Last night I worked until three in the morning helping my friends pack. Then I came home, showered, slept for four hours, and got ready to go back to work. But not to help my friends–it’s two o’clock in the afternoon now and that starts in an hour–I had a dance lesson this morning at 9:30. 9:30! What an ungodly hour for dancing. Of course, you know my motto–If you’re paying, I’m dancing–so I was there with bells on.

And plenty of coffee in hand.

Let’s talk about being gay. Specifically, let’s talk about the fact that I am and the fact that at the age of thirty-seven, I’m almost completely–but apparently not always–out of the closet. Sure, I’ve made a lot of progess. In my early twenties, I used to lie about it. People would ask me if I was gay, and I’d say, “No–Who, me?–I like girls–Vaginas are just the BEST THING ever–Can’t get enough of them.” Then in my mid-twenties, I came out to my family and close friends, then eventually stopped lying about it. If someone asked, I’d tell them. But I wasn’t “out and proud,” whatever that means. Like, I didn’t put a rainbow bumper sticker on my car or wear a t-shirt that said, “No one knows I’m gay.”

Although–people have told me–this was close to the truth.

Ugh. Coming out is such a gradual process. I’m a little bitter that straight people don’t have to deal with it. But then, of course, they have to worry about getting pregnant and, sometimes, making child-support payments, so maybe it all comes out in the wash. Anyway, when I started this blog, I just decided to say it–“This morning I was standing in a waffle line and saw a guy who asked me online for casual sex [and I said no, Mom].” I mean, that’s what had happened that day. It was the truth.

And I was tired of not being honest.

But back to the dance lesson this morning. It really did go well–one of the best and most fun I’ve ever had with a new couple. We worked for two hours. Then at the end of the lesson we were all just sitting around chatting–the groom, his mother, and his fiancée. And the guy, who grew up here, said he now lives and works in Dallas, and I said, “Oh–I was just in Dallas.”

“What were you doing there?” he said.

So I said, “I was in Houston working on business, but stopped in Dallas to see friends and have dinner.”

Then, like someone would in a normal conversation, he said, “Where did you eat?”

“Some Mexican place, I can’t remember, but they had a dessert that made smoke come out my nose.”

And then–and then–he said, “DID YOU GO TO THE BARS AFTERWARDS?”

All right, well, he didn’t scream it like that, in all capital letters. But that’s what it felt like. Immediately, it was like I was a closeted teenager again, afraid. I thought, Yes–if you must know–I went to The Roundup to dance with the gay cowboys BECAUSE I’M A HOMOSEXUAL. But what I said was, “No, I just went to dinner–because I had to drive home.”

Then I thought, That’s a fucking lie, Marcus. But, God, it was so awkward. I just met these people! This was a casual conversation, and–what?–I’m supposed to use it as an opportunity to talk about where I like to put my dick? (Is this too graphic?) Because that’s what saying, “I’m gay” often feels like to me, at least when all the other person’s doing is exchanging social pleasantries and NOT asking about my personal life. It’s like when you go to the proctologist or the OB/GYN and later meet someone new, and they say, “What’d you do today?” and you DON’T say, “This morning I had a digital rectal (or vaginal) exam,” but instead say, “I ran some errands” or simply, “I had a doctor’s appointment.”

Because it’s weird to bring up images of your WHO-HA with someone you don’t know from Adam.

And Eve. Or Steve. (Or who-the-fuck-ever.)

Like, you don’t spill your guts to everyone, every time.

I guess I still haven’t figured out when and where and how it’s okay to say, “I’m gay.” Again, I’m not sure if the straight community understands this–and I’m not asking them to–what it feels like to have to navigate every conversation and relationship, to always be “feeling out” how others might respond, to not know whether it’s okay to say, “I went to a gay bar this weekend” or whether it’s safe to walk down the street holding another boy’s hand. Because people have been seriously hurt or killed for this type of behavior. You know, being themselves. I’ve never had a negative experience, but that fear is certainly present, and I know that’s what was really driving my silence this morning.

Granted, I could have said, “Yes, we went out in Cedar Springs [which, everyone knows, is the Gayborhood in Dallas]” and seen where things went from there. Actually, as the conversation continued this morning, I did say that, when the groom asked where the restaurant we ate at was. “By the Warwick, in Cedar Springs,” I said.

“Oh, the Warwick is awesome,” he replied.

And that was it.

No big deal, no “You must one of those Friend-of-Dorothy, Cher-loving, thong-wearing queers.” None of that. Ugh–this is such a slow lesson to learn, that most of the world is more open and accepting and kind than I’ve previously imagined, that this is 2018 and someone from Dallas isn’t going to be shocked that their thirty-seven-year-old rumba instructor without a ring on his finger would go to a gay bar. Likewise, it’s a hard lesson to learn that being out of the closet doesn’t mean you have to be an out-and-proud screaming queen every minute of every day. I’m a homo, and all I talk about is homo things, and I’m never, never, ever afraid of what other people think of me. Because come on–I am afraid of what other people think of me sometimes, just as I’m afraid of being rejected and–here you go–of letting other people accept me just the way I am.

But I’m working on it.