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With mostly fit, athletic bodies, male athletes come together naked in the locker room, at the very least taking careful notice of the naked bodies next to them. Sports are the ultimate test case for all of that. Today, men in particular are forced to “choose” between being gay and being straight (despite what I personally believe to be the preponderance of bisexuality among humans). In ancient Greece and Rome, homosexual conduct was just your run-of-the-mill Tuesday visit to the bath house or trist with acquaintances. Long before there ever was “gay,” this is what men did. None of this makes any of the participants “gay.” Truly. They paint graphic pictures for their teammates of them having sex (with a woman, of course always with a woman).ĭon’t believe me? Just ask Anthony Davis. They talk explicitly about what they do sexually, what they like. They roughhouse naked in the locker room. They measure themselves against other men. Men of all sexual orientations look at each other’s penises in the shower. What might be deemed “gay” in West Hollywood or the Castro is just your average afternoon post-practice ritual for so many straight guys completely comfortable with their own bodies and the bodies of their teammates and opponents. Of course it’s more than that.īut what gets so often lost is that the opposite is also true: Grabbing another guy’s nether regions is about a lot more than being “gay” (so please, forgive the shorthand). I’ve been out for 20-plus years and with my husband for exactly 62.963% of that time. Of course being gay is a lot more than grabbing another guy’s nether regions. Some people chuckled at the grabby player “getting caught ” Others were horrified and sounded the “sexual assault” alarm.įor me it was just straight athletes going gay. Their Kickstarter campaign to build will remain live until Wednesday, April 16.When a video close-up of Clemson defensive lineman Christian Wilkins grabbing the ass and genitals of an opposing Ohio State player surfaced last weekend, it got a panoply of reaction. Along with Alysia Abbott, author of Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father, she is launching The Recollectors, a storytelling forum and digital community for people who have lost parents to AIDS. Whitney Joiner is a senior editor at Marie Claire magazine. And all he would’ve had to say in return was: I am. “I asked Mom once if you were gay,” I would have said. I wish I could have known that some part of him accepted-and was proud of-who he was. I’m not angry about it I just wish it had gone differently. It was probably one of the hardest conversations he’d had in his 38 years. He sent me a starstruck postcard from London exclaiming, “Guess what? You know Jimmy Somerville from Erasure? I met him at a club here!!” (Never mind that Somerville was actually in Bronski Beat, another of Dad’s favorites.) But to actually let me in-to sit on that blue blanket, look me in the eye and tell me he was gay-was something he couldn’t do. When he went to see Truth or Dare with his hairdresser, Mickey, he told me about it. In some ways I think Dad was on the verge of coming out to me back then. “Something like that,” he answered.Įvery once in a while, my brother and I talk about the what-ifs: What if Dad had held out a little longer, if the drugs had been approved a little earlier, if time and the eventual softening of our culture would have softened him? Would he be meeting me for dinner in New York? Would I be flying to visit him in Louisville or Lexington with his middle-aged partner? “Like leukemia?” I once asked, as we drove away from the doctor’s office, thinking of the hokey Lurlene McDaniels books scattered around my middle school classrooms, in which innocent cheerleaders bravely fought some sort of cancer or another, hoping to get one kiss before they died. I knew he’d had some kind of “blood problem” for a while he’d explained that much when we accompanied him to get his blood drawn during our summers together. Since my brother and I spent most of our time with my mother and stepfather, two hours from Dad in a small town south of Louisville, his life seemed far away when we weren’t with him. Dad taught business law at Eastern Kentucky University and served as a deacon at our church. I didn’t want to know.įor the previous four months, my father had been in and out of the hospital in Lexington, Ky., half an hour from this rented duplex in Richmond, where he’d lived since he and my mother divorced three years earlier. I didn’t know what he was going to tell me. We sat on the itchy baby-blue blanket on my bed in the room I shared with my 8-year-old brother.
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On a Saturday afternoon in April 1992, when I was 13, my father told me we needed to talk.