the hardest coming out I had to do.

One night, I had a sexual dream about one of the male cabin leaders. I didn't want my past to ruin the summer and my connections with the other male staff. On several previous occasions, telling my story had helped me break down some of the awkwardness I felt. So, I grabbed the cabin leader supervisor and shared my story with him.

The seemingly deepest parts of my life are on display for the world to see. And yet there are a few things that I keep close — secret — from those closest to me. Because I am afraid of being vulnerable with them.  I'm not talking about "coming out" — I'm talking about the matters at my very core that influence my actions in ways few could ever imagine.

I've pretty much always been attracted to guys in one manner or another. Some times more obsessively and explicitly than others. Some times more emotionally than physically. And for whatever reason, never sexually.

Joshua Harris pastored my church for over ten years. To our surprise, he recently announced he is divorcing his wife and and that he is no longer a Christian! Additionally, he has adopted a "Side A" gay-affirming belief. Despite all this drama and the church's many other issues, this place has been of some help to guys dealing with same-sex attraction.

Ah, straight guys — also known as "the normal ones." What a load of complicated feelings I have toward them. I see straight guys now and again in groups together. It evokes more of an emotional longing. A deeply profound longing. It's a feeling of wanting to be like them, to be one of them. To be normal and accepted by ordinary men and be like ordinary men. But it can't be that way. I'm different.

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.

Right on cue, in walks that cute guy again. Instantly, I'm back to spiraling, back to wondering if this faith thing can really work out in the end, or if I'm actually as crazy as I sound when I tell someone I'm pursuing celibacy. It's in these moments that God feels like the eternal God of "no" — no sex, no boyfriend, no husband, no romance, no intimacy. No love. God becomes the God who won't let me eat the fruit from the one tree I'm craving, instead of the God who provided an entire garden just for me.

It didn't even feel like sexual lust. I just wanted intimacy. I just wanted a man. A man who will come and carry my responsibilities with me. A man who will pursue and lead me for a change. I want a man who will be there for me in everything. I want a man who will make me feel pursued, valued, and loved.

My attraction for men tilts more toward the emotional and physical rather than anything sexual, and I've been wired this way my whole life. So, what does it mean to be physically but not sexually attracted to other men? It's a question I get a lot, a distinction worth clarifying.

"God has placed us together for a specific reason — that the times, stories, and experiences we share are beneficial for each other," she said. This led to discussion about how community requires vulnerability. Even with a wide open invitation, I remained a silent listener in the community.

As a kid, I said a lot of derogatory things about LGBTQ+ people. I cringe at the things I remember saying. When I realized I was gay, all of that hatred that I showed to others turned in on myself. That realization drove me to reparative therapy. The logic makes sense: I hate gay people, I am gay — thus, I need to not be gay.

I'm queer. That is how I now identify my sexuality. And it's how I can best define my experience of gender, too. In my pursuit to grow more like Christ, I was setting aside part of my life as a mystery spot. How could I submit my sexuality to Christ if I didn't even know what it was?

A point came in our relationship when I realized just how dependent I was on him and just how one-sided our friendship was. For my own well-being, I needed to step away from the relationship. What follows is the lament and reflection I wrote in saying "goodbye" to our friendship.

When the call came, it wasn't that I couldn't hear it; it was that I had no interest in obeying. For Jonah, that call was Nineveh. For me? It was coming out. My "solution" for my sexuality was quite simple: I'd tell no one, become straight, and then move on with my life. A secret I'd die keeping rather than ever share; I could hardly admit it to myself, let alone another human.