Coming Out: My (Entirely Unconventional) Story.

Greetings, children. It's been a while since I wrote anything substantial, so I thought I'd give the intellectual in me (buried very deeply in me) a crack at the keyboard, to see if I, so wracked by excessive alcohol intake in these days of late, could even muster so much as a paragraph that makes any kind of sense. Today we're going to indulge in the finer details of my coming out story. If this, or any aspect of the homosexual lifestyle bothers you, I'd like to invite you to suck my massive metaphorical cock, because I'm not going to censor myself just because you can't handle the idea of two infatuated gays having it off in a gay bar. Also, this is my blog. So, like, shove off, and find some opposite-sex partner to have heterosexual sex with. Or something.

For all of you who, to this day, are blithely unaware of my sexuality - a fact I would consider absolutely remarkable, especially when one considers I parade around the city streets in floral print jeans - I am a raging homosexual. It only takes five minutes looking at this blog to figure that out, and even less time - nay, a mere glance - upon encountering me in person.

Signature homo attire. See: Flowers, a "rainbow" of colour.

More importantly: I am entirely out of the closet.

This means that I am open about my sexuality, and that my friends and family have been made aware that I am, as my almost ingeniously subversive and tolerant father often puts it in late-night screaming matches, "a fucking fairy".

This also means that by societal expectations alone I am more likely, by that mere openly expressed facet of my being, to reference you -women- as "honey" or "darling" in initial conversation, and also far more likely to vivaciously re-enact scenes from various Lady GaGa or Nicki Minaj music videos at gay clubs, whilst no doubt frocked up in pink singlets and sequinned disco shorts. Often with accompanied muscled and quiff-toting back-up dancers grinding up on my "rockin' bod" with the fervor of a pack of cracked-out nymphomaniacs.

Here's a newsflash to all those who would share those expectations: I would never be caught dead in sequinned disco shorts nor pink singlets. I would never indulge in any form of Beyonce booty-pop or any GaGa "Little Monster" dance routine, and I would only ever call you "honey" or "darling" with an effeminate twang if I knew that the mere notion of a gay guy calling you "honey" would cause you to erupt in a fit of overjoyed giggles. Because at the end of the day, you hags love that shit, and everyone loves to stereotype.

Why is that, I wonder? Is it the make-up that I don't wear? Is it the ear-melting pop music that I don't oft indulge in? Is it the outrageous rainbow banner-filled sociopolitical advocacy that I'm not often involved in? Is it the amyl that I'm not viciously snorting before enduring three more bliss-filled hours of hardcore anal penetration? (I bolded that part just to make you cringe). Or is it just the fact that gays these days are far too easily stereotyped? Am I forever destined to be asked by strangers I've just met if I prefer Will to Grace? The L Word to Queer As Folk? All just because I revealed to a new pal that I'm a boy who likes boys?

Diane Fuss once wrote; 'to be out [of the closet] is really to be in – inside the realm of the visible, the speakable, the culturally intelligible’. Which is true: to be out of the closet is to be subject to all of the assumptions and indoctrinated stereotypes raised throughout the years in reference to homosexuals. To be categorised and compartmentalised by inadvertently narrow-minded heterofolk. 

Either way, dear sightless lumpers: your cultural expectations make me a little nauseous, and while I can turn on the princess within at the drop of a hat, I'm not the flamboyant homo you think I am. Except on Saturday nights after one too many espresso martinis at The Bottom End. Stereotype away, dear friends and acquaintances: I'll only parody my fellow flippant homosexuals to appease your desire for a Sassy Gay Friend, all the while chuckling to myself at the fact that these stereotypes will always be so bloody prevalent.

So, like Fuss attempted to summate; what does it mean to 'come out'? And how did it happen to me?

Because I'm such a resourceful intellectual, I went to Wikipedia to help me define what 'coming out' actually is, because the sociopolitical logistics of the shtick I haven't properly defined in my head:

"Coming out (of the closet) is a figure of speech for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people's disclosure of their sexual orientation and/or gender identity."

For all of you who aren't aware, coming out is kind of a big deal. It is an attempt to come to terms with ones sexuality and gender identity in a world rife with homophobia and heterosexism. It is a liberating process of self-affirmation and regaining self-esteem, allowing yourself to embrace who you are, and to recover from the struggles of developing your sexuality and gender identity in adolescence. It is a challenge for any and all people faced with the trial of coming out, and the effects of coming out can be, and are not limited to, heterosexism and homophobic violence. That is, recently-out gays can be subjected to everything from getting bashed by your dad for telling him you're a homo, to what one pack of VICE writers pointed out; being tied up at the wrists and hurled into a river. Because wouldn't you believe it, some people aren't too fond of the gays. Especially Ugandans. Actually, gays: stay away from Uganda. At least for a while.

"Oh my god!" - generally expressed with an effeminate tone.

Most people would assume that the first-world 'coming out' experience consists of a sit-down dinner with the family, and a teary-eyed confession from a boy (or girl) at the table donning a Celine Dion t-shirt and a rainbow brooch pinned to their neckline. The family aren't sure how to feel, and either embrace their child, accepting him (or her) for who they are regardless of their sexual preference - or alternatively boot him (or her) out of the house faster than he (or she) can say, "But I still love me some AFL football on occasion, and not just because it involves a group of sweaty barely-clothed men brutishly rolling over each other trying to grab a big leathery ball". 

However, some coming out experiences aren't all that typical. Mine was one of those. The not-so-generic, and not-so-"I'm bringing a boy home for dinner. By the way, I'm fucking him, and I hope that's cool with you." - In fact, it was one of those experiences I've had throughout my life which have led me to believe that everything in my life is fucking hilarious, in a really twisted way. 

I was fifteen. I was seeing a guy whose name was Michael (a pseudonym), three years my senior, and I didn't mind him at all. So much so that I had him over a few times. A few times just to chat. And, you know. Other stuff. Generally outside of my house, though, because not being out of the closet and living with a family of three made discretely fooling around a little difficult.

At this point in my life I had told most of my school friends that I was gay. It wasn't a huge deal to them - at that point, pretty much everyone was going through "a bisexual phase" - and I was a fifteen year old who wore my faggotry like a goddamn badge in the schoolyard; every time someone asked me "So, you're a fag, yeah?" - I'd respond with, "Yeah, and? What the fuck are you going to do about it?" - Which led them to shut the fuck up, and ultimately to respect that I did not give one single iota of a fuck about their opinions on my sexuality. What I hadn't done, though - and what this blog focuses on - is come out to my parents.

Being fifteen, I was all about the, err... physical elements of exploring my closeted self. Actually, that doesn't really do it justice. I was a whore. A big ol' nancy boy whore. So one day - a forty-two degree summer day, might I add - I had Michael over for a swim in the pool. Because that's what whores do; parade around barely clothed in large expanses of water and take turns ogling each others' dripping bods. I'd like to remind you again that I was fifteen. You probably broke the law a li'l bit picturing that just now.

Anyway: We had finished splashing around and recovering from the searing heat, and had taken inside. Kicking back in the lounge room watching some show that I don't remember, whilst glancing over at one another every now and again... that's when the adolescent hormones started to kick in. It wasn't the forty two degree heat that had me slightly flustered by that point, so we decided it was best we rectify this awkward situation as swiftly as possible. The leather couches in the lounge room weren't going to cut it, however - especially since my Dad was walking around quite casually throughout the rest of the house, not having a clue what was going on - so we decided to go outside to remedy the situation. Back into the searing heat.

We got around the side of the house, where there were a bunch of old chairs and we were concealed by trees and scrub - and basically got down to business. Insert your wildest sexual fantasy here. Or just some real faggy shit. 

About halfway through, Michael looks up, sees something out of the corner of his eye, and then mutters "Oh, shit."

Me: "What?"

Michael: "I swear I just saw someone."

I froze. "... Don't even say that."

He starts laughing. "I'm not even joking."

"Fuck."

I was freaked out by that point. We decided to get up and escape to elsewhere on the off chance that someone had walked past and noticed us. We attempted to escape out the front gate of the house - but Dad conveniently walked outside, and asked us if Michael wanted a lift home. We said yes.

The car ride was incredibly strange, and none of us really spoke to each other. We ditched Michael in Box Hill, and Dad and I returned home. Dad and I re-entered the house, and I immediately went to my bedroom to chill out after whatever had just happened. About an hour or so later, Dad called me into the kitchen.

He sort of just stood there, and looked at me. Not being sure what to do, I simply said, "What's up?" -

The flavoursome ice creams for a hot summer day!

He turned around, and picked up an object. Returning to face me, I saw that the object was an empty box of Cornettos. Chocolate Cornettos. The flavoursome ice-creams fit for a hot summer day.

He started speaking. "I went outside earlier to throw these out..." - I froze inside, my stomach doing somersaults in the meantime.

That was the point when I realised that Michael and I had gotten down to business... right next to the family bins.

Dad sighs. "So, um... do you have anything you want to tell me?"

I sigh also, and look at him with a sort of bemused defeat. "I don't think anything else needs to be said."
Mother came home later on, and after speaking with Dad, began quizzing me on my sexuality. "But are you sure? Are you sure it's not just a phase? Are you sure you're not bisexual? But you've liked girls before, haven't you?" - Standard, vanilla, run-of-the-mill denial, but it passed as swiftly as it arrived.

Later on, though, Mum and Dad let me invite some close friends over, and we all had a huge dip in the backyard pool. What could have been a real mental breakdown - possibly ending with me being hurled into a river whilst bound at the wrists - turned into a night of celebration and acceptance. Entirely unconventional, but a fantastic result all the same, and I managed to save myself the tedium of fabricating a meticulously crafted meal for the family before coming out with a supremely important confession.

Mother also got incredibly drunk that night, and after commenting that one of my close friends lacked any breast tissue whatsoever whilst she was rocking badonkers, she confided in me that she didn't care who I wanted to have sex with - as long as I picked a better location next time. Good stuff.

That's how I went from hiding behind both fringe and lounge room doors in the pursuit of happiness, to sashaying about the city streets in floral-print jeans, deflecting homophobic abuse and crushing the egos of heterosexist fuckwits with the exhale of my cigarette.

But really, as much as it turned out to be quite liberating, albeit an excruciatingly embarrassing experience and a shock that would have killed Father dear had he been ten years older... it could have gone better from the very beginning.

Essentially, Dad went outside that day with the intention of dropping off an empty Cornetto box in the bins out the back - but instead stumbled upon his fifteen year old son sucking some dick.

Try getting a Hallmark card for that.

... And that's how I came out of the closet. Goodbye!