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.

I believe what Scripture says regarding a traditional sexual ethic. But more than that, I believe in the God behind that ethic and that his Word is still good for me, even if it's not always easy to follow.

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.

Stories have power, and people love them for it. As such, that power can misused. The power of a story can be wielded in a way that causes untold damage and pain. As I've done more and more to reach LGBTQ+ individuals outside the church, I've had to face a stark reality: Christians have abused select people's stories to the detriment of the Gospel.

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.

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.