By Patruni Sastry
I had watched enough Bollywood movies to know that a good pair of sunglasses could shield both my identity and my makeup from prying eyes. I packed my carefully chosen outfit— flowers handcrafted by my partner, and a wig— into a bag, locked the door behind me, and called an Uber.
By Akram Herrak
I don’t know what I expected from a gay bar—the closest I’ve ever gotten to being in one was when I went to a drag show in Beirut, Lebanon, and still, the place was filled with large groups of friends and a few straight couples…
By Scott Terry
I was still rodeoing, but had given up bull riding. During hunting seasons, a hunting rifle was hanging in the gun rack in the back window of my truck. Being murdered didn’t seem likely, if I could successfully conceal that I was gay.
By Oliver Radclyffe
But even if I had still been closeted, I knew it would be almost impossible to form a cohesive narrative from the confusing evidence laid out in front of me. It had taken me over forty years to figure it out myself, and I was the main suspect.
By Michael Varga
I want to complain about being an outlier, but the minute I begin to form the words, I catch myself. You see, I have been an outlier before. And then, I had no complaints.
By Cory Allen
I didn’t realize it then, but it took us years to figure out who we were, come to terms with what it meant to be LGBTQ, relearn our identities, and find our footing in the world.
By Mike Coleman
In the 1980s, when I came out and bought a home with my then-partner and now-husband, my sister mailed a Jehovah’s Witnesses pamphlet to me describing homosexuality as an abomination.
By Jonah Newman
I craved my teammates’ acceptance and respect, and it couldn’t have been clearer that these would never be extended to anyone other than a cisgender, heterosexual man.
By Subhaga Crystal Bacon
I say I came out formally at that time because I had long since come out to myself one summer afternoon in elementary school while riding my bike. I can still see the scene as if it were yesterday: The purple bike with its chopper handlebars and white banana seat.
By David Cameron Strachan
In junior high school, I saw that I wasn’t developing like other boys. I was teased for my small genitals and breast growth. Our family doctor assured my mother that I’d eventually be “normal” but my biology textbook gave me doubts: it said “giants are usually sterile.”
