Tag: coming out

This World: Akhil’s Story

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If you met me today, you’d probably never guess there was a time I could barely get a few words out. I was painfully shy. If someone simply asked me, “How are you?”, I’d rehearse the answer in my head over and over before stumbling through the words, grasping at air for support. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing.

School felt like a hunting ground..
I was picked on constantly for having what people called a “gay voice.” My classmates mocked the way I walked, the sway of my hips, the softness in my voice. Some days, groups of boys would surround me in the hallway like a pack of wolves, laughing while I stood there wishing I could disappear from the world.
I had spent years wanting nothing more than to fly away.
Then, in one moment of vulnerability, someone mistook my silence for permission. They reached for something that was never theirs, and when they left, it felt as though they had stripped away the very feathers that made me whole.
They stole my voice.
I stopped trusting my body. I stopped trusting my instincts. I convinced myself that the safest way to move through the world was to be as small and invisible as possible.
Silence felt safer than speaking.

But there’s something curious about silence. If you sit with it long enough, it begins to make room for other voices.
For me, it happened to be the voices of my ancestors.

I remember it so vividly. It was half past 9pm and my mother and I were nestled in blankets sitting together with cups of adharak chai and nankhatai biscuits, watching youtube videos exploring ancient Indian temples. I wasn’t expecting my life to change that night.

But then a strange sculpture appeared on the screen. I remember leaning forward, perplexed.
One half was unmistakably Shiva—matted locks, a strong jaw, broad shoulders, a trident resting beside him.
The other half was Parvati—soft features, flowing jewellery, a graceful curve through the waist.
They weren’t standing beside each other.
They were one.
One body.
One face.
One divine form.
Ardhanarishvara.

I couldn’t stop looking. How had I never seen this before? This image had been carved into stone more than a thousand years ago, yet in that moment, I felt like it was waiting for me.

For years I’d believed I had to choose which parts of myself the world would find acceptable. To be more masculine. Speak differently. Walk differently. Tone myself down.

Yet here, in one of the most sacred images of my culture, masculinity and femininity weren’t in conflict.
They weren’t competing.
They were in harmony.
Neither half diminished the other.
They were whole.

That night became the beginning of a journey I never expected to take.
One story led to another. One temple led to another. And before I knew it, I wasn’t simply learning about history anymore.
I was seeking refuge in my ancestors.

I came across the ancient chronicles of Shikhandi, A transgender warrior who was a central figure in the Mahabharata, one of India’s greatest epics.
I saw carvings of queer love etched into the stone walls of Khajuraho temple.
Two women.
Two men.
Lovers in embrace.
These weren’t hidden away in some forgotten text.
They were carved into the walls of temples for the world to see.

For years, I tangled intimacy with shame.
Yet here were my ancestors telling a completely different story.
Not with words.
With stone.
Love wasn’t hidden.
It was celebrated, honored and part of Prakriti–nature.

One discovery led to another.
I learned about Bhagiratha, born from two mothers.
I read translations of the Kama Sutra. There was one specific passage that I could never forget. It was two male lovers exchanging flower garlands, petals embracing each other as their first shared touch.
I had never seen queer love described with such tenderness.
Maybe because it was the first time I saw intimacy without shame.

The more I searched, the more I realized something.
The world I thought had rejected me was much older—and much kinder—than I’d ever been taught.
I hadn’t just been learning about history.
I’d been finding my way home.
The stories my ancestors left behind weren’t asking me to become someone new.
They were reminding me of something I’d forgotten—that I belonged.

Today, I tell stories. Stories of my ancestors. Stories of queer south asians. Stories that remind us we’ve always belonged.

I often think about how badly sixteen-year-old me needed to see something like that.
Back then, I thought I was the only one.
Now I stand beside queer South Asians from different faiths, languages, cultures, and backgrounds. I listen to their stories. We laugh together. We cry together.
And every single time i think about that lonely kid who believed there wasn’t space in the world for him,
I tell him… he was never alone.

When people ask me what changed my world, I tell them it wasn’t one story, or one sculpture or one temple.
It was realizing my ancestors had already made room for me long before I was born.
I spent years searching the world for somewhere I belonged.
In the end, I found it by looking back.
I found it in my ancestors.
I found it in my community.

And somewhere along the way, I found refuge in myself. 

Breaking Out: Sam’s Story

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How could I have thought that the days of youthful innocence were the worst of it? Looking back now, it was easy. Life was full of the simple pleasures of childhood freedom: the smell of fresh-cut grass, the lingering haze that followed a midday shower before us kids took to the streets again, running amok with sun-licked shoulders, torn denim, and imaginations still in overdrive. Then Sundays would roll around, and my mother would force me to put on the freshly ironed clothes draped over the side of my bed for church. The image of my family was very important to her. Those little stints of angelic performance taught me how to wear different masks. I would present one way while feeling entirely different within. Much like the Gemini, June stood beneath the sun with two heads, one looking forward and one looking back. This was the month I was born.

Maybe that is why memory has always felt split to me. A collection of Polaroids carried around in my pocket like souvenirs: tangible reminders of moments I survived and experiences I would eventually grow from. But with enough time, like anything, those pictures fade. The edges blur. Eventually, even the person staring back at me became hard to recognize.

It can take a lot of courage to break free from certain parts of our lives. After constantly being labelled and dismissed as too sensitive and too emotional, I gravitated toward the other side of the spectrum: avoidance. Cramming my pain and fears into every nook and cranny. I easily confused escapism and the outward appearance of independence with genuine freedom.

My hometown was a small suburban community saturated in white privilege. With no visible examples of queer love, I never felt safe to express myself. I was a lanky kid who would cower in masculine, heteronormative settings. I wanted to peel off my skin and disappear like a shadow beneath a streetlight, barely present, wandering aimlessly.

It was only a matter of time before I found ways to cope. I am human, after all, inherently wired for survival. By the age of fourteen, I had built up walls, brick by brick, with every drink and every drug. My secret life became one of isolation and self-hatred. I was a master of disguise, portraying a life of fearless adventure when deep down, I was just running away from the queer kid I never wanted to be. I denied that kid love and connection, not just from others, but more importantly, from myself.

For nearly two decades, my addiction ebbed and flowed between multiple lives, geographical cures, absolute chaos, and blissful self-loathing. I risked it all in search of oblivion. Staggering through the alleys of the DTES, chasing the moonlight in meth-infested slums of the Philippines, or bruising my fists on a prison wall in Australia. I had found something that felt like a solution: comfort wrapped in the delicate lie of temporary relief. In reality, there was a consequence waiting on either side of that next drink or drug.

Convinced I was unworthy of love and unable to give it, I kept running. With every unfamiliar country, I hoped that maybe this time I could become myself and begin again. By the last few years of my addiction, I had ended up in a place I never want to return to. I had given up, completely defeated, carrying around a note in my wallet bearing the words “I’m sorry, I love you” scribbled in black Sharpie. I couldn’t find anything else to write.

I was exhausted; the weight of the guilt and shame had become unmanageable. Leaving me to believe that death was my only way out.

Just when I thought I was at the end of my rope, something washed through me. A flash flood of hope coursed through my veins, short-lived, yet it was still a feeling I hadn’t experienced in years. Seeing my sisters get married, start families, and build homes filled with Love and kindness made a part of me want to know what my life could be like. Could I face the pain from which I had been running? Did I have the strength to work through the guilt and shame? Did I deserve to have a life full of love? Could I accept my true, authentic self? These questions ruminated in my head for many sleepless nights, strung together like the beads of a
cursed rosary.

Thanks to the gift of desperation, surrender finally became possible. The prison I had created was one I longed to break free from. Starting with my older sister, whose relationship I cherish deeply, I began to tell my family and close friends that I was going to seek help. Three months in a treatment centre gave me the safe space to address the demons I’d been dragging across the globe. I learned healthy coping skills, laid the stones for a new foundation, and grew by shedding my old skin.

Here we are back in June, where the story started. I recently celebrated my fortieth birthday. Since getting sober, I have been living my life openly as a queer man, reaching a place of self-love and acceptance. Navigating new experiences, I have been able to let others in, form intimate relationships, build trust, and show up as my caring, vulnerable self.

Over the last eight years, life has handed me some of my most challenging lessons and led me down paths I never could have imagined. Facing one of my greatest fears, I went back to finish high school so I could get into college. In a month, I will graduate from psychiatric nursing. Never in my wildest dreams did I think this is where my life would end up or that my past would become one of my greatest strengths. It has given me the ability to relate to those who are struggling and to offer them a safe, empathetic, and compassionate space.

That imagination I abandoned in my youth has also returned in the role I now get to play with my nieces and nephew. I feel incredibly fortunate to be their gay uncle, someone who can show up honestly and help answer their questions about addiction, identity, and the queer community.

Every version of myself I tried to outrun has become part of me. They are what allow me to sit beside someone in their darkness and remind them they are not alone. Maybe this is what the two-headed June was trying to teach me all along, how to look back without turning away and how to move forward without leaving myself behind. My life feels like it is just beginning, and let me tell you, I have already lived many lives.

Breaking Out: Claus’ Story

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In 1990, my teacher warned my best friend’s mom not to let her daughter, Daniella, hang out with me, because I was rarito – a Spanish word that directly translates to “queer.” Like its English counterpart, rarito means “a little strange,” or “a little peculiar.” In Mexico, it specifically refers to men who appear to be gay.

It probably wasn’t hard to see that I was gay: I never enjoyed playing rough games or sports with the other boys, opting instead to play house with the girls at my school. My teacher knew I was gay before I realized it myself. And, rather than choosing to provide support or guidance, she tried to isolate me—an already painfully shy and very socially awkward little boy— by separating me from the one person that I connected with fully at the time. As if a rarito, a queer, didn’t deserve acceptance.

I was seven-years-old.

As the years progressed, so did the insults. If I thought rarito was bad… I had it coming. When I moved to another state at the age of 10, I spent one year in an all-boys school. The insults there became more pointed – maricon, marica, joto, puto (all words for fag — we seem to have a lot of them in Mexico). I then moved to Canada at the age of 14, and was introduced to the English variants of these insults.

When I look at photos of my childhood, I see a naive little queer boy who smiled widely, unaware of the way others perceived me — when teachers called me queer behind my back, but not to my face. But in photos from my teenage years, I see sadness. Not the typical teenage angst, but something deeper. The sorrow of someone who sometimes wondered if life would ever get better.

At 42, I can look back at these snippets of my life with clearer eyes. To my teenage self, I can truthfully say (as cliché as it sounds): it does get better. But it also gets difficult in new ways, because self-acceptance, and pride, and queerdom, isn’t always linear:

In 1992, I had my first crush. His name was Mathias, a German classmate with golden hair… which is odd, because I’m not typically attracted to blonde men.

In 1996, I had a platonic bromance with my friend Jorge. I moved away the next year, and he came out as gay in our 20s. We kept in contact, but never saw each other again, and he died of Covid. I sometimes wonder if I hadn’t moved away, if he might have been my first kiss. 

In 2000, I had a crush on a girl from high school. But at the same time, I was deeply attracted to so many of my male classmates. It was a very confusing time. I was repressing my sexuality so much, that when one of the guys I was crushing on slapped my ass during PE class — not sure if he was flirting or bullying me — I responded by slamming a hockey stick to his stomach. Hard.
A week later, he returned the favour, slamming a hockey stick against my shins, which fucked up my legs for years to come.

In 2002, at the ripe age of 19, I went on my first date… with a girl from university. Sarah was also my first kiss, which I didn’t enjoy at all. That same year, I went on my first date with a guy. His name was Danny. My name was “Nick…” yes, I used a fake name, because I was still terrified that someone I knew would find out I was gay! Danny was my second “first kiss,” which was more like it. He went on to become my first of many, (many… many) boyfriends

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When I came out to my friends at 19, their response was mostly positive, but I did lose some friendships over it. When I told my friend Nelda, she responded by asking me: “So what, you like it from behind?,” as if that is the only thing that makes a man gay. I was a virgin at the time… but to answer your question, Nelda – Yes, I do like it from behind.

A year later, in 2003, I came out to my brothers and then my parents. My middle brother had softened the blow by coming out the year before, which simultaneously made things better and worse. I didn’t know at the time that having multiple queer children in one household is actually very common.

In 2009, while holding hands with my boyfriend at the time, someone inside a passing car yelled “faggots,” and threw a jawbreaker at the back of my head. This was on Davie Street. During Pride weekend.

In 2014, I met Eamonn, and we got engaged five years later. When I got engaged, a woman who had worked in the same office as me for four years asked, after seeing my engagement ring, “Where did you propose to her?” I thought it was funny at the time. Then I realized how much of my life I still kept private from non-queer people I saw every day. It seems I’m allegedly “straight-passing” in some circles and find the constant “coming out” exhausting. 

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My relationship with Pride has also had its ups and downs. 

In 2004, I went to my first Vancouver Pride, and over the following two decades, I’ve been to many prides and queer-centric events throughout the world. London, Cape Town, Reykjavik, Buenos Aires, Guadalajara… even exotic Winnipeg — searching for queer joy in every time zone.

In 2022, I marched in a Pride parade for the first time, with the Vancouver Queer Irish group, and then again the following year. Yet, since last year, I’ve fallen out of love with Pride parades. With sponsor pullbacks, corporate and government support of an ongoing genocide, and the rights of trans and non-binary folks under attack, I’m feeling disconnected. I know we need visibility… but I keep wondering if we need to change the method. “The first Pride was a Riot,” they say… maybe it’s time we go back to marching on the streets, rather than parading on them.

In 2063, when I’m 80 years old, I’ll hopefully look back at today, and realize how good we had it. But I also hope that things will get much better for queer people over that time, because this, still isn’t it.

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In 1990, when I was 7-years old, my teacher called me Queer as an insult for the first time… behind my back, of course… Cabrona.

In 1998, someone wrote ‘faggot’ on the back of my sweatshirt in high school… and I wore it that way all day, because I didn’t notice until I got home.

In 2002, I came out as gay to my friends. A year later, I came out to my family.

In 2016, I began using the word Queer as an umbrella term to refer to myself, my friends, and other 2SLGBTQ+ people, in a positive light.

In 2022, I married Eamonn in two wonderful celebrations of the most immense queer joy, surrounded by so many of our friends and family.

Today, in 2026, I stand here, in a room full of queer people, telling our stories. And I finally realize: being a little strange, a little peculiar… a little rarito, if you will, is actually something to be proud of.

Breaking Out: Beto’ Story

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COVID Made Me GAY

It was late one evening, at dinner time, when my mother broke down in tears. A first for my then 29-year-old-ass.

We don’t cry in my family unless we are watching a sad movie. Even then, it’s a game of who can blink their tears back in the quickest. We don’t hug or kiss unless outside airport terminals and we only text “Love you!” right before takeoff, just in case the plane goes down.

Seeing my immunocompromised mother cry right in front of us, chicken still half-chewed in my mouth, I knew this was serious.

It was April, 2020. We had been hearing about this killer disease and every night we saw the case numbers creep closer to our own social circles.

After consoling her by saying that this would fizzle out in a few weeks (we were a bit short), I escaped to my bedroom.

Is this it? I thought. Is this how we go?

And more importantly: Am I going to die before getting to be gay?

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The first whiff of queerness arrived when I was 13, in a random dream where I saw my cousin laying in bed wearing bright blue briefs. I hovered towards him, Nosferatu-style, until my hand was but a millimeter shy away from his bulge, only to suddenly wake up.

That night sealed two fates: I was going to have a fluid sexuality and I’d never see the 3rd act of any sex dream.

For the next 15 years, bogged down by toxic prejudgments and not exactly feeling “100% top, masc to masc, no smooths, no twinks,” I was like: Why even bother? I’ll just carry on as a straightie, occasionally lusting for Zac Efron’s biceps like any normal, liberal dude.

But then COVID and the threat of imminent death appeared.

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In January 2022, I moved to Vancouver with three goals: be social, be gayer, and marry quickly to stay in the country. (I’m still missing the third, please inquire after the show.) By nightfall, I had downloaded Grindr.

“How goes it?” a faceless profile asked.

What does that mean? How goes what? I thought. “Hi. How are you?” I replied.

Though surely thinking I was a little slow, this faceless man kept texting and before I knew it he shot: “Send pics.”

“Ok. What do you want to see?”

“Dick and ass,” he replied.

What an assertive man, I thought. I hadn’t planned in advance, so I quickly scrammed to take some pics lest I lose the attention of this prized individual. I was more pressured than aroused, so my photos didn’t represent my full potential. Even so, I must’ve charmed him because he then shared his location.

I was staying at an Airbnb near 41st and Knight. The map showed him across Duffin Donuts, south of a Shell station.

“On my way,” I sent, and my body started shaking uncontrollably. Oh – wow. Being gay is super fun, I thought.

I went outside. The wind had picked up and that Pacific Northwest mist felt a bit like horizontal rain. The weather and my nerves were wreaking havoc on my Mexican skin.

As soon as I turned the corner where this dude lived, I froze. It was a dark, damp, and scary-looking backstreet. I’ll get murdered, I thought. I’ll star as a victim on one of those Netflix exploitative documentaries about homosexual cannibals, confirming my parents’ belief that gays are ‘More passionate than straight people’!

I ran back to my Airbnb.

“Sorry. I’m actually kinda cold – lol,” I texted.

“No problem. I get it. You’re new at this. I could tell,” the would-be-cannibal replied.

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Even though I eventually wanted to find my legally Canadian partner, I wanted to have some fun before committing. Unfortunately, within the following weeks I discovered I sucked at hookups.

It would always go something like this:

1 – Get horny EXCLUSIVELY after 11pm on a weeknight and find a suitor after an extensive background check.

2 – Invite them over after making sure—just in case—that they knew my big, rugby-playing roommate was sleeping next room. (I live alone.)

3 – Shiver uncontrollably during foreplay. “Are you okay?” “Just cold,” I’d whisper next to my roaring heater.

4 – Say goodbye with a “Sorry. I think I’m just tired,” after failing to finish the deal. “But coffee sometime?”

5 – I’d get blocked.

My body refused to cooperate with my desire for casual sex. After a few lukewarm wins, I theorized hookups weren’t my jam. I was, apparently, a monogamous family man.

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A couple months after, I had moved into my current place—a garden suite located in one of those “scary backstreets” which, turns out, are quite lovely. My Grindr exploits had slowed down since I started dating this dude who, I was sure, was going to be my forever.

Being my first homosexual relationship, I unfortunately fell infatuated with the guy, which made the text he sent me one night hit like a brick:

“Hey, I think I see you more as a friend.”

“Oh—“

“And I’m also kinda married.”

“Ah.”

I was not looking to break up a marriage, but I was baffled. What happened? Am I boring? Ugly? Not gay enough? What does his husband have that I don’t? Pick me. Choose me. LOVE ME.

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“Can you fart all over my face? You’re so hot,” read a message on Grindr. I had gone back to the app after a couple of weeks of listening to Sam Smith, journaling, and burning letters.

“Oh – wow. How does that work?”

“Special chair. You sit; I put my face under it.”

Despite just having a protein-heavy dinner, I politely declined. I’m pretty open but wasn’t in the mood to take that kind of a dive.

“You know you can monetize this?” my brother said after I shared the screenshot.

“I don’t think my visa allows for this type of entrepreneurial venture,” I replied.

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Months turned into years of me being on every app and meeting random men. I got better and more confident in my hookups and dates, but something still hadn’t quite clicked. Much like snow in Vancouver, nothing stuck. I was still missing something. I kept having these brief connections that led only to me sending them off into the night.

In January 2025, my brother and best friend both moved away during the same weekend, leaving me at zero: no friends, no family, no partner. After allowing myself a two-day pity party, I got to work on a new, more critical mission: finding community.

I started attending every event or public meetup that came across my desk. Running groups, drag show events, art exhibits, board game nights—nothing was off the table. I started dancing with strangers at 1181, cheering queens at Junction, sharing beers with bears at Pumpjack. And slowly, something started to finally click.

In my limited view as a prejudiced baby-homo, I thought being gay meant being a regular dude who happens to have sex with men—which is true. But I’d missed that being anyone means being a universe of thoughts, history, connections, feelings, beliefs, perspectives; and being part of a community meant sharing these universes.

By hyperfocusing on trying to find sex and partners, I had been living vicariously through morsels of experiences men shared with me between climaxing and the door.

It is through actively participating that I’ve started to scratch the surface of actually being part of a community. Talking to people, sharing stories, and celebrating one another is what has made me feel closer to “being gay.” And what a joy it’s been!

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“If you ever need your pits licked, let me know,” someone texted me the other night.

“Sure,” I replied. “… but we gotta be quiet. My big, rugby-playing roommate is sleeping next door.”

I still live alone. 

Celebration!: JJ’ Story

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“Please report the video. I hate that your faces are on there with no consent. Getting everyone to report it.”

It’s 2023 and I’m at a bar on a first date. He’s in the bathroom when I get the text from my work wife; it’s accompanied by a Twitter link, posted by an account I’ve never heard of, Libs of TikTok, with the caption: “Elementary school in Vancouver held a pride parade today. Homeschool your kids!”

Even before playing the video, I recognize myself in the thumbnail. 

The video starts with me walking by shouting “Happy Pride!” followed by my students and several parents, waving, cheering. A few more clips of students walking by, smiling, waving rainbow flags, before it ends.

My date sits back down, and I show him the video, and proceed to chuckle about some of the comments. 

“Give me an S, Give me an I, Give me an N, SIN!”

“Those boys look “sissified” to me”

“It’s a free for all, next is orgy day”

And my personal favourite, the one that, to this day, I still lowkey want to get tattooed on my body: “Homeschool > homoschool”

Already the video has hundreds of thousands of views. I want to keep reading the comments, but don’t want to be that guy, so I put my phone away, and break the tension with a quip.

“How does it feel, knowing you’re on a date with a queer icon?”

The next day our staffroom is buzzin’. Coworkers tell me they’ve reported the video, my principal checks in to see if I’m okay. The video quickly balloons to 1.4 million views. In the comments, someone posted a screenshot of me from the video, wearing a rainbow cape and shiny cowboy hat, with the caption “Found the groomer!”

Another person comments on my picture, “He’s just a flat-out molester. He doesn’t even bother with grooming.”

My friend at the union reaches out, says there’s a lawyer on staff if I’m interested in trying to have the video taken down. We all report it, but all that does is hide the video on our accounts.

Repeatedly, I say I’m okay. That we’re celebrating Pride for the kids who don’t know they’re queer, or don’t feel comfortable being open about it yet, and if it makes things easier for even one of them, then it’s worth it. 

But writing this story and revisiting that video in 2026—thankfully stalled at paltry 1.7 million views—my whole body still burns.

I scour the video’s comments section for the funniest pull quotes, trying to discern what’s awful in the entertaining-let-me-read-this-out-loud-to-strangers way and what’s awful in the oh-boy-I’ll-probably-have-to-talk-about-this-in-therapy way. The margin between them is narrower than you think.

I was bullied and called gay before I even knew what that word meant, but I knew that I was supposed to vehemently deny being it.

In sixth grade, I received a friend request online from the email account “jjisgay99@hotmail.com,” one of those memories that’s hilarious now, but at the time, felt like someone had ripped the uvula from the back of my throat.

I’d stay in the closet for almost two decades longer, dating women, participating in casual misogyny. Talking about which actresses I thought were “hot,” but really, I probably just thought they had a nice smile. 

It wasn’t until 2020, when, after having my first session of therapy, I knew I was ready to start living authentically. The next day, my 30th birthday, I came out to the majority of my close friends at a socially-distanced pie-themed hang in the park, scrawling “I’M GAY” on the inside of a pie box—the pie was peach-cardamom, obviously.

The atmosphere was one of compounding disasters: sitting on blankets six-feet apart, unknowingly about to embark on the second wave of the pandemic. The sky was muggy and thick with forest fire smoke and a recent looper moth infestation surrounded us with thousands of fluttering bugs.

It was one of the best days of my life. 

After coming out during lockdown, I struggled with how to relate to the queer community I suddenly found myself identifying with: my main connections being gay meme accounts on Instagram and a parade of COVID-safe dates that always ended back at my apartment. Dr. Bonnie Henry would certainly agree our activities involved a curve, though none flattened.

One first date, after a guy spent most of the night talking about how much he wanted a boyfriend, we ended back at my apartment, carnally making out on the couch, before he climbed on top of me, squeezed my cheeks together, and hawk-tuahed a single oblong strand of saliva slowly into my mouth. “Sir, we are in a pandemic here, you can’t just spit in people’s mouths, especially without asking first.” We still had sex, of course.

Fucking this rogues’ gallery of strangers felt necessary at the time. Fleeting connections to the gay community, sharing coming-out-stories with cum still leaking out. Hearing about Internet chatrooms and early cruising. I was a cultural anthropologist, absorbing every detail and mentally cataloguing to better understand where I fit.

Later that school year, I was recruited to help organize my school’s first-ever Pride celebration. Starved from no parties in almost 15 months, I brought a finely-curated selection from my personal tickletrunk for my kindergartens. Flamingo sunglasses, a taco hat, sequined fans, an inflatable telephone.

Suddenly, at 30-years-old, I was marching in my first Pride parade.

For the past six years I’ve helped organize and grow school Pride celebrations, each with their own lil’ moments. After our neighbourhood parade in 2024, we headed to the school’s backfield and performed a flashmob to families, all to the song “Born This Way.”

When I’d talked to my kindergartens about what other Pride celebrations involved, my students globbed onto the idea that people sometimes dress up, and asked if they could wear costumes—which is why, in videos of that flashmob, you can see Disney princesses and superheroes dancing to Lady Gaga.

I want these to be the stories I share about school Pride, but it’s important to know it’s not all rainbows and five-year-old Captain America dancing to Gaga. 

Like when kindergartens from my class are noticeably absent the day of the parade, because their family “doesn’t celebrate Pride.”

A parent’s venomous email to a colleague, calling everyone at the school pedofiles; the same parent who, later that month, smiled and cooed to me about how she hoped her son would be in my class next year.

The idea that schools are somehow brainwashing youths by showing support and normalizing words like “bisexual” and “trans.” 

“I’ve been teaching for decades, and I can barely teach these kids math. And I’m a math specialist!” a colleague shared with me, exasperated. “They think I can somehow influence these kids enough to change their whole ideology or gender?!”

Knowing teachers who’ve been doxxed, received death threats—putting themselves at risk while trying to make things safer for queer youth.

There’s decadent irony that, in tandem with writing this story, I’m helping organize this year’s Pride at my school. 

We’re going bigger, bolder, louder. A coworker designed a Pride 2026 logo with our school’s mascot, and managed to get custom stickers donated. We’re inviting neighbouring schools. We have a whole spirit week planned, a dance party, a photobooth. We’re getting T-shirts made as a fundraiser. I get giddy thinking about how amazing this year will be. Usually that excitement drowns out all the what-ifs. 

I’ve been working on a handout, highlighting statistics about queer youth, for families to help understand the importance of Pride. Pulling from Statistics Canada empirical gut-punches like how queer youth are twice as likely to describe their mental health as being poor; they’re more likely to be targeted for bullying, experience homelessness, and twice as likely to consider suicide; how trans and non-binary youth are twice as likely to experience cyberbullying.

I triple-check my sources with a diligence I wouldn’t have dreamed of during my English undergrad, knowing these stats will be scrutinized with the vigor that only a bored, privileged suburban parent can muster. 

I hate having to take the more thoughtful high road. Having our “We want every kid to feel safe being who they are” met with “You’re all pedofiles,” coming from zealots whose churches, businesses, and governments knowingly protect actual predators. But I digress.  

Progress can sometimes feel small.

The odd joy of when reading a book to my class, a student refers to someone as “gay,” and my body seizes up like they’re using a slur, when in fact, the book has a family with two dads. Gay as a descriptor, not an allegation.

It took until my mid-30s before I saw being gay as a gift. A hard-won title after a lifetime of being teased for liking things I didn’t even know I liked yet; the finally-satiated hunger of someone who spent years eating what they weren’t craving. Let’s hope the next generation gets to feel this lucky some day.

And if you need to contact me or have any questions about this story, you can always reach me at jjisgay99@hotmail.com.

Celebration!: M.’s Story

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I’m turning 30 this year.
When I found out the theme for tonight was “Celebrate,” I started thinking about that word. Celebrate. And I realized, I don’t think I really know how to celebrate myself. Which is weird, because I’m gay, Lebanese, kind of a drama queen, and emotionally attached to both Arabic and English pop music. On paper, I should be excellent at it.
And I genuinely love celebrating other people. I love showing up. I love planning. I love hosting. I love making people feel loved. I’m good at it too. Maybe too good. I will plan the timing, the food, the vibe, every small detail and pretend that it’s no big deal, but emotionally, there is a very serious project plan.
But when it’s about me? I become aggressively casual.

A couple of months ago, I “celebrated” two years in Canada by going to a St. Paddy’s gay party at the Junction. Very convenient: one of the biggest celebrations of the year was already happening on my anniversary. The universe forcing me to celebrate my milestones.
Fair play, universe.

But birthdays are worse. Because birthdays are the one day of the year where you’re allowed to be a little self-centered, and I still don’t know what to do with it.
Last year, on my actual birthday, I scored tickets to Lady Gaga’s Mayhem Ball.
Picture this: A gay Lebanese boy, now an adult, watching Lady Gaga sing “Born This Way” live. And then the words: “You’re Lebanese.”
I’m not even that patriotic. But so many of my early queer moments happened with that song playing secretly through wired headphones, pretending I was just listening to music, when really, I was trying to feel seen.
And if Lady Gaga, mother of monsters, said “Lebanese,” not Middle Eastern, not Arab, Lebanese, then she was clearly speaking directly to me. That song was celebrating a part of me before I knew how to celebrate it myself.
It’s going to be hard to top a Lady Gaga concert as a birthday celebration. But this year, I’m turning 30. And there is a version of me who wants the balloons. The cake. The friends. The photos. The whole shebang.
I know he exists, because once, he fought very hard for a birthday party.

I’m the youngest of four boys, which means by the time my parents got to me, the parental sparkle was running on low battery.
But the photos were there. Printed albums. My brothers with their friends. Finger food. Cups of Jell-O. A big cake made by my mom. Awkward parents in the background. Kids playing arcade games and mini golf at this place called Putt Putt.
Putt Putt was everything: Arcade games. Skeeball. Ball pit. Chaos. If you had a birthday there, you were basically local royalty.
Every brother got Putt Putt. Except for me.
To make things worse, my birthday is in August, which is terrible timing if you want a big party as a kid. School is out. Everyone disappears. Half the class is at their village, the other half is at the beach, and suddenly, your birthday is a logistical crisis.
So I made my parents feel bad about it. And it happened that my dad did business with the owners of PuttPutt, so it didn’t take much convincing.
I may have also pulled the “you don’t love me as much as my brothers” card. Bold strategy. But hey, it worked.
And somehow, I convinced my parents to let me do it two months early: June 9, 2006. The day after the last day of school. Also, the first day of the FIFA World Cup, so almost exactly twenty years ago (Very convenient time to tell this story… And very organized of my trauma).
And because it was the World Cup, the theme chose itself. Football.
Now, did I play football? No. Did I care about football? Also no. In fact, I kinda hated it. Playing football as a closeted gay kid with straight boys going through puberty? Not fun.
But it was football season, and you have to understand, people in Lebanon take that very seriously. And I wanted to look cool, so football it was.

I had the party. I had the place. I had the theme. I had the friends. Basically my entire class. This was my moment. I was wearing a Ronaldinho Brazil football costume, because obviously, I LOVE football.
Everyone came, (Well, everyone I invited. I had just gone through a huge fight with my best friend at the time, and I decided not to invite him. I don’t remember what the fight was about, but I was very firm about it. I remember my dad looking at me and asking, “Are you sure you don’t want to invite this boy?” And I said, “Yes. We’re not friends anymore.” I was so sure I didn’t want him there. But for someone I apparently didn’t want there, I kept noticing that he wasn’t).
The party itself was going really well. I remember parents walking in with their kids. I remember the mountain of gifts. I remember my mom’s cake, a forêt noire, with a chocolate football-shaped ganache on top. Keeping it on theme. We’re committed.
Because again: I LOVE football.

Everything was happening exactly how I wanted… then came the piñata. Yup, I had a candy pinata at my birthday party. What shape was the piñata, you ask? A football, of course.
You have to understand, back then, a piñata was a big fucking deal. At that point, I had only seen piñatas on TV in cartoons. So having my own piñata, one I got to choose the candy for? Hell yes.
They hung it up. The kids gathered around. Everyone got a few hits. People were screaming. The energy was rising. And then the birthday boy got the stick.
I started hitting it. I’m going at it. I’m ripping it apart. Everyone is screaming. And then eventually, it breaks.
And the second it broke, it was no longer a birthday party. It was capitalism.
Kids dropped to the floor like wild cats. Hands everywhere. Candy flying. Elbows out. No morals. No friendships. No birthday etiquette. It was my Hunger Games. And I had lost.
Because there I was. The birthday boy. Standing with nothing. I remember looking at my hands and realizing they were empty. And I tried to hold it in. I really did.
But then people started noticing. Kids looked at me. Then they looked at their bags of candy. Then back at me. Suddenly everyone realized, OMG… the birthday boy didn’t get any candy. And because it was my birthday, everyone started offering me some of theirs.

Aww. That’s so sweet.
It was HORRIBLE, because somehow that made it even worse. Now I wasn’t just the birthday boy with no candy. I was the birthday boy everyone felt bad for. And I couldn’t hold it anymore. I started crying. Hard. Not cute crying. Full meltdown. Birthday drama queen.
And if you’re thinking, “Oh God, poor kid, that must have been so embarrassing,” well, there’s more. Even through the tears, I had a plan. What? I’m just gonna stand there and let people feel sorry for me on my fucking birthday? No way José.
I looked at everyone, face fully wet, probably snot involved, and said: “Everyone… throw the candy back on the floor. We’re going again.” Which, looking back, is insane.
Imagine being a kid at a birthday party, and the birthday boy is sobbing, demanding a second round of candy distribution, after going through WrestleMania with at least 20 other kids. Very socialist of me, honestly.
But hey, I was ten. It was my birthday.

Now, I’m not saying this one piñata is the reason I don’t know how to celebrate myself. That would be too easy.
The thing is, when the celebration is for someone else, that works. I get to focus on them. But when it’s for me, suddenly I can’t just enjoy it. I have to manage it.
Is the food enough? Is the music right? Are people bored? Is the lighting homophobic?
And I think that’s the part I still negotiate with. The embarrassment of wanting the day to feel good…. And by good I mean, perfect. Obviously.
Because even now, when someone asks, “What are you doing for your birthday?” I feel this little panic. Like I need to have an answer that sounds casual enough. Not too sad. Not too planned. Not too desperate. Something like, “Oh, nothing big.” Which usually means, “I would love for it to be big, but I’m not ready to be responsible for wanting that out loud.”
But one day, I would love to have a big party that is actually for me. Maybe for another age when I become more chill, because honestly, just saying “my 30th” spikes my anxiety.

But I want to try anyway. And I don’t think I need to top Gaga. I think I’m just trying to find whatever version of that feeling I can make for myself. It could be a big party, with a giant dick-shaped piñata, just for me.
Or maybe it’s quieter than that. A little stoned. Surrounded by people who love me for who I am. Without having to pretend that I like football.
Looking around and realizing I’ve built a life that younger me would not believe.
And honestly, for now, that feels worth celebrating.

Celebration!: Nicholas’ Story

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I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you
– Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Note from the Author:
The following is an old piece I submitted to The Globe and Mail around Mother’s Day last year. It’s a letter to my departed Mother, who died in 2010 after a battle with cancer.

***

The thought of losing you was so staggering and overwhelming that, in tears, I proclaimed that I would make you proud of me. Your last words to me, although in truth I seldom think of them, were that you already were.

I was fifteen when you said that to me. And as this year is the fifteenth since your death, it seems appropriate to reflect. I don’t need to ruminate on whether or not you are proud—you have already said so—but rather, I want to reflect on whether or not I am truly proud of myself; and, by extension, if I bathe in the warmth, light, and love that a mother wants for her child.

When I was thirteen, surly like all teenagers, we often butted heads. You felt I was wasting my life away on the internet, and I thought you should back off and leave me alone. Despite changing logins, hiding keyboards, and unplugging modems, I would always find a way back online. You didn’t know that the internet was the only place I felt comfortable expressing myself, and that I found other nerdy teenagers who loved spending time with me. All I wanted to do was hang out with my friends. Just like any other kid.

Of course, as an adult I can expand my perspective and see myself as a confused parent worrying about their child, not understanding what would attract them about spending their entire day in front of a computer, worrying about the long-term damage it could cause. But I also know that I was miserably depressed and anxious even before you left us, and I wish you could’ve trusted me more.

People often say that mothers know their children better than themselves. For me, you knew I was gay before I was willing to admit it. Remember the day you called me a cocksucker while driving me to my shift at the radio station? That didn’t help things. Did you know I would become a man who, despite choosing to live with no regrets, would always wish that he came out to you before you died? That losing you would unlock a torrential floodgate, give me the courage to come out shortly after when I was sixteen? Probably not, but I’m sure you aren’t surprised.

When I turned eighteen, my loneliness was so turbulent, and the loss of you still so raw that it propelled me with a feverish desire to to be independent and become a grown man. I moved from BC to Nova Scotia, spent a summer in Scotland proper; spent nights upon drunken nights away from home, beer-taps flowing, cajoling with strange men I couldn’t understand, finding myself in their arms, trying to find my place in the world.

I eventually found myself where you were born, Toronto, finishing up the eighth year of a hellish undergraduate experience. I was twenty-five, dealing with COVID lockdowns, and my therapist called me out for never acknowledging your passing. She was right, and the solution was clear: I’d do a shot of tequila on the upcoming anniversary of your death. That was what the family did at the first memorial after all. It was a no-brainer.

I then chose to share that tradition with another family—my rugby family. A group of gay men (and their supporters) who gave me structure and community, allowed me the space to channel my emotions, helped me become the man I am today. One day after practice I gathered everyone together, gave them dingy plastic shot glasses, and poured the tequila. Told them that my mother was watching us and would help us win our upcoming tournament, silently promising that I would pull this off somehow.

My team took the shot for you; shut out a team from Perth, Australia in the finals after they said they’d kick our ass; I won forward of the tournament for leading my pack; your warrior’s spirit shone within me; I fulfilled a promise to myself; we achieved this together.

Winning that championship at twenty-seven is my finest accomplishment so far. It was with profound emotion that I moved back to BC shortly after the tournament, a type of bittersweet that comes from knowing you’re making a responsible decision. It was time to stop running away from you and move back home where I belong.

I’m now thirty years old, and it’s funny how the goals for my life are intersecting more with the goals you had for me. I don’t want to spend time online anymore; I want to engage in the offline world with my friends. But above all, I am a damn proud little cocksucker who’s living authentically in an increasingly challenging world.

Mom, I am happy to say that I am proud of myself. I’m a man who’s confident enough to part the clouds with my bare hands, bathe in the warm rays of the sun as it shines upon me, embrace myself in my entirety, and feel the love of the world as I walk on Wreck Beach with my friends, baring everything for all to see, as the world made me.

Season of the Witch: M.’s Story

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Where I’m from, the first drag queen I ever heard about was a saint.

In Lebanon, our Halloween is St. Barbara: a young woman fleeing a controlling pagan father who, legend says, disguised herself as a man to escape and devote her life to Jesus Christ. Holy drag in the name of survival.
To remember her, kids dress up in Halloween costumes, knock on doors, sing a little song about her, and people hand out money or candy, or tell you to go away. 
It’s our Halloween, but the origin story is about a woman who beat patriarchy by cutting her hair, smearing mud on her face, and throwing on some farmer’s clothes.

I was around ten the year I decided I was going to be a witch. 
Not a wizard, a witch. Wizards feel like homework. Witches have more flair.

The plan was simple: repurpose my brother’s Zorro cape as a black dress.
I walked into the living room where my mom and aunt were talking and pitched it like I was on Project Runway: “so I’ll be wearing a dress, the belt in the middle, I can pin it here, with a pointy hat, done.”
My aunt didn’t giggle. Didn’t even try to soften it with a different idea. She went straight to mocking, sharp, voice raised. “A dress? For you? Absolutely not.”
I can still feel the heat in my face, that hot, swallowed-your-voice feeling when you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong. 
Five minutes later the cape was back in the closet, and so was I.
I told my friends I felt sick. I didn’t go out that night.

It took a long time to understand what that moment did. 
Not just “no costume this year,” but a message that landed somewhere deep: 
There are ways you’re allowed to exist, and ways you’re not. 
Not because you want to be someone else, 
but because people panic when you look like you might.

In my family, masculinity came with a manual, enforced by catchphrases. 
My dad’s favorite, شد براغي تمك or in English “Tighten your mouth screws.” 
Don’t talk like that. Don’t sit like that. Don’t say those words.
Great way to teach a kid to make himself smaller.

Cut to middle school, catechism class, religious studies. A Catholic priest gave a Very Serious Talk about “the problem of effeminate boys,” (apparently, top five on the Vatican threat list). 
His solution, and I kid you not, was to send them to work with “real men” on construction sites for the summer, so they would come back “macho.”
Even as a kid I thought, Father, that is literally the plot of half of gay porn.
Part of me was like, “Maybe I should be more femme.”

A few years later came my first real Halloween party as a teenager. 
I was old enough to make my own choices, young enough to still want a mask to cover my face.
The kid who didn’t get to be a witch remembered. So I did it properly. 
First accessory: fake tits. Big ones. Two balloons and a silky robe. 
When I walked in that party, something in my body unclenched. People kept asking, “Who is she?” and honestly, I didn’t know.
But whoever she was, she was thriving.
It wasn’t a kink. It was a relief. 
Proof that wearing a dress and fake tits doesn’t threaten who I am.

As is grow older. I collect small rebellions. 
A few summers ago, on vacation in Rome, I walked into a piercing studio right by the Vatican walls and got my earlobes done, just the lobes. 
I almost fainted from the pain; I did not expect that, LOL… but stepping back out onto that street so close to where the pope is, felt deliciously on theme, and a little poetic. 
There was a small residual sting in my ears and it made me happy, like my body had a tiny built-in reminder: you did a thing just for you.
A small spark of self-expression I could feel with my fingertips.
Every time I touched them, I felt that small pulse of yes.

Then last year I tried a few more things. 
A couple of drag nights with friends, which was so much fun.
I experimented with some Dollarama makeup. Got my nails done at a salon a few times, even paid extra for Gelish! Sky blue looks amazing, by the way, and Gelish ruins your nails.
I also changed my Instagram profile photo, nothing wild, just me flaunting my nails. Not a post. Not a story. Just the tiny little circle.
And a few days later, my phone buzzes. A DM from my aunt, the same one.
“Hi Malek, how are you sweetie? I hope you’re good and work is going well. I miss you a lot. Habibi, this is not a good picture on your profile. I do hope you can change it. I know you will say that this is not my business, but I am still your only aunt who cares too much about you and loves you dearly, and I am, after all, your godmother. I doubted for a while, I don’t know what to say to you (dot, dot, dot).”
I wrote back, “Why? What’s wrong with the pic?”

We both knew what she meant. 
Same living room message as when I was ten, this time wrapped in “I care about you” and “I’m your godmother,” with “that’s not for boys” tucked inside.
And here’s the part that surprised me: I didn’t spiral. I didn’t write a defense essay. I didn’t change the photo. I just let the message sit there and went on with my day. Not because I’m brave, but because the scale finally tipped. The joy outweighed the fear.
And that’s the part I wish I could tell my ten-year-old self:  
You’re not broken for wanting what’s fun. 
You’re not dangerous for wanting to be different. 
You can try a thing, decide you like how it feels, and that can be the whole story.

And here’s the plot twist, the pushback doesn’t only come from family. 
I hooked up with a couple from L.A. who were visiting Vancouver eariler this year. After a short while, they saw a picture of me with nail polish and texted out of nowhere, “nail polish doesn’t suit you.”
Which, first, literally no one asked for your opinion.
Second, it’s wild how fast masc4masc energy turns into policing. Like, babe, I don’t even remember your first name. 
Even inside the gay community, a little color on a nail can make internalized homophobia jump out and wave.

But Somewhere along the way, masculinity stopped feeling like rules and started looking like options. A menu, not a manual. 
Some days I want plain jeans and a T-shirt. Some days I want a little swish. Neither day needs permission.
Do I still hear the old lines? Sure. 
They pop up in a joke at a family dinner or in a DM about a photo I chose because I liked myself in it, from a relative who confuses worry with love. 
But my perception shifted. Those reactions aren’t commandments; they are just data. They tell me who can walk with me comfortably, who needs time, and where my boundaries should live.

Every Halloween season, I still think about the year I didn’t go. How quickly excitement turned into shame. How one reaction canceled an entire night.
I don’t hate anyone in that memory. I just wish someone had looked at that cape and said, “Okay. If it wants to be a dress tonight, just let it.”

And that brings me back to St. Barbara, probably one of the very first drag kings. 
She cross-dressed to survive, and all I wanted was to cross-dress to have fun. 
If a saint can do drag to get free, surely a kid can do it to feel free for one night.
So that’s what I do now, in small ways that add up. 
I keep the earrings. I wear nail polish sometimes. I say yes to the version of me that feels most like me that day. 
And when someone tries to hand me a manual for how I should look or present, I hand it back and say:
“Keep the manual. I’m ordering the whole menu.”

Summer Loving: Matthew’s Story

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My closet was made of tinted glass. So you’d think a Caribbean cruise would be the perfect place to hide, given all that bright, glaring sun. But not even my oversized orange hoodie, perfectly covering my awkward 17-year-old body, or the baggie raver pants that flared out to the ground could shield me from the look in his eyes as he tilted his sunglasses onto his nose and gazed me up and down.
“Nice pipe,” He said, in his thick southern drawl.
I stared down at my hands, nervously turning the small wooden bowl over as I did my best to avoid looking up, the large bulge protruding through his bright blue Speedos at almost the exact height of my face practically begging me to stare at it. I thought if I ignored him long enough, he would go away, but he didn’t.
“Are you planning to put something in it”? He asked, pulsing his groin towards me. I finally looked up and met his eyes, my cheeks flushed red.
“It’s for a friend. I bought it on the island yesterday,” I said, nervously looking around the deck to see if any of my family was around. Even though I told my sister I was “bisexual” in a hotel room in Miami the night before we boarded the ship, I was still playing the all too familiar game of hide and seek with the rest of my family. The hardest part about coming out isn’t actually coming out, it’s having to expose something about yourself that isn’t really exposing anything at all. Thankfully, the coast was clear.
“Lucky friend”. He said and winked.
The truth was, he was the first person I noticed when I came up to the pool deck an hour before and found a shaded corner to hide in. That all too familiar game I always played as I scanned every room for signs of others that might be like me. Not because I found safety in numbers. More to protect myself from being around someone with the power to reveal my secrets. All it takes is a look. But as much as I tried to ignore him, my eyes kept wandering back, his body sprawled out flamboyantly on a lounger, sipping on some fruity cocktail as he laughed and screeched with the two women framing him. He made my stomach squirm. The way his wrist flicked back and forth as he talked too loudly. The way he threw his head back when he laughed. The way his tanned orange belly hung over his Speedo. A direct affront to my idea that all gay men in the world but me had 6 packs and bulging biceps.
“Hey, aren’t you a little overdressed for the occasion? You do know it’s over 90 degrees up here?” He teased.
“I don’t like the sun”, I lied.
“Did you forget your swimsuit?” He asked. “Because I have an extra Speedo in my room. If you want to come try it on.”
A rush of heat flushed through my body as my eyes flicked back to his bulge. Oh god, please tell me he didn’t see that. Of course he saw that. My eyes darted around. Were those people staring at us? Suddenly, I felt myself start to move. Automatic shifting of awkward limbs, gathering up my backpack on the floor beside me, the towel under me. But before I could stand, he took a step forward and leaned down, his fried blonde hair falling into his freckled face.
“I might even have something to put into that pipe if you want.” I froze.
“You mean like, pot?” I asked, looking up and directly into his eyes. They were crystal blue. He smiled.
“Yup. I’ve got a whole bunch of it. You wanna go smoke?”
Oh God, how badly I wanted to. How much I missed the sweet comfort of marijuana, tragically deprived of it since my parents forced me onto the plane for this stupid family vacation almost a week ago. But I couldn’t do it. As much as the lure his bulge and the prospect of getting high put their powers of seduction into overdrive, fear and disgust tightened their tendrils around my lungs, and I jumped up, spinning around to make sure I had everything before stumbling away, turning back quickly and awkwardly apologizing. I went back to my room and jerked off, then curled up like a baby and cried.

When I found myself back in the same spot the next day, I would have sworn to you it wasn’t on purpose.
“So you do own a swimsuit.” He said as I lowered the book from my face to see him back, standing in front of me in another, albeit equally revealing Speedo. “What a relief.”
My heart pounded. I looked around, then leaned forward and looked right at him. “Do you really have pot in your room?”
He smiled.
The room was tiny, the door closing behind me as my backpack dropped to the floor. He took the pipe from me and sat on the edge of the bed, filling it with weed from a plastic bag.
“My name is Calvin, by the way.”
“I’m Matthew,” I said as I sat down on the bed, taking the pipe and inhaling a long, slow hit. He moved his leg so it was touching mine, then reached his hand onto my thigh and started sliding it up towards my crotch. He leaned his face towards me, his chapped lips puckered and his eyes closed tight.
“I can’t do this,” I said, standing abruptly.
“What are you talking about?” He said, his eyes popping.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.” I turned and stepped towards the door.
“So what, you just used me for my drugs? Please. Typical fag.” The word hit like a knife, and I stopped, my hand gripping the door handle as I turned back to him, our eyes locking. And there it was. That look. That look in his eyes that said, I see you. I see right through you. I know you. I am you.
I turned and barreled out the door.

Over the next few days I stayed far away from the pool deck, but even that didn’t stop me from seeing him everywhere. I was so terrified at the thought of running into him that I didn’t even realize my siblings dragging me straight from dinner to the disco one hot, humid night. It wasn’t until I saw the crowded dance floor that it hit me. If there was one place you could guarantee you’ll find gays on a boat, it’s at the disco. I tried my best not to think about it, downing a boozy pina colada as the sweet sound of Kylie Minogue blared through the speakers. I finally started to relax, moving my body on the dance floor with my sister, doing shots at the table with my brothers. For the first time in days I wasn’t even thinking about big fat blunts and bulging speedos when suddenly the waitress appeared at our table, a large, fruity cocktail in her hand. She set it down in front of me.
“I don’t think we ordered that”, my brother said. She looked at me.
“It’s for you. From him.” She turned and pointed across the room as our entire table followed along together with their gaze. I leaned over to see around my brother, and it all came into view. Calvin, four tables away, with a harem of women surrounding him, all turned towards us. His head was tilted and his arm was straight up in the air with his wrist bent, his fingers flapping up and down, waving at me. I sank down into my seat as the entire weight of the cruise ship piled onto my chest. Everyone’s eyes turned from him and back to me.
“Who is that?” my brother Jesse asked. I looked over at my sister, our eyes locking for a single second.
“Oh my God”. I said, years of practice kicking into high gear. “That guy is such a fucking creep. He was stalking me all over the pool deck the other day.”
Everyone was silent.
“I’m pretty sure that he’s gay,” I said, and my brothers started to laugh.
“You think?” They said in unison.
“I don’t know why he sent me this. We hardly even talked to each other. He’s disgusting.” I spat the words out and shoved my trembling hands down onto my lap.
“Well, he obviously thinks you’re cute,” My sister said, trying to help.
“Whatever”. I said, looking over at her again, desperately.
“Well, you should just take it as a compliment. Nothing wrong with someone buying you a drink, right?” She turned back to him and waved. My brothers’ eyes stayed on me. I looked from one to the other.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said, picking up the drink and downing it all at once, lifting the empty glass into the air and gesturing it towards Calvin’s table.
“Attaboy,” My brother Darcy said, hitting me playfully on the arm.
Everyone cheered. Everyone moved on. And I did my best to follow suit. It wasn’t until we were all downing a final glass of water, getting ready to leave, when suddenly he was there.
“Well, hello there everyone.” He said, leaning his arm onto our table. “I’m Calvin.”
Everyone said hi except me; my voice caught in my throat, and my body frozen in place. The silence seemed to stretch on forever.
“Nice to meet you, Calvin,” I said awkwardly.
He laughed, running his hand through his hair, turning to me and reaching his finger out through the air and bopping me on the nose.
“You left your pipe in my room.” He said, loud enough for the whole table to hear. My stomach dropped.
“You can feel free to come by and grab it anytime.” He said, winking at me as he turned and stumbled away.
I watched him go, my body paralyzed. I wanted to disappear. To vanish into thin air. But when I didn’t, I slowly turned back to face the table. My sister’s hand was on her heart, her eyes wide. My brothers and their girlfriends’ mouths all hung open as they stared at me in total and utter… belief.

Summer Loving: Pascale’s Story

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Some things about me: 
– I was born in 1989. Thus, I love 90s/early 2000s rom coms… which is why I’m a hopeless romantic who dreams of moving to NYC and falling in love.
– I’m a millennial, so I really need you to like me! 
– I’m also really, really good at talking to people, making new friends, and subsequently… shooting my shot with girls.

Not to be overly confident, and not to say that I think I’m god’s gift to the queers; I’m just not scared to walk up to a stranger that I like and talk to them.
Does my heart pound in my chest and right before I do it? 100%. But I know that if I didn’t talk to them, I would feel worse. So, I shoot my shot. Partly because no one really hits on me, not sure why. Possibly because of my huge personality — I’m a lot for some people, I know!
But hey, at least no one has ever called me boring, so there’s that! 

But Pascale what do you mean when you say you “shoot your shot?”  Well…
A few years ago, I was working as a server at a very busy outdoor restaurant in the Old Port of Montreal. I was 27 and finally about to move to NYC in a few weeks: AKA, my dream come true. 

It’s a hot July Saturday night, and we’ve got a lineup around the block. Just as I’m walking towards the bar, I freeze. That’s when I see her: tall, dark skin, short hair, fresh fade. Blue polka dot, short-sleeve shirt buttoned to the top, and army green pants. If I were to compare her to a celebrity, it would be David Beckham.
She walks in, and I stop dead in my tracks. Everything about her takes my breath away. She is so hot, I immediately start blushing. I walk away with a stupid smile on my face. 
At the bar, the bartender says, “Pascale, what’s going on? You look different?”
“Umm…I’ve just laid eyes on the hottest girl I’ve ever seen in my life!” 
I subtly ask the hostess to seat her near my section, but not IN it, ‘cause OMG, I couldn’t actually serve her. So she’s seated in my friend’s section, and I ask him, “Max, that girl at table 38, what’s the deal?” 
“She’s with two girls, I think they’re a couple, and she’s on her own,” he says. 

I keep serving my tables, trying to make eye contact with Bechkam, but it doesn’t happen. Then, Max says, “Hey they’re getting the bill, what are you gonna do?” 
I panic. The bus boy says, “why are you so obsessed with this girl?” 
I say “Shut up and take notes.” 
Right then, I see the lovely lady who sells roses to tables. It clicks. Done.
I run up to her and buy a rose. I write down my name and number on a piece of paper. I put it inside a billfold, and ask Max to give that girl the rose and my note and say, “That server thinks you’re stunning.”
My pulse is racing as I head back into my section, trying to look busy, taking extra time with my tables, and then get lost in work. Finally, I meet up with Max and he hands me the bill fold back. There is a note from her, “I’m Ada, thanks for the rose. We’re going out for drinks later, you should join us,” and below that, is her phone number…WITH A NEW YORK AREA CODE!
Are you kidding me?! I’m about to move to NYC: we could walk through Central Park in big cozy sweaters, while the leaves fall, drinking chai lattes, holding hands… and we could fall in love in the fall in New York! It’s perfect! — You know, the usual thought process. 
My very interested server friends want to know what happened, so I show them the note with the phone number as the mouthy, jaw-dropped bus boy slowly raises his hand for a high-five. 

As Ada and her friends leave, we cross paths for a second. With a big smile on my face, I tell her I would love to see them later. She smirks and says, “I hope so.”
Once I’m done work, I text Ada and head to the bar down the street. I can’t stop losing it that I am on my way to have a drink with this girl. You know when you’re just like, “Is this actually happening?!” 
I take a deep breath as I walk in, and spot Ada right away. She looks at me with her gorgeous smile, asks me, “can I get you a drink?” 
I say yes, of course and while she’s gone, one of her friends says, “by the way, very well played.” 
We have a few drinks, play some pool, and then her friends decide to head out as they’re all going back to New York the next day. Ada and I want to stay out, so we walk over to another bar. We order two Jonny Walker Black, on the rocks, just before last call. 
The lights are low, the music is loud.
We’re staring at each other, smirking, as I take a sip of my drink. Ada puts her glass down, takes mine from my hand, and places it on the bar. She puts her arm around my waist and stands tall above me.She slowly pulls me close, so her face is just an inch from mine. Ada looks deep into my eyes and finally our lips meet in a soft, still kiss, as the world around me seems to blur and fall away. 
If this were a movie, the camera would be doing a 360 slowly, with the crowd dancing around us in slow motion. Right as the term “French kiss” would be used, the lights come on, and the moment is over. We both pull back, stare into each other’s eyes with a smirk… “Should we get out of here?”

We take a cab home and the next morning, I wake up in her arms. We lay there in that perfect little morning-after bed-bubble until it’s time to get up.
I drop Ada off at her hotel on my way to teach a very hungover spin class. Before she gets out of the car, the leans in to kiss me and says “I’ll text you later.”
I figure she will never text me: I was a girl she met on that Montreal trip. Just a name in a story. But still, the smile I have on my face walking into the spin studio is unprecedented!
Against all odds, Ada did text me later that day. We started talking every day for two months — spending hours on FaceTime and making plans… you’ve heard of lesbians, right?
September comes and… I would love to tell you that when I went to New York, we met up for coffee, went for a walk in Central Park, and fell in love. But really, she just led me on for a few months, and then ghosted me.
I never saw Ada again. 

I often find that I chase people who don’t want to be caught.
I’ve now been single for about six months, after my longest and most serious relationship. I tell myself I need some time for me, but I keep going after people who give me crumbs when I give it my all. I’m not sure I know how to date casually. Because, honestly, either I like you or I don’t. If not, what are we doing?
Not to say I’m not happy with who I am, but maybe I should take the time I put into chasing someone who won’t text me back, and spend that time on what I want and who I want to be.
The girl who will go up to a stranger to shoot her shot will always be there, inside. But maybe we can sit with her for a minute. Maybe ask her how she’s doing, or take her out on a date… because I’ve never taken the time to get to know her — know me, without chasing after some crazy idea of a love story. 

Maybe, for this summer, I stop chasing those who don’t want to get caught.
Maybe, I fall in love with myself instead.