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My Hometown Hook Up Said I Was The Reason He Didn't Come Out

My Hometown Hook Up Said I Was The Reason He Didn't Come Out
Ernest Malimon on Unsplash" />Photo by Ernest Malimon on UnsplashThroughout queer history, hook-up culture and the freedom to express one’s sexuality with gay abandon (the irony isn’t lost on me) is something many queer people – including myself – see as a marker of difference from our straight counterparts. LGBTQ+ people far and wide learning not only about themselves, but other people through the language of touch is a beautiful thing. But when I hooked up with a seemingly ‘new’ person to me on a recent visit to my hometown, I was shocked to realise that our bodies weren’t getting to know each other for the first time – because neither of us realised until the clothes had come off that we did in fact already know each other, pretty well. Once my date had arrived, we chatted for a while about our respective worlds – him living in the home town that we had grown up in since birth, and me visiting after living in London since I was 18. He seemed perplexed at how much massages cost in London compared to our sleepy town, and used this as a segue into physical touch.I could tell our connection felt strong and was unexpectedly buoyed by our conversation, which is something I can’t often say about hook-ups, when physicality often does most of the talking. We would take several breaks to just talk about his life, my job, his experiences with dating or our shared interest in running.Until during one break, he asked what year I was born. As I went to answer, realising this was a fairly unsexy question, he jumped in saying, “- I bet it was 1997”. I nodded, detailing it was the year Princess Diana passed.“Same here…” he continued. “Hold on – were we in the same year at school?”I sat up and looked him in the eyes. The mention of school was definitely not the most arousing subject, and certainly wasn’t filled with joyous memories. From being bullied to experiencing a consistent sense of ostracisation, it was a time when my relationships with boys wasn’t ever allowed to venture even into friendship territory let alone anything romantic. He squinted at me, and then his eyes widened. “I think we actually were in the same year at school” he probed, sitting up and reaching for his phone, asking for my full name so that he could begin his social media deep dive. He found an old Facebook profile not edited since 2016.He instantly recognised me. For reference, I was exploring my femininity more and more towards the end of my school years. Through fashion and make-up I was carving out a space for my own expression of gender. Despite being mocked and bullied for beginning this journey, I continued, at the time documenting it online and finding a digital community through Instagram and Facebook. “Yeah I remember you now. You were out at school weren’t you, I remember because I used to think to myself that I didn’t want what happened to you, to happen to me … did you go out dressed like this?”I paused, thinking of what to respond. Coming out in the 2010s was something that had just started to be a digital act rather than just a physical one. According to Tinder, 53% of LGBTQIA+ respondents to their recent research into queer and trans daters said they came out on dating apps before they told friends or family – rising to 59% amongst Gen Z. I too came out digitally back in 2014, but the reaction in person was perhaps different to the more liberated world we live in now, full of invasive questions and comments similar to the one he’d just made to me.I was perplexed. He was essentially saying, “I saw what you did with it (it being, ‘being queer’) and decided to go in a different direction”. It felt like what he was actually saying was that he let me take the bullet of homophobia that was circulating our school, and instead of helping or showing support, preferred to stand on the side lines watching despite his own understanding that he too was the very thing that I was being bullied for.Internalised homophobia is a phenomenon that all queer people experience, even if they say they’re adamant that they don’t. Living in a heterosexual world, knowing that being LGBTQ+ is inherently a difference all of its own, and at one time was illegal in the very country we live in (and remains illegal in 62 UN countries to this day), leaves a layer of ‘emotional debris’ on how you navigate the world, even if it’s invisible.It can look like avoidance of queer community, or placing judgement on ‘flamboyance’ or people who express themselves without shame. It can look like changing how you dress, or what you watch on the TV, or even the hobbies that you do to create a facade that you aren’t ‘one of those queer people’, and are in fact more of a ‘normal gay’. In our sexual encounter so far there wasn’t anything that was telling me that he was harbouring those feelings of internalised shame. Often in hook-ups this is exhibited in sexual behaviour like seeing ‘bottoming’ as degrading or just for the ‘feminine’ person in the experience. Or, not wanting to give oral sex or touch another person’s genitalia, and instead just focusing on penetrative sex with no kissing, or sense of emotional intimacy. I couldn’t really work out how I felt. Had he worked through his internalised homophobia? Was I therapising what was essentially just a fun, casual hook-up? Or was I actually hurt by what he’d said?I felt like I could put myself in his shoes and understand. He wasn’t out at school. He was scared. He was part of the group of boys who I knew of as the ‘cool crew’. I hadn’t recognised him at first as he’d bulked out since 2014. But as he pulled up his Facebook, I instantly recognised him. So was it okay that he didn’t say anything over a decade ago? Was he essentially saying, “Yeah… you were pretty open about not being straight so what did you expect?”. Or should he have helped me out, even if that risked outing himself in the process?The hook-up continued, and in retrospect I should’ve said something. But I continued on, markedly less emotionally connected and now more physically focused. But as he left, I felt a sense of retroactive pain. That I had almost gone back in time, and connected with a man who had seen the hurt and pain that homophobia caused, and left me to fend for myself - only to be interested years later in connecting because of our shared desire for sex. Ultimately, I don’t regret the hook-up. It taught me about how important the emotional connection in sex is, even if it’s with a stranger who turned out to be a relic from the past. But more crucially, it made me proud of myself for standing firm in who I was, so openly at 14. For working out how to navigate the world with that gay abandon that I still have now, and for making it through what was a painful and skin thickening time. Each person’s journey is their own, and I can’t judge him for his - but what I can do is remember that as a community, even if it’s uncomfortable or scary - we have to look out for each other when the world wants us to shrink. Even if our paths are different, or we fear the outcome, putting our heads above the parapet in order to stand with those who are most vulnerable is our only route to becoming even stronger and more resilient, one day at a time. Help and support:London Lesbian & Gay switchboard (LLGS) is a free confidential support & information helpline for LGBT communities throughout the UK | 0300 330 0630Manchester Lesbian and Gay Switchboard is a free support, information and referral service for the Manchester and North-West area | 0161 235 8000Stonewall for more information on other LGBT services and helplines | 08000 502020Related...Many LGBTQ+ Americans Are Planning To Leave The Country. What Will Happen If I Stay?The True Cost Of Becoming Parents For LGBTQ+ CouplesThese 8 New LGBTQ+ Words Have Been Added To Dictionary.com

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