The Obligatory Coming Out Story, Part 1

The Door is Flung Open.

Like most other gay men, I’ve known that I was “different” from almost the beginning. As far back as the third grade I can remember how Tim Sepik (and the way the sunlight highlighted the golden hair on his forearms) made me all tingly, and how my best friend Greg and I would awkwardly “mess around” during our sleepovers at each other’s homes. In fifth grade I was fascinated with the P.E. coach’s dark, bushy mustache, his tan, hairy legs the way his prominent nipples seemed to be perpetually erect even in the hottest weather. A year later, while my male peers were now obsessed with girls’ blossoming bosoms, I was just as obsessed with their deepening voices and the body hair that was starting to sprout everywhere.

Christmas dinner 1971 at my aunt’s apartment was a silent—but undeniably major—turning point in my young life. While waiting for an interminably long football game to end so we could eat, I remember running across a photo spread in an issue of Life magazine that documented the daily activities of a “typical” gay couple. As I poured over those black and white pictures (including such seemingly mundane shots as the pair shaving together) I kept thinking, “That’s me. That is who I am. That is who I want to be.”

After that, I knew exactly what was going on, but as I entered and made my way through high school, I also knew that this particular period in my life was not the time to go announcing this discovery to the world. There was never any doubt in my mind that I would come out, but it wasn’t going to be happening until I was at college and safely away from home.

Flash forward to January 1977. I had just returned to school after the winter break to begin my second semester at the University of Arizona School of Architecture. I was sharing a room in Apache Hall with David Miller, my third (don’t ask) roommate since starting college. He was a sweet, geeky, unassuming guy from rural West Virginia whom I’d met the previous semester at the newly opened UofA Planetarium while touring the exhibits.

David Miller, 1976

Shortly after classes resumed, I was studying at the new Main Library one evening and ended up meeting a guy (while I can almost recall his face, his name is long forgotten) who belonged to the engineering fraternity. (BTW, this meeting was under the most innocent of circumstances. This was shortly after the library had opened, so the building hadn’t yet had time to develop the other reputation it garnered in later years.) Anyhow, we became friends—at least in so much as we’d occasionally meet at the student union for dinner and make study dates where we’d spend the entire evening discussing various science fiction novels instead of actually studying. (I told you I was a geek!)

University of Arizona Main Library, 1977

To be perfectly honest, while I didn’t really believe this guy was gay, with each passing rendezvous, I was nonetheless becoming more and more enamored of the boy and I still fantasized that one day we’d be professing undying love for each other and running off to start a life together. Of course, exactly how all this was going to happen remained a bit of a puzzle, since even though he was in a fraternity (aren’t all frat boys gay?) he hadn’t even intimated that he was even remotely interested in me “that way.” Adding to the confusion, I hadn’t even come out to the world yet—much less to this new object of my affection—but to my romantically addled brain, these were minor issues that I was sure would resolve themselves in good time. I didn’t know exactly when, but I knew the time was coming when they would.

David had noticed that I had been spending more and more time away from the dorm, and he had naturally assumed that I’d met some girl. (I did nothing to dissuade him from this fantasy, and in fact started using the feminine pronoun when referring to my objet d’amour.) After several weeks of this however, I reached the point where I could no longer live with the charade. I genuinely liked David, and my conscience was getting the better of me. What had begun as a lie of omission was now spiraling out of control, taking on a life of its own. I had to tell him the truth. It was time.

One night, after just having turned out the lights to go to sleep, I said, “David, I have a confession. There’s no girl at the library.”

David—in his unquestioning naivete—said, “Oh. That’s okay.”

“You don’t understand,” I continued. “I met a guy.”

“Oh. You’ve got a new friend. What’s the problem?”

Rural West Virginia. Poor David still didn’t get it.

“I’m gay, David. You’re living with a fag.” (I so could have phrased that better.)

Silence.

I don’t remember most of what happened immediately following my announcement, other than at some point the overhead light came back on and we began a discussion that lasted late into the night. When finished, I felt a rush of relief. That closet door was open and there was no way I was going back in.

I don’t remember specifics of our talk save for this:

“I have a confession too,” David said.

No! I thought. David can’t possibly be gay as well. (Okay, maybe he could.)

“My uncle is Christine Jorgensen.”

I’d heard of Christine—the first famous transsexual in America. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” David said, “it’s true. But we don’t talk about uncle George much any more.”

Wow…maybe this won’t be as traumatic as I thought. Everyone has a story.

Things were quiet for the next week. David’s demeanor changed very little, and while I was now spending more time back at the dorm (finally realizing that my “relationship” with the frat boy was going to go nowhere), he was the one who was now absent for extended periods. What I found out—only several months later—was that the night after my announcement, David—who never drank—went out and got completely shit faced. He came back to the dorm, and at 3 am went door-to-door, waking people up and telling everyone that I was queer.

Apache Hall, 1977

He moved out about two weeks later, taking a room down the hall with an Iranian student who—according to David himself, “did not bathe for the remainder of the semester.”

As for me, I ended up with a single room for the rest of the school year that I didn’t have to pay for.

(To be continued…)