A closet case from an early age

Growing up in a wild Irish family, we were always very physical. Football was played in the streets, and pickle in the house. Sports were my language of choice, and I spoke them fluently.

In grammar school, I was always the team captain. Any game with a ball came quickly for me. I loved the competition against the boys, and thankfully, nobody messed with me because I was tall and athletic. When I was nine, things started getting a little dicey. I remember some kids cycling by on our cul-de-sac and taunting me.

“Hey kid, can’t you afford a haircut?” they shouted.

Clearly, they thought I was a boy. I ignored them and continued with my chores. When I asked my mother why they teased me in such a fashion, she just shook her head and continued with the dishes.

In junior high, things got worse. The accolades that I had earned in grammar school didn’t count anymore. Other things were now expected of me. A whisper of hair on my legs and other places began to show. One of my brothers told me I needed a training bra. What was going on, and why was my anatomy defying me?

I didn’t want to shave or wear a training bra. Nylons felt like I was an encased sausage. Why couldn’t I play sports and be left alone?

Then there were boys. Getting felt up, making out, and wearing mini-skirts were expected. I wouldn’t have any of it. I remember my stacked friend in ninth grade who was extremely popular with the guys. Obviously, she had developed early and was a real hormone hit.

I was now expected to participate in sex games. Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, and similar games were regular activities. I faked a few kisses and attempted to fit in.

My interest in women began when I was eight. I remember looking up the skirt of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Shonack. I loved seeing her garters and the top of her nylons and feeling funny in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know what it was at the time.

At 15, I had a horrible crush on my music teacher and used to leave pathetic poems on her car windshield. I was an adolescent in heat and didn’t know what to do.

And then, at 18, I got my virginity out of the way with both women and men.  The first guy I slept with did nothing for me, just like that Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?”

But when I slept with my first woman, it unearthed a craving like I had never imagined.  From then on, I knew things would be different, but I didn’t know how to handle it.

Throughout high school and college, I compensated by having many boyfriends. It was easy. I would often date three or four guys at a time. But sex with men never really did anything for me. I preferred a game of tennis.

The turning point came in 1973 when I was a camp counselor at Camp JCA in Barton Flats and received a letter from my mother.

“When you get home, I want to talk to you about your problem,“ it began.

I wasn’t sure what she was referring to. Was it my gay lifestyle, premarital sex, smoking pot, or something else? Apparently one of my girlfriends had sent a postcard to the house revealing my secret. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak.

When I got home, the stern look on her face was firm evidence of her shame. She was crushed. Mental illness in our family was problematic enough, and now this. Like most parents, she thought it was her fault. Was it because there was no father figure in the house? Didn’t she give me enough attention? Perhaps some wayward gene from a distant aunt had determined my fate.

I tried to tell her that it wasn’t her fault. I was just born this way, like having blue or brown eyes. She wasn’t convinced. She pretended it was a phase and that I hadn’t found the right guy.

In college, I finally decided to come clean with my friends, family, and boyfriend, David. He was sweet, thoughtful, and had long hair that reminded me of the women I craved. My mother wasn’t happy with my decision, but life went on.

In 1977, my stepfather entered the picture. When I brought my girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner, he proceeded to get drunk and pull me aside.

“I don’t like your type here…“ He snarled. I knew he was referring to my girlfriend and me and wanted us to leave.

As we exited the house, I glanced back at my mom, who looked at me helplessly. It was a new marriage for her, and she was incapable of doing anything to defend me.

Over time, my stepfather seemed to tolerate my lifestyle, although I’m sure beneath his false bravado, he probably thought I was infected with some contagion. All it took was a few beers before his animosity would surface. Any minority was the target of his wrath.

In later years, I had a high-profile job in sales that required a fair amount of client entertainment. Being “out” was not an option. I had a few guys who were my “beards“ who would accompany me to sporting events, etc., where I was expected to bring a date. They understood my need for secrecy, and I provided the same for them.

It has taken me many years to accept the fact that my lifestyle is OK. But I don’t take these hard-won freedoms for granted anymore. You never know when things could change.