Tag: gay

Pride!: M.’s Story

Leave a comment

The first time I came out, I lied.
I told a story that never happened.
But in that moment, it was the only way I could tell the truth.
I was 15. In a Catholic Sisters school. Closeted.
And carrying enough shame to light every candle at Sunday Mass.
So I made up a story.
A boy. A waterpark. Two accidental boners in the changing room.
I told my best friend at the time that I saw a naked senior guy at the waterpark, and we both got instant boners.
Was it believable? I mean… no.
Was it weirdly specific?… Maybe.
But it was the only version of gayness I thought she might accept — 
if it came packaged like a confession instead of a fact.
I wanted her to be curious. Supportive.
To say something like, “Oh my god, really? Tell me more.”
Instead, she blinked. Changed the subject. And that was it.
The closet door slammed shut again.

Second try. 
New story. New lie. New setting. New hope. Same best friend.
This time: a man in the library. We exchanged numbers. We texted. A whole made-up story, with some text messages to prove it.
(There was no library. It was a guy I met online.)
And she —bless her homophobia— told me to block him.
That it was the only way for “the thoughts” to go away.

Ma’am… they did not go away.
My coming out attempts were failing. But still, there was this urge.
An instinctive need to share what I was feeling.
Not because I needed to announce it —
but because I needed someone else to say, “It’s okay.”
Keeping it a secret made it feel wrong.
Made it feel shameful.

SHAME.

I gave up on telling her. We drifted.
Best friends turned into strangers.

*****

Then came camp.
No, not like that, I mean actual summer camp.
Religious, of course. Orthodox church this time, for range…

I met a girl. We hit it off instantly.
The camp ended. We exchanged numbers.
And a week later, I texted her. Told her the truth.
This time, no fake boys. No boners.
Why her? I think I just had a gut feeling.
I’d been attending church camps since I was a kid — and for the first time, I’d made a friend who wasn’t there for the Jesus of it all. 
She was there for the fun. And somehow, that gave me reassurance. 
That maybe —just maybe— she wouldn’t think I was going to burn in hell.

Part of me felt: If this goes badly, the stakes aren’t high. I haven’t known her long.
“Hey. I need to tell you something… I’m gay.” I said
She replied: “I hope you’re not joking. I don’t tolerate jokes like that — I have gay friends.”
I found out later… I was her first gay friend.
She just wanted to make it clear she was safe, before she even had the words to say it. She’s now my lifelong best friend.
And that’s when I learned: Some people just get it.
Even if they’re still figuring out how to say it.

*****

But from there, I wasn’t coming out as much as I was living out.

It became less about declarations and more about decisions.
Who deserves to know me? Who deserves access?
In the Middle East, coming out isn’t an event — it’s a strategy.
You don’t burst out of the closet. You leave little doors ajar.
You observe. You feel it out. You find your people.
I met so many who got it.
Supportive friends. Chosen family.
People who held space for me.
But I also had to let go of some people I thought I’d keep forever.
People who said they were okay with it — but their eyes changed.
They saw me differently.
As unserious. As broken. As someone struggling.
Even when I was not really struggling.
And honestly? That can be worse than rejection.
That quiet shift, from friend to case study.

SHAME!

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even angry. But it was necessary.
Their silence told me everything I needed to know.

At that point in life, I didn’t feel the need to come out anymore.
I had my people. My little queer bubble. My peace.
But there was always that question.
“Do your parents know?” “What about your brothers?”
“Have you come out to your family yet?”
There was no roadmap.
And I had distanced myself from my family. Partly because of geography…
and partly because of me.
Because of the life I was building, and the parts I wasn’t ready to explain.
I had seen how queerness was met in my family: reactions that made me afraid of what it could do to the dynamic we had; how it might change things, forever…

But there was my cousin. My closest cousin.
The one who told me everything: hookups, dating drama, men with questionable tattoos in questionable places.
She clearly trusted me, so it finally felt like the right time to trust her back.
When she asked about my love life, I told her. It didn’t make sense to lie anymore.
“Hey, you know I date men, right? I’m gay”
She blinked. Paused.

I could see her flipping through some imaginary “How to Talk to Your Gay Cousin” guide — one she hadn’t finished reading.
And even though it wasn’t long ago, the memory’s quite blurry now.
But I remember the awkwardness. She asked if something triggered it. If something happened to me when I was younger. As if there had to be a reason.
And she ended with: “I won’t bring it up again… unless you want to.”
That was the cherry on top of the shame sundae.

SHAME.

We haven’t spoken  since. Life drifted us apart.
But if I’m being honest… I chose to let it.

*****

In my last visit to Lebanon, I met my Catholic school friend again.
The one I lied to — just to say something true.
We ran into each other years later and were catching up.
And somewhere in the conversation, she figured it out.
She put two and two together and looked at me and said:
“I’m really sorry for how I reacted when we were younger.
I didn’t know how to process what you were telling me.”
And, for the first time, I didn’t flinch.
I understood. I had made peace with it, with her, with the past, with myself.
And I realized… That was maybe what I needed all along.
Not an apology. Not validation. I just needed to be seen.
To have someone look at me — not as who I was when I first tried to tell the truth, but as who I’ve become since.

*****

Living in a society that doesn’t tolerate your queerness isn’t just hard —
it’s disorienting.
It rewires how you see yourself. How you remember yourself.
How you imagine others will see you.
The way we’re raised makes it almost impossible to believe that “love is love,”
when every message you’ve ever received screams:

SHAME. SHAME. SHAME!

But somehow, despite all of that, we find each other. We find ourselves.
And once we do, we begin to learn — that Pride isn’t just a destination we reach.
It’s a practice we return to.

A conversation we carry. A story we tell. A quiet, rebellious act, not just for ourselves, but for those still searching for their reflection.
So maybe my story doesn’t end with one perfect coming out… but with a dozen imperfect ones. Some with lies. Some with silence. Some with pain.
But also, some with laughter. Some with apology. And some with peace.

And even now —living in Canada, a place I chose because I could finally breathe; because I could finally say “I’m gay” out loud without looking over my shoulder— even here, with all the safety and freedom I’ve found…
I still think about those who don’t have this.
Those who wake up every day to a cup of shame served by their families, their governments, their gods, their “friends.”
Those who have never had the chance to live their truth and are still told that love is wrong.
We still live in a world where Pride is a privilege.
And I don’t take that lightly.

So if I have it now —if I get to walk through life with my shoulders a little higher, my voice a little louder— I want to honour every version of me that never thought this would be possible.
Because, the pride I feel now?
That is one of the greatest blessings of my life.

And I’ll never stop being grateful for it.

Around the World: Claus’ Story

Leave a comment

I fell in love in Paris.

I know, what a cliché – guy goes to Paris, and falls in love. But I couldn’t help it. Falling in love isn’t really something that you do. It’s something that happens to you.

The year was 2008, and this was my first trip ever outside of North America. It was also the first time I had ever travelled on my own, and with my inexperience and terrible planning, I ended up with a 23-hour layover in the French Capital. My budget was too low to pay for a hotel, so my plan was to spend that time at the airport… but after one hour of doing Sudoku, I was bored.

Courageously, I took the train to the city — where I managed to get stuck overnight, because I was under the mistaken impression that Paris was a 24-hour city, with 24-hour trains. Remember, smartphones didn’t exist at that time, so travelling was much more difficult than it is today. Without these modern tools, I wasn’t able to find accommodation that didn’t cost hundreds of Euros. So, I spent the night outside, half-sleeping, freezing, and scared, at the Champ-de-Mars park overlooking the Eiffel Tower — but that’s a story for another day.

Before I got stuck overnight without a hotel, I found myself roaming through the various neighbourhoods of Paris, with a heavy backpack and beautiful shoes that left my feet full of blisters. I walked all over the city, admiring its riverside banks, it’s palaces, and parks. I saw the Eiffel Tower, and the Notre-Dame Cathedral, and I had a subpar coffee with one of the best pain au chocolat I’ve ever tasted. And then, I made it all the way to the Montmartre neighbourhood, and there she was.

Beautiful and grand, tall and statuesque — commanding the attention of everyone around her. She stood there, looking out over a picture-perfect panorama of Paris from the top of the hill of Montmartre. The late afternoon sun reflected off her flawless fair skin, illuminating every one of her features so beautifully, that they seemed to come to life. Her curves, perfectly symmetrical, made to be admired. She was ageless, despite having been 94 years old at the time. 

By now you probably have realized, I hope, that I’m speaking about a building. But not just any building: The Sacré-Cœur Basilica, the most beautiful piece of architecture I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It was love at first sight, and from that moment on, I told —half jokingly— to everyone that would listen, that if anyone ever proposed to me, I wanted it to be there, at the Sacré-Cœur.

Fast forward to 2019, more than a decade after I first laid eyes on her, and three visits later. By then, I had been with my partner Eamonn for four years, and we were in the midst of planning a trip to the Balkans when he suggested: “Why don’t we do a stopover in Paris on the way there?” Just a quick one night stop, to see the sights, and visit friends.

“Oh my god,” I thought to myself. “This. is. it!” 

To be perfectly honest, I had never really cared about marriage before. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married. I simply didn’t care either way. But at that moment, I actually started to think, “he is the right person, so why not?”

We stayed with our friends, who conveniently lived in the Montmartre district. On our first night, we enjoyed dinner and a couple of bottles of red on the patio of a wine bar with them. The next day, Eamonn and I set off to wander alone. We walked along the cobbled stone streets of Montmartre, through alleys filled with cafés and boulangeries, and finally, to my old Parisian fling: the stunning Sacré-Cœur Basilica, looking as beautiful as she had one decade earlier.

It was the middle of summer and the crowds of tourists were thick around us. Eamonn led the way, as we circled the basilica. This way, then that. We walked down the steps to the bottom of the hill, the Sacré-Cœur looking down at us from its summit, her white domes resplendent under the August sun. Eamonn was clearly looking for the perfect spot to propose. He looked nervous. I was nervous, too, wondering how I should react when the moment finally came — should I act surprised? Should I admit that I was expecting it? Or would an unplanned emotion take over?

After some time, a selfie or 10 later, Eamonn suggested we grab a beer with a side of espresso (the Paris way) at the Café des Deux Moulins, famous for appearing in the film Amélie. We sat at the café, and the whole time, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering when the moment would come. And finally, after paying for our beers (with a side of espresso), Eamonn finally said: “We should get going, we have a train to catch.”

And so, we left Paris —and the Sacré-Cœur— behind. The romanticized idea of our imaginary engagement dissolving as the train pulled further away from the city.

But worry not, dear listeners, because this story has a happy ending.

Less than two weeks later, in Slovenia, we planned a day trip from Lubljana to Lake Bled. After spending the morning walking around the lake, admiring the stunning scenery that surrounded us, Eamonn suggested we hiked up a hill to what he described as a “famous bench.” I was surprised, as I am the more-enthusiastic hiker of the two of us. 

It was a hot day, in the mid 30s, when we embarked on an uphill trajectory through a dusty path in search of this bench. The vegetation was too sparse to provide us any shade, but I persevered, unsure of what our final destination was, and completely unaware of what was coming next.

Finally, we got there. The bench: meh. A standard park bench with no redeeming features. But the view. I’m not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever seen, to this day. The expansive Lake Bled below us, with its many shades of turquoise, and blue, and green. An island in the middle of the lake with a church rising from it. The mountains all around us, lush with vegetation, extending as far as the eye could see. And atop one of the mountains, on the opposite side of the lake, a castle. A view taken right out of a fairytale, made all the more beautiful under a blue sky splattered with white cotton clouds, and the love of my life by my side.

We caught our breath from the hike (and lost our breath to the views), and after some time, we sat on the so-called-famous bench. And suddenly, the words fumbled out of Eamonn’s mouth: a not-so-romantic speech that included something about “finalizing the contract” and “this seems as good a time as any.” 

In his hands, a silver ring. An Irish Claddagh, with its iconic design featuring two hands, symbolizing friendship. A heart, for love. And a crown, for loyalty. 
And around the length of the ring, a Celtic knot, to represent eternity.

I fell in love in Paris, and the Sacré-Cœur will always have a special place in my heart. But nothing could compare to the perfect moment that had me saying a resounding “yes, yes, yes,” before Eamonn could even ask the question.

Around the World: M.’s Story

Leave a comment

Okay, so this story takes us back to 2015. I was just 18, still a student at AUB, which is basically the UBC of Beirut, where I’m from. But instead of being half an hour away from downtown, it’s literally in downtown. Picture a university inside Stanley Park.

Back then, I was still closeted — obviously living with my parents — and I used to drive to university every morning. And, like many gay men in the Middle East, I had Grindr. Because let’s be honest, that was the gay community. There were very few queer events or hangouts, just a bar or two… but mainly, a grid of torsos and chaos.

And that’s where I met Julien. French guy, blonde, older. In Beirut for a few days. Very much giving “European tourist with a tote bag and a mysterious backstory.” He told me he was travelling through French-speaking countries writing a book — which, at the time, sounded super fake; but he was still hot, so I didn’t question it.
I tapped him. He tapped me. We chatted. And we decided to meet up for coffee on campus, like respectable homosexuals. I picked him up, gave him a little tour of AUB, and also showed him around the city in my car, which honestly made me feel so cool. Like, I was 18! Driving this charming older French man around Beirut like it was nothing. I was glowing. Walking a little faster. Laughing a little louder. You know the vibe.

That night — the same night we met— he ran into a little problem. His iPhone locked him out. Completely. He kept saying, “I’m sure I’m typing the right code,” but his phone was like, “Nope. Try again in 3 days.” If you know, you know.
So now he’s in Lebanon, with no Google Maps, no contacts, no apps. Not even Grindr. Dark, dark times.
Buying a new phone? Too expensive. Renting one? Is that even a thing? And that’s when I saw my little gay moment to shine — not to impress, but to be useful. I told him, “I actually have a second phone; you can use it while you’re here. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a flex. It was just something I could do… so I did.

Now, everyone I told thought I was absolutely out of my mind.
“He’s going to disappear with your phone.” “It’s a scam.” “He does this in every country.” But honestly? I trusted him. I don’t know why. Maybe I was being naïve. Or maybe I just liked the way he said merci.

We saw each other a couple more times after that. Nothing major (okay, we fooled around a bit). One thing that I remember, that makes me cringe so hard, was this moment when I asked him, very stupidly, if he had downloaded Grindr on the phone. And of course, he had. And I was like, “…oh.”
He explained that Grindr was how he met people when he travelled. At the time, I didn’t really get it. To me, Grindr was still this secret, shameful hookup thing. But now? I mean… most of my friends today? I met them on gay hookup apps.
So… yeah. Julien was ahead of his time; or at least ahead of mine.
Before he left, Julien gave me back the phone and thanked me. Said his trip would’ve been totally different if he hadn’t met me. And that meant something. It made me feel kinda special — like I had made a little mark on someone’s journey.

We kept in touch here and there. He only messaged me in French — partly because his English wasn’t great, and partly because he’d say, “tu dois pratiquer.” Little did I know, my French skills helped me get my PR in Canada 10 years later.
And for a long time, I really thought that was it. A sweet little story. I didn’t expect to see him again.

But then, seven years later, I visited France for the first time. I messaged him, just to say hi. “Hey… I’m coming to Paris.” And he replied immediately: “Let’s meet.”
And just like that, we did. He showed up on a bicycle — of course he did — looking older than I remembered. More silver in his hair. Definitely giving daddy energy. And if you know me, you know that’s very on-brand.

This time, it wasn’t flirty. It was just… really lovely. We spent a few days together, and it honestly felt like picking up a thread from a story I thought had ended. He showed me around Paris like a true local. We vibed, got a little drunk, had the best time. He took me to beautiful theatres, gay bars, this riverside queer spot called Rosa Bonheur — which is basically the Paris version of Birdhouse. If you ever visit, highly recommended.

And on my last day there, we took the train to Versailles to go to a theatre festival — because I’m a theatre gay, obviously. We wandered through the gardens with some strawberries and a bottle of bubbles, because in France, you can literally just crack open a bottle of wine in public, and it’s totally normal. We had this quiet, beautiful day, just the two of us. And I don’t know, there was such a strong connection between us. And if you’re wondering: no, nothing happened. He had a boyfriend, not that this ever stopped anyone. But honestly, nothing needed to. The vibe was there. That was enough.

And of course, the trains back got cancelled. So, we had to navigate this maze of night buses, switching lines, figuring it all out. I would never have made it back alone. So I guess we’re even now: I gave him a phone in Beirut, and he got me home in Paris.
On the way back to Paris — after running around trying to figure out which random village bus was actually going back to the city — we were both exhausted. Sitting there in silence, half-delirious, half-relieved that we even made it onto the right bus.
We both kind of knew this was the last time we’d see each other before I left. 

And somewhere between stops, Julien turned to me and said, “By the way… I mentioned you in my book.”
And I was like, “Wait — what book?” I had totally forgotten that he was even an author.
He smiled and said I was one of the memorable friendships he made along the journey of writing it. Just a small mention, nothing dramatic. But still — it really hit me. Like… damn. I actually meant something to this person.

We still talk sometimes. Send each other voice notes. He still corrects my French grammar like it’s his life mission.

And that’s my story. A little Grindr match in Beirut. A train ride from Versailles. A mention in a French linguistics book. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those rare, quiet connections that stick with you — even when you know you probably won’t cross paths again.

Around the World: Bryce’s Story

Leave a comment

Let me take you back.

I was 18. That magical age where you think you’ve got it all figured out, but you still call your mom when your laundry turns pink. I had just hit that point in life where everything in my hometown felt too small. The streets, the routines, the same familiar faces. It was all closing in on me.
I needed space. Air. Maybe even some chaos. So, I packed up my car—if you could call it that. It was more of a metal box with an engine and a slight identity crisis. No GPS, no credit card, barely any cash, but a lot of heart.
I didn’t even tell many people I was leaving. I just drove west and decided I’d figure it out on the way.

When I got to Vancouver, I had exactly zero plans. Zero housing. Zero resources. But I had arrived, and that felt like… something?
I found myself driving around Stanley Park. I’d never seen anything like it. There were trees that made my little car look like a toy. Water that sparkled like it was auditioning for a movie. And people, jogging like they actually enjoyed it.
I parked and sat in silence for a bit, pretending this was all part of some Eat, Pray, Love moment. In reality, I was stalling because I had nowhere else to go.
That night, I curled up in the driver’s seat, hoodie rolled up as a pillow, trying to convince myself it was an adventure. The air was damp. The windows fogged up. But hey, I was free… right?

By morning, my back felt like it had aged 50 years, but I was still in one piece. I took that as a win. I stretched out, rubbed my eyes, looked out across the park and said, “Okay, day one in the big city—let’s do this.”
I drove into downtown. The city was buzzing: there were bikes, buses, beeping horns, neon signs. And somehow, every single person seemed like they had somewhere important to be.
Except for me, that is. But I didn’t want to look like an outsider, so I did what any self-respecting newcomer would do: I pretended. I adjusted my sunglasses. I leaned back like I knew where I was going. I even nodded at the people on the street, like I was one of them.

And then I saw it: a street that looked like it led somewhere cool. Brick buildings, people walking dogs, some artsy-looking cafés. Perfect. So I went for it.
Left-hand turn. No big deal.
Except, within seconds, I realized… big deal.
Because coming directly toward me, fast, was a silver Audi R8.
I froze. Like, full-body, “brain not working,” kind of frozen.

There are moments in life where time slows down. Where everything gets very clear, very fast. This was one of those moments.
I could see the grill of that car. The expression on the driver’s face (equal parts confusion and rage). And even the little sunglasses dangling from his rearview mirror. That man had money—and zero patience for a kid in a $2,000 car, going the wrong way.
I heard honking, shouting. I saw people on the sidewalk point at me like I was some kind of public safety demonstration. One guy just shook his head, like I’d personally disappointed him.

I did what my instincts told me to do: I cranked the wheel and swerved into the nearest side street—right past a massive green dumpster.
Parked—slammed my car into park. And just sat there.
I was shaking. My face was hot. I felt like I’d just survived an extreme sport, except the only thing I’d done was make a left turn.

And then the thoughts came, one by one, loud and clear:
Did I actually just do that?
Am I still alive?
Is it too late to move back home?

I slumped down in my seat, like hiding would help. I was parked beside literal garbage, and somehow it still felt like a step up from what had just happened.
I remember looking around to make sure no one had followed me; as if the Audi guy was going to chase me down, and hand me a bill for emotional damages.

Eventually, the adrenaline wore off, and something strange happened: I started laughing. Like, really laughing. The kind of laugh that starts as a nervous giggle and then snowballs until your stomach hurts. Because in the grand scheme of things… it was kind of hilarious.
I had survived my first real Vancouver experience. Not a sunset on the seawall. Not a cozy coffee shop moment. But a full-blown, wrong-way-down-a-one-way-street near-death experience.

Over time, I got better. I learned the roads. I found a place to live. I even got a credit card—with a limit so low, it was more symbolic than useful, but still. I figured it out. But I’ll never forget that feeling—of being completely out of place, completely lost. And somehow still okay.

And that, my friends, is how I learned about one-way streets.
Not from a sign. Not from a city tour. Not even from Google Maps.
No, I learned about one-way streets the old-fashioned way:
With fear. With adrenaline.
And with a luxury car speeding directly at my face.