To the Boys I Loved Before I Came Out
No, I wasn’t faking it
Coming out to my ex-boyfriends was, unexpectedly, one of the most nuanced parts of coming out in general.
Yes, the most superficial reactions were gross. A bug-eyed “wow that’s hot,” or a smirk followed by a generic threesome query, but, thankfully, these were the rarest of the reactions. Everything else surprised me, and I was unprepared for the ways it challenged me.
Something’s wrong with me.
I received more than one text asking me, “were you faking it?” I was annoyed at the implications of that question, but it was the sheepishness and the fragility with which my exes asked these questions that I realized two things:
- Sex was a sincere point of vulnerability for them.
- They weren’t just referring to sex.
These were not stereotypical, “I turned you gay because our sex was bad,” or even “I could have turned you straight if our sex was good.”
My exes, now close friends, formed their identity around the belief that they could make a woman happy, both in the bed and out of it. Our relationship was a primary example of their skill and success in both, and our collective pasts gave them the confidence they needed to chase more relationships down the road.
The knowledge that these formative relationships were possibly invalid exacerbated insecurities about the kind of men they wanted to be.
It’s not all about your dick.
One of my exes had just gone through a breakup. The other hadn’t been in a serious relationship for a few years despite trying. Both of them deeply desired a committed relationship but were starting to believe it was their fault that it wasn’t working out. There must be something wrong, something they’re doing or not doing, that could be the answer to their failed relationship attempts.
The inability to sense my queerness, not the queerness itself, proved to each of them that there was something wrong with them as lovers, as boyfriends, as men.
For the first time, I realized the pressure my straight male friends were under when it came to identity and sexual performance.
They rattled off questions riddled with self-loathing. Maybe they weren’t good in bed? Perhaps they weren’t attractive. How much of that had I faked? Why had I chosen them out of everyone else to “hide” behind? Were other women lying to them? What was the real reason their last date hadn’t called them back?
The depth of the wounds shocked me. I never before considered how intertwined sex and love were for these men or how their perceived failure to succeed in one would mean they would fail at the other. They questioned how they could know me so intimately for so long and not have picked up that I wasn’t fulfilled. How could they not know I was gay?
I wanted to be frustrated. I probably said, “it’s not that simple,” a thousand times to each of them. At the peak of their confusion, I found it hard not to scream, “it’s not always about you and your dick!” I couldn’t though because it would be hard for two American men in their 20s to argue that it wasn’t all about dick. They found their value in the ability to perform, and our culture encourages that belief system.
We praise men when they perform athletically, perform mentally, perform in their careers, perform in bed. As children, most of their great successes and stories come from competitions, especially athletic ones. Why are we then surprised and frustrated when as adults, they revert to the thing that brought them so much approval, physical success and make sex into an internalized competition?
I told both of my ex’s that I was happy, that I was attracted to them, and that they were great in bed. Now, the boys perceived my coming out as telling them that none of that was right, and if I’d faked an orgasm, what else wasn’t real?
What else were you faking?
I was unprepared for how the relief of my new reality could cause such disruption in someone else’s. I didn’t foresee the moment I had to sit across from someone I cared about and watch him wonder if I’d ever really loved him.
We all want to know we’re capable of loving and being loved. The memories I’d shared with these boys, the date nights, the first kisses, the first “I love you,” were now tainted for them. They knew I loved them, but not in the same way they’d loved me, and I’d never stopped to consider how heavy that would feel for them. It was like we broke up again, only this time because they were unloveable.
Neither of them was angry with me. Neither boys called me a liar, yet they both felt like they’d lost something. I’d re-written the context of their past, and they both considered whether or not they should also re-write something about themselves.
To be clear, I don’t hold any guilt for going through the very confusing journey of figuring out my sexuality. No queer individual needs to apologize for the time or the path they take to figure out their true identity.
However, I do think it’s worth considering how we affect one another, especially within relationships. Perception is a powerful force that takes time to adjust, and we often forget how much we define ourselves by our interactions with others.
So to the boys, I used to love, no, I wasn’t faking it. I was acting out who I thought I was supposed to be, just as you were when you fretted over whether or not you were any good for me.
We were both playing roles, trying to figure out who we wanted to be. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t real at the moment. It doesn’t mean you need to redefine your past relationships or rethink all of your moves in the future. My queerness does not negate my love for you — Past, present, or future. Our definition of love expanded.
