I knew I was gay when I was 11, and when I was about 12, I invited a boy who lived near me to spend the night. When we were in my room getting ready for bed, I did a little striptease for the boy. I wanted him to like me, and I wanted that kind of attention from him. My father must have heard our giggles and thought that something was up, so he came into my room without knocking, and he caught me standing there in front of the boy completely naked. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was shocked, disgusted and disappointed. Without saying a word, he shut the door. I was so humiliated. I never felt so ashamed or so worthless.
If that’s all there was to it, it would have been enough to haunt me until the end of my days. But later that night, my father told my sister what had happened. My sister is three years older than me, and at 15, her sibling rivalry was still in high gear. She teased me relentlessly, and she did so regularly for several years.
My sexual feelings at that age were tender and delicate. I had no one to talk to about them. I couldn’t even engage in the rude, explicit talk with other boys because I liked boys. I felt so vulnerable and alone. I didn’t feel like I could trust anybody enough to tell them what I was thinking about boys, least of all my family. And when my father caught a quick glimpse of the private feelings I had been working so hard to hide from him, he confirmed my worst nightmare. And then let my sister in on it so she could mercilessly bully me.
It was like the two of them together were ripping into me like wild animals. And my self-esteem was so low, I couldn’t even find the will to be angry with them. For years, all the way up until I was in my late thirties, just recalling that incident would cause me to blush so much it felt like my face and whole body were on fire.
I was given the impression that my sexual desires were funny, and strange and embarrassing, and that there was something wrong with me, and that I was different, and that not only would no one ever return those feelings but that if anyone ever found out, they would mock me and ridicule me, exclude me, abuse me, and reject me.
My sexual feelings at that age were tender and delicate. I had no one to talk to about them. I couldn’t even engage in the rude, explicit talk with other boys because I liked boys. I felt so vulnerable and alone. I didn’t feel like I could trust anybody enough to tell them what I was thinking about boys, least of all my family. And when my father caught a quick glimpse of the private feelings I had been working so hard to hide from him, he confirmed my worst nightmare. And then let my sister in on it so she could mercilessly bully me.
It was like the two of them together were ripping into me like wild animals. And my self-esteem was so low, I couldn’t even find the will to be angry with them. For years, all the way up until I was in my late thirties, just recalling that incident would cause me to blush so much it felt like my face and whole body were on fire.
I was given the impression that my sexual desires were funny, and strange and embarrassing, and that there was something wrong with me, and that I was different, and that not only would no one ever return those feelings but that if anyone ever found out, they would mock me and ridicule me, exclude me, abuse me, and reject me.
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