I had never really given it much thought because there was a big part of me that always knew instinctively. Then, in my early 20s I realized that people are actually probing for specific instances of my raging homosexual tendencies.
Coming out in some black families is the equivalent of ringing a death knell; it was this reality that forced me to crawl into a dark closet, lock the door, close all the latches and swallow the key for twelve years. It also created a sense of resentment and self-hate toward blackness.
There are those who base their spirituality on the the Great Commandment, or, as St. John of the Cross, a Doctor of the Church, wrote, “In the end we shall be judged on love alone.”
I have to learn my value, and that I deserve to be with someone who equally wants to be with me. These are things I should have discovered years ago, things my 18-year-old sister is better equipped at dealing with due to her many high school romances.
Falling in love with a closeted guy is a catch-22. The love is passionate, true, and scandalous. You feel like you’re living in a movie. For the time you spend with him, it’s great. However, you slowly learn that love shouldn’t be hidden.
Treat me as a whole human being. Let me live in peace. Let me kiss my boo in public, allow me to make somewhat inappropriate comments about the beautiful man that just walked by, and ask me about my love life.
I’m a gigolo for grandmas. Some as old as 90, none younger than 65. I’ve got $2 million in a bank from grandmas leaving me money in their wills.
Maybe it’s a stage. And maybe it’s not. But either way, I don’t want him to ever feel like he wasn’t able to express himself because his parents didn’t support him.
When you love someone, you don’t give a crap about which sex they’re into.
Bob Frey is a longtime resident of Norwood Young America, Minnesota, who is running for a seat in the Minnesota House of Representatives.