It’s nearly ten years later
when a misspoken quote from a movie review,
ironically for 1985’s “Consenting Adult”,
inspires a stranger to ask me:
“What could you have done sexually, at such a young age?”
That’s a really personal question to spring on someone without even saying hello, but I directed them to my previous essay on the topic, and reading it over for the first time in a long time, I realized that it has indeed been nearly ten years without another entry.
As for what I wrote back then, I actually still like it. I’m satisfied that most of it holds up quite well, with the possible exception of something I wrote about damnation, which was entirely factual, and yet not wholly representative of the truth. It was no lie when I said “I knew early on that I’d rather be who I was and be damned, than live a lie and be saved”, because I longed to be known for who I was. And I came to know that it was far better to be truly known and hated rather than be loved for what I could never be. Love without knowledge is the worst kind of torture. It is illusory, false. It is hatred disguised as acceptance.
What I wrote was entirely factual. On the surface, this assertion seems profound, honest and almost suggestive of heroism. Don’t heroes stand up for what is right and speak truth to power despite the personal cost of doing so? But there are layers of meaning there, which can now be peeled back and examined. Analyzing the substance of those statements brings significant conceptual interpretations to light. Vital and astute characterizations which must be acknowledged if we are to move forward. For there is a profound depth behind those words which I feel to the core of who I am, which could not possibly be expressed via those words alone.
The words were factual. I thought about those things. I said those things. But the words always felt a bit hollow to me. I stood up. I spoke. I spit facts at those who would see me be something other than what I was, but I never felt like I truly existed in any kind of actual gay reality; feeling more like a fan on the sidelines than the star of my own show; a placeholder while the ones before me were buried, and until the ones who came after had time to fill my spot. Coming of age in a conservative household during a life threatening sexual pandemic was like living in a crucible which burned away everything that wasn’t legitimate, with only essential elements surviving the conflagration that ensued. The problem being that fear in such an environment was a lifesaving gift; a substantially required skill, an indispensable all important necessity for my survival. Eventually the fire died. The smoke cleared. And I was myself. Gay and afraid.
The fire made me what I was, but it also altered my behavior, my ability to act on my physical instincts, in ways that still reverberate to this day. I tried to tell myself that if I became infected and died it would be well worth the sacrifice to be who I was, who I wanted to be – that if the combination of truth and lust led to my annihilation, so be it. I knew many others who felt this way and acted accordingly. I read books, watched movies and loved music that celebrated this philosophy of conviction leading to self destruction; which seemed a greater cause, a higher truth of purpose which was both beautiful and horribly tragic. Except I couldn’t ever quite convince myself that the end justified the means, which prevented me from acting on what I was thinking and feeling, making me feel like an abject failure and a complete and total coward.
Others cruised, hooked up, fucked their brains out, and many, many of them died. Growing up in that tiny village, I was literally surrounded by family, but could ask them for nothing. There was no internet. There was no bulletin board for little gay boys growing up in my neck of the woods; no source for reliable information that might spare me the fate that I feared so very much. I was gay. But I couldn’t enjoy it because I couldn’t relax. I waited. I read and studied. I educated myself as best as I could and I managed to stay alive. But if I was cruised at a record store or the county fair, I never followed where these men wanted to lead me, and where I desperately wanted to follow. And I’ve been told that this is understandable, commendable, impressive & smart, to prepare for the future so that the present couldn’t kill me, and I get that, but to my way of thinking it also feels like this plan of action was a failure on my part; I stood in line and waited for the ride to come, but when push came to shove, I couldn’t ever bring myself to just close my eyes and leap.
Part of me knows that my guilt and shame aren’t that simple but that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s complicated. The feelings of my own inadequacy and loss are there despite knowing that my fear more than likely kept me alive, back when sex could kill, and often did. And no one, except apparently myself, could blame me for my reaction; not to a plague that wiped out most of the generation that came before me. And maybe I could fully embrace my seemingly insufficient carnality, were it only a symptom of my past, like a bad dream that has faded into the light.
I suppose that my dilemma is that all of that which came before and served to keep me alive has never eroded, despite the circumstances that inspired my responses having long been cured or defeated. What good is a placeholder after the place has been filled by countless others who have no fear of something they never experienced? That I’m aware enough to ask these questions suggests possibilities, but is that awareness also part of my problem? And whatever the answer to that question, for what can I use my awareness so that it better serves my needs and wants? How do I harness what I have, to achieve what I lack? I can’t help wondering, if I were to be infected now, would that make my denial in the past that much more pointless and my present all the more tragic? Or has my survival somehow balanced those scales? Do I strive to finally conquer the fear that saved me or does it simply forever haunt my existence with its often unwanted but factually useful protection? Am I even capable of feeling one without the other?
Ask me again in a few years.
Written by Jason Wright
April 2, 2026
Edit: I’ve written about this before, many times. Here’s one other example.
