My Queer Secrets
Letting my mom in on her son's hidden adolescent gay life.
I’m still feeling the effects of maximum stun this morning after watching Star Trek, Strange New Worlds, Season 2, episode 9, Subspace Rhapsody. It permeated every atom of my body, leaving me in a glorious puddle of rapture, feeling seen, understood, and inspired.
The track “Keeping Secrets” on the Subspace Rhapsody soundtrack is a conversation between a mentor and her mentee regarding the safety of carefully curated and skillfully practiced secrets.
It’s a beautiful, groaning lament of a song acknowledging the security of self-sufficiency, isolation, and secrets. It’s sung by a character that has recently “come out” regarding her genetics. It has an intensely queer vibe, naming the isolation and safety-seeking many of us experience.
She understands how secrets can be necessary for survival.
The last refrain is a poignant twist in the song, gently suggesting to her mentee that the act of keeping secrets now carries an unnecessary price.
“...
Secretes I keep safe insideA skill I perfected
So I could survive.It worked before.
It doesn’t serve me anymore.I wish I never learned how to be
So good at keeping secrets.”
This made me reflect on my own queer secrets. As a gay kid navigating puberty during the late 70s in Cheyenne, Wyoming, I developed a lot of secrets. The secrets did, indeed, keep me safe from the world views of the society and family I found myself in.
A lot has changed in the 40+ years since then, including what I can only describe as a Hallmark movie-style story arch that includes a change of attitudes on all sides, my parents and mine, both deciding to move towards each other, towards love. During the last decade, we have enjoyed a closeness that shared forgiveness and stubborn adherence to the values of love and kindness can bring.
But, I continued to maintain many secrets. This fostered a distance between me and my bio-family that’s no longer necessary. At this point, secrets only inhibit the love we can share through knowing each other on a more human level.
My mom made this clear after reading my last post, “Winning the Party,” here on The Sensitive Slut, August 2, 2023, by sending me a text message telling me, “I love the man you are.”
What!?
Yes. She’s reading The Sensitive Slut, which is mindblowing by itself.
It’s caused me to struggle with what to write in each post. I don’t want to upset my mom or sister with my naked love for the man-on-man testosterone-fueled realities of my social world. I’ve been slowly leaking out bits and pieces of my social/sexual realities to them, but having them listen in to my explicit musing and advice intended for other gay men celebrating our slutty nature has been a mixed emotional rush.
The safety created by omissions and full-faced lies has a voice in my head that says, “What the fuck are you doing, Mike? This way of doing things has kept us safe for 50 years.”
The love from my family, built on countless examples of unconditional acceptance, has a relatively new voice. It says, “They’ve got you, Mike. Let them love you.”
I’m trusting the love of my evolved family.
My mother’s text does not adhere to the “let’s all pretend we’re perfect” social protocols I’d assumed as a teenager. Perfection dictated by local custom. Protocolos with no room for homosexuals and religious faithful to peacefully coexist. Protocols I integrated into my programming for bio-family and societal interactions.
Protocols and programming that have not received an update for way too long.
So, in the spirit of the mentee character’s advice in “Keeping Secrets,” I’m changing the protocol. A protocol that has kept much of the love and adventure I’ve enjoyed out of the consciousness of the people I love most. I will clear up one incident that has remained on the family history back burner for a lifetime, and I will reveal some of my secret histories about a gay mentor who set me up for success.
Ready mom?
Yes, that Air Force guy who came to our house in Cheyenne was a guy I hooked up with. After mowing Aunt Cleo’s lawn, I hung out in Ross Park near her house. That just happened to be one of the cruisiest places in town—a place where gay guys find each other. We met and talked at a park picnic table, then walked to his apartment and did what young horny people do. I loved it. But he did talk about the Air Force way too much for my liking. He didn’t make me gay. He just allowed me to act it out.
I was as shocked as you when he came to our house. His enthusiasm for the Air Force is probably why the lie that he was a recruiter came so quickly when Dad asked me to explain who he was. I never saw him again.
Without getting into all the sexual details, I’d like you to know that in addition to pleasure, all that cruising also brought me love, camaraderie, and mentorship.
I met R.L., an older guy in his 30s who had an intensely positive impact on my gay life. To be honest, when we first met, all I wanted was the thrill and pleasure of sex. But he insisted on talking—a lot.
He talked about the realities of being gay in the 70s in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He told me about the laws that would land a gay man in jail. He told me about sexually transmitted diseases, slang used to negotiate sex, and strategies for spotting and avoiding the predators among us. He showed me what it was like to feel beautiful. He showed me what it is like to be loved by someone for exactly who I am. He showed me how I could hurt someone when I took that love for granted.
After we moved to Pocatello, Idaho, you found a letter I was writing to him, describing all my crushes on boys in my new town. We all made choices, you, Dad, and me, that we thought would correct something wrong with me. I tried to stop being gay. It was a dark time that included some suicidal ideation.
Sharing a room with Bart on BYU’s campus during a summer Ballroom Dance excursion between my junior and senior years pulled me out of that darkness. You now know much about that rocky romance since you read my memoir, Drama Club. For those who don’t know, that kiss with Bart melted what was left of the resistance I had about accepting my authentic gay self.
Falling in love with Bart made it possible for me to contact R.L. again.
During the summer after my senior year, while still living at home, I planned a trip to Cheyenne to visit Danny and Sean, my old best friends. I also wanted to see R.L.
To make that possible, I needed to lie to you and my best friends in Wyoming. I lied to you, telling you I’d spend the entire time with Danny and Sean. I lied to Danny and Sean, telling them I’d be there four days later than when I actually arrived.
I still can’t believe how good I was at lying and how no one caught me.
Those four days included an overnight trip to Denver, where I participated in my first Gay Pride protest/parade. It was a protest back then. No spectators. Just gays and lesbians who had the guts to step off the curb and self-identify as gay.
As is possible for teenagers, I fell in love with a boy named Robert while dancing to the slow beginning of “Flashdance…What a Feeling” by Irene Cara. I managed to catch a buzz while drinking “3.2” beer that was legal to sell to 18-year-olds in Colorado back then. At a Denny’s, I shared drama with a guy identifying himself as Robert’s boyfriend. And I went to the Ball Park, a legendary gay men’s bathhouse, where I met up with Robert. That place is no longer there but will always hold a special place in my mind as the nirvana of gay male sexual expression. A place I felt simultaneously energized and at peace.
R.L.’s love, generosity, and mentorship allowed me to enjoy that adventure. I knew how to navigate the bathhouse. I was warned about hanging with a “rough crowd.” And, with a lot of love, R.L. pointed out when I became a selfish little bitch, informing me of the possible negative consequences of that attitude.
I think it’s important to note that we never had sex after I first left Cheyenne. His interest in me went beyond those pleasures. He was invested in my well-being. He continued to share his experience, advice, and his spare bedroom. He loved me and was a model mentor.
That trip was the last time I saw R.L.
You may remember R.L.’s mother calling you at his request.
He died of brain cancer after I moved to San Diego. He wanted me to know that he’d passed, so he instructed his mother to call you after it happened. You and his mother, a woman I’d never met, were willing to give both your sons the dignity of sharing that intimate news.
That is an act of kindness I’ve never thanked you for, Mom. Thank you. With all the options available to you, including never telling me about that call, you chose love. You let me know what happened to my mentor. I remember your tender, concerned voice on my roommate Dominic’s phone as you gave me the news.
I couldn’t tell you who he was or how much he meant to me. My secrets kept me safe. So, I hung up the phone without telling you. Then I told no one else. I bottled up a part of me and leaned into my aloneness—shield strength at 100%. A silent suffering necessary for safety.
“...
Secretes I kept safe insideA skill I perfected
So I could survive.It worked before.
It doesn’t serve me anymore.I wish I never learned how to be
So good at keeping secrets.”
Without the secrets or the rigid protocols, I now see how similar I am to my family.
While being interviewed by a KCRW reporter about my life as International Mister Leather, I described the new secret leather world I had embraced. I told the story of an honorable tribe with specific rituals and specific clothing done in secluded spaces, including our affinity for alternate family dynamics.
An epiphany hit me like an eloquent slap from a seasoned Leather Master. I understood it the moment the words fell out of my mouth. “We wear specific clothing, do rituals in private, with creative family dynamics we chose.”
In my quest to find safety in a secret society, I had become my Mormon father. His sacred clothing was different, his private rituals were different, and his sense of family, for a time, was different. But it was all anchored on loving his family and his community.
In that case, I could not be more proud of the man I have become. Following his example, I will continue to choose love over fear, kindness over ambition, and the dignity of knowing I am true to my own values.
Most of all, one of the qualities I admired most about Bill Gerle was his openness. He often said, “Feel free to ask me anything.”
No more secrets. No more lying. I, too, am now ready to share all of myself with the people I love most.
Note: I let my mom see this before posting. That ran the risk of her saying “no,” but I decided fostering trust was more important than a single post.