Coming Out (of the Darkness)

I am 14 years old. I am awakened by the sound of my father’s voice; he is yelling. There is another male’s voice yelling back. The second voice is that of my brother, HP. I start to get out of bed, but I am scared. While yelling and screaming are rather commonplace in the house in which I live, there is something different this time. I stay in bed and listen.

As I lay in my bed, I think about all the times that I told my brother I hated him and wished him dead. I believe these comments are typical between siblings. Yet, tonight, I am regretting every single time I said the words “I hate you.” I want to go in his room and tell him I love him, but I am scared to get out of bed. I am only 14; what can I do? I ponder on these thoughts until I finally fall back to sleep. When I get up in the morning, HP is gone; he’s just 17 (Purnell, 2013).

****

This night stays with me, haunts me, and governs my every attempt of self-discovery. I often have told others that I never questioned my sexuality earlier in life, but perhaps I never allowed myself to do so. For a young man who finds himself unsure of his sexuality, or unsure of how to talk about the subject with his family . . . for a young man who has a sense of responsibility to be who his mother wants him to be and who the church proclaims him to be . . . for a young man who heard his older brother get kicked out of the house for being gay, he is hesitant to become anything except for who he is told he is. Indecision feels safe, and the truth hides comfortably within it. As he feels new desires growing inside of him, desires that are forbidden and sinful according to everyone in his life, he is driven into hiding due to the shame culture in which he lives.

*****

There is a plethora of research on the effects of a shame culture on young people struggling to establish their own sense of self, but I found little research that addresses the long-term effects of a shame culture on older adults. How did it govern later decisions? How did it play out when trying to establish relationships? What did it look like/feel like to be consumed with guilt from the culture of shame that manifested itself so heavily? I know this is not a representational narrative of all gay struggles within a shame culture, but it is representational of a struggle of self-acceptance. We need narratives that, as Klein and Boals (2010) state, include personal disclosure for the healthy development of a coherent narrative identity.

I think it is important to reiterate that this is my experience, and while my experience mirrors that of many same-sex attracted individuals who have struggles with their identity, it is not a representation of every gay narrative or a universal singular gay experience. Some found darkness of anonymous encounters where I hid my sexual deviance (as that was the label given to me to frame my understanding of gay sex) to be places of liberation and sexual freedom (Hoffman, 2006). I concede wholeheartedly that the perception of anonymous sexual encounters is not just about hiding in the darkness but was also a celebration of sexuality for others. I did not have the self-confidence to revolt—my exploits were not brave or empowering. I hid in plain sight through my performance as heterosexual, and I hid in the darkness when acting upon my same-sex attraction. This manuscript reveals not just the affects of being deeply submerged in a culture of shame but also personal sexual exploits that alone bring me a great sense of shame. It is my hope that this narrative brings to surface a need to have conversations not just about sex/homosexuality and shame culture but also other cultures of shame and the deep-rooted effects shame culture has on an aging population that was often forced, or believed themselves to be forced, to hide their identities.

The shame in which my life had been encapsulated did not just end; it is still a struggle. I still find myself in uncomfortable territory when I am in the company of those with whom I am not familiar. Are they judging me? Are you, the reader, judging me? I think I will always deal with shame in some fashion. It is my hope that the conversations that arise from this manuscript will help create an environment that allows us to seriously look at the long-term effects of a shame culture and find support to move through the remembrances. My chosen family has and will continue to be that support for me.

The telling of personal experience (see Poulos, 2008; Purnell, 2013; Tillmann, 2009) encourages readers to think about and empathize through their own possible lived experiences (Ellis & Bochner, 2000) in a culture of shame. ¹ At a very early age, I was immersed in the stigma of heteronormativity ² ; I needed to perform to the expectations of my family and peers to be accepted (Wellard, 2002). The motivation for my heteronormative performance was fear—fear of discovery and of possibly discovering myself. This fear forced me to begin an intensely difficult journey—a journey of self-reflection and inquiry (see Ellis & Bochner, 2000). This journey takes the discussion of growing up in a shame culture (see Adams, 2011) further into adult life and the effect that growing up in such a culture has on life, self-worth, and love over time.

*****

I created a world for myself where I was acceptable to others by being who others wanted me to be. By providing only those clues I am comfortable to let you see, your construction of me is passable (Yoshino, 2006). Those around me accepted me because, as a “straight” man with conservative values and beliefs, I fit their expectations (Martin & Hetrick, 1988). I didn’t have to experience, at that time, the shame of living as a gay man (Burgess, 2005; Herek, 2004; Kimmel, 2004; Martin & Hetrick, 1988; Solis, 2007), but the avoidance of that shame came at a cost. That cost was the guilt created by my silence (Fassinger, 1991; Kimmel, 2004) and hiding (K. McLean, 2007; Ortner, 1998).

****

I kept up my performance of heterosexuality and kept up the performance of performing my Christian duty when my best friend came out to me. Perpetuating the lessons of my family and a Christian university regarding heteronormativity, I exert my privilege of rightness in the form of verbal abuse. The university scanned me into church and chapel service every week. I was constructed as “Christian.” I was instructed to place judgment on others and to inform others of their wrongs. My pompous piety was a role I played in my performance of heteronormativity (see Yep, 2003).

****

During a visit home from college, I visit my best friend, Marc.

With tears rolling down his face, Marc looks straight into my eyes. “You know, I guess you were never the friend that I thought you were.”

It’s with great shame that I recall that night, our conversation, and my rejection of my best friend. Marc bared his soul to me, and I rejected him. I was guilty of trying to force him into my idea of who he should be just as my family and the church had forced me. I was guilty of the same actions that have plagued me for most of my teen and young adult life. Over the years, I worked hard to reestablish a friendship with Marc. It was a long, difficult journey and we are nowhere near where we used to be in our friendship, but we are friends again.

I have apologized for that conversation, and I cringe every time I recall my homophobic behavior. I have shared my own struggles with Marc about the shame with which I was attempting to cope, and how I was trying to perform the role that I was told to perform. Marc was empathetic, and he helped me “come into” gay culture when he took me to my first gay bar.

****

We arrive at the bar. Parking is limited so it takes a while to find a spot, and once inside, I understand why—the bar is packed. I quickly make my way through the crowd and order a drink.

Marc pushes his way through the crowd to catch-up to me just as I guzzle down the drink that I just ordered.

The bar is extremely smoky. Finding it difficult to breathe, I make my way to the outdoor patio with my second double 7 & 7.

I catch a glance by a guy who is walking toward me. Keep walking—don’t stop.

Ron returns with our drinks. I lose track of the time during our conversation, and I have had much more to drink than I realize. When I hear “last call,” I try to find Marc. I go outside and his car is gone. I go back inside and Ron sees me.

We arrive at Ron’s apartment.

I am hesitant. All that I’ve been taught tells me I should not be here. I should not have stopped my heterosexual performance; I. Should. Not. Be. Here. My heart is pounding; it is about to explode through my chest. I. Should. Not. Be. Here. As we crawl into bed, I make my boundaries known. I am excited, aroused, scared, and most of all I am thankful for the dark.

We are facing each other. There are no boundaries. Ron moves his head closer to mine and we kiss. We hold each other as we kiss passionately. I’m kissing a guy, and it doesn’t feel different from kissing a girl. As we kiss, Ron’s hands begin to try to explore my body. I stop him; kissing is as far as I am willing to go. Is this a one-time deal or a continuation of what I started years ago with the preacher’s son? Are these feelings new? How will my family react? I know how they will react. They’ll reject me as they did my brother. I will not have anyone. I will be alone. As I listen to the sounds of Ron’s sleeping, I cry. I cry because of the shame I feel, I cry because of the lost that will follow if I reveal this moment to my mother. I cry because of the judgment that has not yet been placed upon me by others, but that is already having an effect on me from my self-imposed policing of my sexuality.

The next day Ron gets me safely to Marc’s house. I am angry with Marc and consumed with guilt and shame. Guilt, I can deal with. After all, I just make atonement for my wrongdoing. I did something that I have been told is wrong; I can repair this situation. Shame, however, is not an act of doing; it is an experience of being or perceived as being bad or disgusting (Kinston, 1983; Wurmser, 1981/1995). Shame, for me, followed what I considered a weakness and a loss of self-control, but worse was the fear that my family, friends, and even teachers would reject me in the same way they rejected my brother. This encouraged me to hide even more.

While in my self-imposed exile of all things sexual, I would have moments of receiving a smile from a stranger that warmed my soul or stealing a glance as someone passed near me. When I finally acted on my desires, it was in the darkness of backrooms, roadside rest areas, and behind dumpsters in unlit alleys (see Lindell, 1996) further embedding my shame (see Adams, 2011; Moon, 2009; Piers & Singer, 1971). In the darkness, where only desire guides your actions, your individual identity is forfeited and reconstructed as part of a collective of anonymous shadows (Ricco, 1994). There can be something unsettling and even discomforting about shameful revelations for the reader as well as the author. I need to reveal to confront. I am nervous, worried about the self-revelation, and feel nauseous. Recalling this incident brings more shame than the shame that pushed me to the behavior in the first place. According to Ellis (2004), “honest autoethnographic exploration generates a lot of fears and self-doubts—and emotional pain. Just when you think you can’t stand the pain anymore—that’s when the real work begins” (p. xviii).

****

While living in Atlanta, I wait for the darkness of night to fall upon the city. I get in my car and I drive north on Interstate 85 to mile marker 112 (the closest rest area to where I lived). At first, I would stand at the urinal pretending to urinate and flash someone who appeared to be interested. Then, I would sit on the picnic tables in the back of the rest stop in the darkness with my cock exposed to anyone walking by who wanted to give me a blowjob. I was fortunate in that I was not arrested during these anonymous encounters. Yet, the guilt and shame from the fear of arrest creates a double bind. Am I truly looking for the adrenaline or is the possibility of arrest an opportunity for salvation—a way to stop the dangerous behavior? Am I hoping to get caught? I am so shamed by my same-sex attraction that I go to places that are not “gay” to have some type of sexual contact. Humphreys, in his controversial 1975 research study, states “In order to alleviate the damaging side effects of covert homosexual activity . . . ease up on it. Every means by which these men are helped to think better of themselves . . . will lessen any threat they may constitute for the society at large” (Humphreys, 1975, p. 166). But 20 years after Humphreys’ call to “ease up on it,” there is still a shame culture during the mid 1990s. Despite the ethical issues of the study, Humphreys asks the right question. Why? Why do men have anonymous encounters? For me, I did not want to be seen going into a gay bar and be labeled as queer. The anonymity of the darkness protected my secret. I would still date women during this time, but my desire was satisfied in the darkness of night.

****

I do not want to be an outcast from my family (Herek, 2004; Martin & Hetrick, 1988) as was the case with HP. Abbott (1983) states that everyone must learn a valuable lesson—“that it costs something to be what you are” (p. 182). I was not ready to pay the price that HP paid. Despite having acted upon my same-sex attraction, I continue my performance for my family and church (see Nayak & Kehily, 1996; Simpson, 1993) of a normal heterosexual male. Is there even such a thing as the normal heterosexual male? Bourke (2007) questions whether the idea of the normal heterosexual male is a construct to mark the difference between straight or normal and anyone not normal. The idea of a normal heterosexual male seems to be embedded in assumptions about the nature of male sexual desire based on biology even though I know my sexual identity is much more complex than such a simplistic view. I consider my performance of the good son to be homophobic (see Kimmel, 2004; Yep, 2003).

****

I go home for a visit.

Mom may be excited, but I’d rather be hiding in the darkness.

I want to shout, “I am like HP; do you pray for me to have a miserable life too? Do you not see my pain?”

****

After my strained visit home, I decide to take a road trip to San Diego and end up staying there. I move to California to escape. It is my later move to Los Angeles, however, where I welcome the darkness of my male-on-male sexual encounters and finally begin going to bars. Before going out to the clubs where “things were known to happen,” that is, anonymous sex, I would take the necessary precautions. No wallet, no driver’s license, no underwear, button fly jeans, black T-shirt, state issued ID card, cash for four drinks plus tipping (to be kept with the ID in my sock), one credit card (along with driver’s license) hidden in the car for a late night meal (or emergency)—I am ready to disappear into the darkness of anonymity. According to Flowers, Marriott, and Hart (1999), “[T]he risk of sexually transmitted infections [does] not figure as an important feature of men’s sexual decision making” (p. 488). AIDS is slow to make an impact on a lifestyle of anonymous unprotected sexual encounters.

I walk into the bar and am hit instantly with the fog of cigarettes. As I adjust to the hazy darkness, I make my way to the bartender. He is wearing an unzipped military jump suit. He has on a chest harness and a leather studded cock ring ³ that is revealed just above the zipper of the jump suit. He keeps his pubic hair trimmed as well as the hair on his chest and stomach. You can see just enough of his cock to know that it has a noticeable girth. As I approach the bar, I nod to the bartender. He fixes my Jack and Ginger without me having to say a word. He knows my routine. I give him a nice tip and head to the rear of the bar.

I open the back door and go to my left down a short flight of stairs. I believe this was a storage room at some point. Its dimensions are small—maybe 10 × 15. I step slowly as I adjust to a world of darkness and the smell of sex. I go toward the back wall and lean against it as a hand quickly unbuttons my jeans. As my jeans drop to the cum and urine soaked floor, my cock swells with anticipation, and then the warmth of an anonymous mouth begins to suck my cock alternating between hard quick strokes and slow strokes with prolonged tonguing along the base of my shaft. I close my eyes and take in the expert skills of the cocksucker who so eagerly and expertly delivers me pleasure. The teasing and edging increases the intensity of the anonymous encounter.

A muffled, “Yes sir.” Comes from the cock-filled mouth.

I set the empty plastic cup that once contained my elixir of courage and forbidden desire on the floor. As I raise back up, I grab the back of my cocksucker’s head with both hands and fuck his mouth fast and hard as I repeatedly call him a “motherfucking cocksucker.” As I feel the eruption that is about to take place, I release my hands and the cocksucker maintains the pace without the forced encouragement. I brace myself by placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on the wall behind me. The cocksucker gasps as he maneuvers himself so as to not miss a drop of the thick creamy load given as his reward. He keeps sucking until I slowly become more flaccid than erect. I stand along the backroom in the darkness watching the shadows in motion as tears roll down my cheeks. I am desperate to be more than an anonymous figure in a dark room. I calm myself as I breathe in the musky odors of hidden sexual desire. I feel conflicted as the guilt begins to creep into my consciousness. It’s time for another drink.

After my fourth drink and visit to the dark room, I head out to a 24-hr restaurant and have a late night meal to regain my strength/composure/dignity before going home. I am not sure why I go to the restaurant every night, but it becomes a part of my routine too. After my late night meal, I head home. Tomorrow, I will start the process over again—work, bar, and anonymous sex in the darkness that hides not only my identity but also my shame and guilt.

An individual life is simultaneously flawed and valuable. The culture of shame that played a role in my homophobia also played a role in my losing sight of my self-worth, keeping it in the darkness, and letting others control it, causing the road to self-forgiveness a difficult journey to traverse. The flaws remain, but self-forgiveness makes acceptance of those flaws possible and familiarizes me with a part of my identity that I had previously hid.

****

Having sex in the backrooms of bars, at the rest areas, and alleys abolishes identity ⁴ ; there’s a sense of not being anything—instead, faceless unknown men just meet other faceless unknown men; men who want the same anonymous encounter (Moon, 2009; Ricco, 1994); men who pull down their pants and expose their cocks and men who kneel or bend over to take them.

Valentine, Skelton, and Butler (2002) describe the path of self-destruction in which I was engaging as an effect of homophobia—“homophobia can contribute to young people feeling bad about their own sexuality . . . trigger[ing] self-destructive cycles of behavior such as drinking, drug taking, unsafe sexual practices [and] self-harm” (p. 13). Tangney and Dearing (2002) further support the self-destructive behavior that can be brought on by shame.

Lacking the support of family and friends led to isolation. I escaped that isolation through anonymous sexual encounters but worked hard at concealing this identity of being “gay” from everyone I knew. The shame that effectively led me into the backrooms, rest stops, and alleys was the same shame that silenced my voice and hid my identity. Steven Seidman (2002) suggests that some gay men let this shame compel them to be closeted. And closeted I was. I hid, ran away, and lied to protect my identity from being exposed.

Valentine and Skelton (2003) state that young people trying to negotiate their adult identities with the uncertainties of their own sexuality may become homeless and/or rejected by family. The fear of being rejected by my family kept my performance of heterosexual prominent in my actions. I continued to feel compelled to hide my actions due to the expectations of family and friends. The more I acted on my desires—desires that could only be realized in darkness—the deeper I buried my identity and the more I lied to myself and others. Butler (1997) confirms the need for heterosexual performativity in everyday life but sees such performances as problematic. Passing plays a role in the formation of heteronormativity and creates a continued need to look at the dialogue of heteronormativity and the suppression it creates in the lives of queer individuals as they attempt to negotiate the socialization process of family and community (see Adams, 2011).

Hoffman (2006) states that young gay men today do not exhibit the same identity issues and shame culture of young gay men during the resurgence of backroom sexual encounters from the 1990s. For me, from my own personal experience, my identity was as dangerous as the unsafe sexual practices in which I was engaging in that it would mean rejection by my family. According to K. C. McLean, Pasupathi, and Pals (2007), personal identity is an interactive narrative construction maintained through story telling. These stories of and about the self along with the struggles of religious and family beliefs have an effect on our personal identity (Halbertal & Koren, 2006). It is therefore important to include personal disclosure for the healthy development of a coherent narrative identity (Klein & Boals, 2010). When these narratives are further silenced by the shame culture that created them in the first place, it places limitations on the development of one’s personal identity creating a self-imposed need to stay silent and hidden.

Due to my need to pass, I moved often. With each move, I found the darkness that I needed to survive. I consider each move I made to be based on fear and homophobia. I was homophobic in my construction of my male-gendered identity and in the secrecy of my sexual desire. My journey took me to many locations, but three stand out as being significant. It is in Atlanta, Georgia, that I begin to focus on who I am. I am still lost, still putting on a face “to meet the faces that you meet.” ⁵ San Diego/Los Angeles becomes a consumption of darkness and anonymous sexual encounters, and then finally, I find salvation in my move to Tampa, Florida.

Atlanta, for me, is about sex. The bars are full of sex; sex takes place in every corner, on the dance floor, and most bathrooms. Cruising ⁶ is the order of the day, and I have mastered the art. Words are seldom ever spoken; an entire evening of sex takes place through an exchange of a furtive glance.

While living in Atlanta, I decide to take a trip to San Diego. I always wanted to go to San Diego; I was born there. I fall in love with the idea of living in California and decide to stay.

After my phone conversation with Scott, I walk into a bar to have a drink and figure out how I am going to be able to stay in California. I have US$40 to my name, no job, and nowhere to live. This entire trip was a careless, reckless attempt in a search for something that I could have found by taking a long hard look in a mirror. I decide that getting drunk is my only viable option. When I walk into the bar, two men are arguing in the back of the building. I can’t make out the argument except for the last two words.

This is my lucky day. After the fired guy storms out of the bar, I walk over to the other man. “You in need of a bartender?” I ask.

Jay, the owner, shows me around, gives me a set of keys, then leaves. I begin my job at The Hole.

****

It turns out that San Diego isn’t much different from Atlanta. It’s just another place, and I soon find myself falling into old habits. I hate myself more with each passing day. I find myself traveling to Los Angeles to hide in the darkness. As I bartend in a gay bar, I do not want the bar patrons to see me going in and out of some dark alley or backroom. The travel between San Diego and Los Angeles becomes more of a nuisance. I eventually change jobs and start bartending at the Eagle—a leather bar on Santa Monica Boulevard. I move to the Los Angeles area so that I can be closer to the darkness. I make a few friends for the first time in my life who are accepting of me as a gay man. However, I still pull away from them and find myself in the backrooms, rest areas, and alleys. I am still hiding despite the acceptance—the guilt and shame still occupying my thoughts.

In retrospect, I see the sabotaging of friendships and my moving from place to place to be an attempt to continually hide my shame. The shame culture to which I was exposed as a young man has stayed with me through the years. I am in my 30s when I leave California. I am weighed down with the shame and guilt that I have been carrying. I am weighed down by the loneliness and isolation. I am weighed down by the frequent moving around. I need to find some stability in my life. Despite that need, I still reside in the darkness. The control and life-damaging power of internalized shame makes it difficult for me to find my way out of the darkness. “When shame is toxic, it is an excruciating internal experience of unexpected exposure . . . It divides us from ourselves and from others . . . This [division] demands a cover-up . . . It loves darkness and secretiveness” (Bradshaw, 1988, p. 5).

I felt that I was being lost in the darkness. I was attacked by anguishing fears of discovery by others and perhaps even my own discoveries about myself. I became depressed. I did not have the strength to come out to others. Every job, every move was to keep those around me unaware of my desire. Fear is a silencer that gains even more control in the darkness. I was never searching—I was running. I would probably have kept on running if not for the salvation I found through acceptance given by others. That acceptance began on a typical business trip in December of 1999.

After working all day, I decide to go out to a bar, The Full Moon Saloon in Orlando, Florida. As I walk in, this guy ignores the other person involved with him in conversation and tries to talk with me. I just was not interested in meeting anyone. I would just sabotage the relationship like I always did and move on. But this man is not taking no for an answer. I finally decide to talk with him so that he will leave me alone. During our conversation, which took place on a picnic table outside of the bar, we discover many similarities in our personal struggles for self-acceptance. Steve’s father was a minister; I went to a Christian university. We had many of the same struggles trying to balance our faith and our sexuality. He kept his life hidden as well, and also pursued his desires in the darkness. Perhaps we needed each other to be able to come out of the darkness. We talked until the bar closed that first night, exchanged phone numbers, and parted ways. We talked on the phone often and had work-related travel to the same cities twice during our first 3 months allowing more time to spend with one another. After that, we bought a house together.

Grumet (1987) states “personal knowledge . . . is constituted by the stories about experience we usually keep to ourselves” (p. 322). As I was striving to see what lay ahead for my partner, Steve, and I as we gained personal knowledge of one another, my personal knowledge of myself began to surface in a space where I came to see not the person being performed, but me. The bond created between my partner and I was over mutually shared struggles. This was a start, but I still needed a stronger sense of acceptance. Perhaps Steve was looking for acceptance as well. We both became active members of our neighborhood, and soon found ourselves surrounded by an accepting and loving group of friends that became what Spencer and Pahl (2006) refer to as “a family of choice” (p. 133). The acceptance given was unlike anything that I had ever experienced in my life. The familial connection grounded me and became my beacon out of the darkness. That was over 15 years ago. None of it seems possible or real.

I want to thank my partner for loving me enough to understand, for looking past the ugliness, and (with the help of our extended family) for making me real.