Growing up, all the “stereotypically gay” things that I did and liked were not really unusual for anyone in my family.
All of my family loves to decorate, cook, shop, and perform. I can only assume that this is how virtually no one in my family knows about me.
As of right now, only two people in my family know that I have no interest in girls. Both times, I didn’t plan to tell them, I didn’t sit them down to have “the talk” with them, it just kind of came out.
My younger sister was the first one I told.
After both of us had moved back into our parents house, for different reasons, we started hanging out more, and frequently drove to the gym together. We never really got along when we were younger, but it was a lot easier now that we were both in the same boat of being back at home.
My job kept me from going to church with my family, and my grandpa had been wanting to talk to me about it for a while. I was telling my sister about it and told her that he really wouldn’t like what I had to say; how I needed to work to have money to pay off debts I owed for student loans and other things.
She replied, “Well he really wouldn’t like it if I were to tell him that I’m dating a stripper.”
I replied, “Well he really really wouldn’t like it if I told him that I date guys.”
She started to say something then paused, then said “Oh really? I figured.”
And that was that, she knew. It seemed so easy for it to just come out like that, and I guess that’s how I knew I was ready to tell her.
“So” I started, “Tell me about this stripper you’re dating.”
“Well he…he strips at a gay strip club,” she said.
I asked her where. She told me. I told her I had been there before with some friends. It was then that I asked one too many questions.
“What does he look like?” I asked.
She told me about some tattoos he has and some other defining features.
“I’ve seen him naked.” I said, probably a tiny bit too bluntly.
“And…sharing time is over.” she said.
We had both never been so uncomfortable, but yet comfortable with each other before in our lives.
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