Well, today’s the last day of my twenties.

Holy shit.

And now, the final entry on my list.

The Ten Most Memorable Events of My Twenties

1. I Finally Accept That I’m Gay
July 1998
Age: 24

It took me forever.

I’d known I was attracted to males at least as far back as sixth grade, if not sooner. I started middle school that year. As fifth graders, we’d been the oldest kids in our elementary school; in sixth grade, we moved onto middle school and reunited with the kids who were one year older than us. I remember they looked different. I especially noticed the boys. Some of them had deeper voices now. They seemed somehow older. And I wasn’t sure why, or how, but I was strangely fascinated by them, drawn to them.

Middle schools crushes. High school crushes. Not just on boys, though — on some girls, too. Some girls in high school were absolutely beautiful, and I feel in deep romantic love with some of them — except it was all above-the-neck love. I loved their faces. It was different with boys, though. I developed these intense crushes, these obsessions with certain guys. Something surged inside me when I thought about them, when I saw them. I tried not to let it bother me, though — I figured (and hoped) it would eventually go away. And if it wouldn’t go away on its own, I’d figure out how to make it go away.

After graduating high school in Japan, my family spent a week in New York before I was to start college in Virginia. I felt like I was at a pivot point in my life; I had no past or future; I was without history. One night during that week in New York, I finally wrote the words in my diary: I’m gay.

But that was only the beginning.

During my first year in college, I met Kirk Read. He was my first gay friend and the first person I ever came out to. Except I didn’t know if I was gay — I only knew that I was attracted to guys. Maybe I was bisexual or scared of women. Or maybe I was scared of liking men. I was so confused.

That summer I filled my diary with Hamlettesque entries. I’m gay. I’m not gay. I like women. I like men. I’m scared of men. I’m scared of women. Gaaaah.

During my second year of college, I told a handful of friends that I liked men. I never had sex or dated anyone, though.

Then, right before my third year, I came out to my parents (which I wrote about yesterday). That impulsive action set me back about five years. I went back to school, I moved into a different dorm, I broke contact with Kirk and any other gay people I knew, I lived an asexual life.

But it never really went away, of course. I was still checking out guys all the time, jacking off to fantasies about guys, thinking about guys. And there was an incident at Myrtle Beach. But I still ignored everything that I was feeling. Time moved on.

In the spring of my first year of law school, I came out to three good friends. I didn’t tell them I was gay, though, because I still didn’t quite know what I was; I just told each of them that I was attracted to guys — maybe attracted to women, too, I wasn’t sure, but I definitely liked guys. Why didn’t I want to call myself gay? Partly because of my confusion about women, and partly because of the word “gay” — it seemed so confining, this label. It meant being instead of feeling. Not your actions, but your entire identity.

Second year of law school. I started therapy again with a new therapist, hoping to not be gay anymore. He didn’t help me too much. I remained confused.

At the end of winter break, I drove one of my friends, a female to whom I’d become close, back to Virginia from New Jersey. We watched a movie in my room that night, and somehow we wound up making out, half-naked. It was… exciting, but only because I’d never done it before. I was just exploring new territory. I wouldn’t say that I felt sparks.

I rejoined the Virginia Glee Club. That spring, we went on a weeklong tour of the South. I realized I was in love with one of the guys in the group, a totally cute straight guy. I decided I needed to talk to someone about this. When our charter bus stopped off at a rest area for a break, just off the highway on the Gulf Coast of Alabama, I decided to talk to one of my friends in the group, who was gay. I told Jim I liked guys. He was totally surprised but gave me a high-five.

After spring break, Jim and I talked occasionally. He was the first gay friend since Kirk whom I was able to confide in, with whom I could share all these thoughts and feelings. I decided to read Edmund White’s The Beautiful Room is Empty.

And yet… still. I still didn’t know what to call myself. I was still confused. I either didn’t want to admit it, or I was scared of repercussions, or I don’t know what.

Finally, in July, before my last year of law school began, something changed. I don’t know why. I guess some critical mass of events occurred. Jim and I were both living in the Glee Club house that summer, and one night Jim was talking with me and a straight Club guy about being gay. I couldn’t say anything, because nobody but Jim knew about me. And I was frustrated by this.

A couple of nights later I was working through The Artist’s Way, a book about creativity. I did an exercise in which you’re supposed to write about your ideal day. I began writing, and I suddenly found myself including a boyfriend in my ideal day.

It hit me. It fucking hit me. Epiphanies are so elegantly simple. This is going to make me happy. I didn’t need to prove that I was gay. I didn’t need to worry about what other people might think. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a pure Kinsey 6. I liked guys, I wanted to date guys, I wanted to have sex with guys, I wanted a boyfriend. This is going to make me happy. This. Me. Happy. The whole web of qualifiers and cautionary points and pseudo-logic in which I’d entangled myself for seven years just disintegrated. Almost instantly.

I bought and read Michelangelo Signorile’s Outing Yourself. I discovered chat rooms. Chat rooms! I started meeting guys. Toward the end of the summer I came out to everyone in the Glee Club house, one by one. I met a guy online who lived in Richmond, an hour away. He became the first guy I dated. At the end of August I met him for the first time — and for the first time I had real, honest-to-God, all-the-way gay sex. I was 24.

That fall I told everyone whom I wanted to tell personally (except my family). Then Matthew Shepard was killed in October, and I wrote a piece for one of the UVa newspapers in which I outed myself in a participial phrase buried in the middle of a paragraph.

I was off and running. I made gay friends. I dated three guys during that final year of law school. The last of those was the first person I considered a boyfriend.

Since that epiphany at 24, I’ve never looked back. At the time, I worried that I was coming out too late. I was sad that I’d missed out on so much. But in the last five and a half years, so much has happened. It wasn’t too late. It’s never too late.

For anything, really.

There’s an ongoing debate among gay people about how important one’s sexual identity is. Some say we’re just like everyone else except that we happen to like people of the same sex. That’s partly true. For some gay people, being gay itself isn’t a big part of their lives. Okay. For me, it’s different — but only because I fought against it for so long. If I’d accepted it sooner, maybe it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. I’m the one who made it a big deal.

Accepting that I’m gay was the most life-changing experience of my twenties. The pivot point. It was both the culmination and the end of years of angst and confusion, and ever since then, my life has been different, both internally and externally. Thank god.

So, there you have it. The most memorable events of my twenties. In the last 10 years I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and I’ve learned.

Yes, my twenties actually happened. I really did stuff. It wasn’t all a big waste of time.

On to the next decade, as I continue to grow, and change, and learn.

And live.