Let’s face it: growing up as a gay boy is hard. We live in a culture that sees us as sissies and pansies, less than real men. Most of us spent the majority of our adolescence hiding in the closet, and even the ones brave enough to come out as kids faced an onslaught of negativity. Shame is as universally part of the coming out experience as stealing your sister’s Tiger Beat magazine to jerk off to the latest teen heartthrob.
Whether you came of age in the ‘90s, the ‘00s, or the ‘10s, you no doubt felt some version of the same shame that’s permeated across generations of gays. But there’s something special about us gay boys: resilience. Despite being conditioned to hate everything about ourselves, that hardship actually unites us all. This journey through shame, in all its generational flavors, seems to be the crucible that creates the unexpected strength and brotherhood we eventually find.
June Is Pride Month… So, When Do We Talk About Shame?
As a tail-end Millennial growing up in the aughts, I had a tough time telling shame to shut up. While I did eventually come out, it wasn’t a one-and-done deal. It was a long process that took the better part of a decade. I first told friends when I was 17, but I was still deeply uncomfortable with it, even a little embarrassed. When I went to college, I was “out,” but very adamantly not “one of those” gays who dressed well and listened to Beyoncé. I exclusively hung out with straight people, and I prided myself on that. Whether or not anyone actually perceived me this way, I had convinced myself I was “straight-acting” and “normal.” Escaping the shame meant trying to escape the gayness itself, a classic rookie mistake.
In my mid-20s, I began to fully embrace being gay, making friends and going to gay bars and parties. Now, I can’t imagine wishing my life were any different. In many ways, my life is way better than that of my straight peers I so desperately wanted to be. They all complain about how hard it is to get laid, while I can hop on Grindr and find someone to fuck as easily as I can find a restaurant to order dinner. They complain about how hard it is to make friends as an adult. For me, it couldn’t be easier. I’ve gone to cities all over the world and instantly found community.
Gen X Marks the G Spot
Matthew and Lance are Gen X husbands I met visiting San Francisco last summer, embodying the same journey but with a whole separate set of scars. They discovered their sexuality as teenagers in the early ‘90s, when the AIDS epidemic was still in full swing — a layer of shame I never had to deal with. By the time I became sexually active, PrEP had made HIV preventable, and treatments for HIV and AIDS had advanced to the point where positive patients could still live long and prosper. When I was a kid, gays were viewed as sassy, effeminate punching bags. When they were kids, gays were viewed as dirty, diseased pariahs. That’s enough to keep anybody in the closet.
Due to the stigma, both were very hesitant to embrace their sexuality. Both of them began their coming out process in college, and it extended into their mid-20s, not unlike mine. Even though they didn’t have PrEP, some social progress made it easier for them to come to terms with themselves. Their journey underscores how even the deepest layers of era-specific shame can eventually be overcome.
“There was a lot going on culturally at that time, with shows like Will and Grace and Ellen DeGeneres,” Lance told me. “There was finally more representation in the media around the late ‘90s.”
Now, as they approach their 50s (although they identify as “age-fluid”), those days of shameful self-loathing are nothing but distant memories. “I’ve shed three or four different layers of skin since then,” Matthew said. “If someone gave me the choice to be straight and never have known my gay life, I’d say, ‘Fuck that! No thank you.’” With no socially-imposed “acceptable” structures in place, queers have the freedom to choose their own adventures in every aspect of their lives as they age. They can go down the domestic route and have kids, or they can keep having fun well into adulthood and host the afters on Folsom weekend -- which is how I met Matthew and Lance.
Born Out of the Closet? Maybe Not…
I was always under the impression that Generation Z, despite being only a few years younger than me, had a totally different coming out experience than I did. They came of age in an era with legal gay marriage and a culture that was more accepting than ever before. But that didn’t mean coming out was any easier.
24-year-old Nathan grew up in super-liberal Santa Cruz in a queer-affirming household, with a mother he described as “overly supportive.” He even told me a story about his parents buying him a ballerina outfit when he expressed interest in the dainty dancers as a kid. But when he became aware of his sexuality, he still had an all-too-familiar reaction. “My school was accepting, my family was accepting, my community was accepting, but there were several years when I was very ashamed, and I can’t necessarily pinpoint why,” he explained, suggesting perhaps it may not just be cultural, but biological.
Nathan’s confusion shows that shame doesn’t need a playground bully to get comfortable. You can be wrapped in the safest, rainbow‑dripped bubble and still breathe the air that keeps whispering straight is the default setting. Every movie poster, every off‑hand joke on TV, every wedding ad on Instagram nudges you toward that “normal.” So before you even have the language for it, a weird static builds up inside: I’m off. I’m wrong. Something’s crooked here, and it might be me.
That’s a shame born not from direct hate, but from simply being different in a world obsessed with matching sets. And it seeps in early, long before you can tack a label on your own feelings.
While he isn’t a club or circuit party person, Nathan’s self-discomfort evaporated after partaking in a favorite homosexual pastime: having sex with men. “Once I started regularly hooking up with guys, the shame dissipated,” he explained. “It was like, ‘Oh, this is what I’m supposed to be doing.’” It turned out that the thing society kept telling him was wrong couldn’t have possibly felt more right.
26-year-old Collin, of less accepting rural New Jersey, came out to their family at 13 and had their first boyfriend at 15. But that doesn’t mean his classmates were cheering. “I was openly queer, but I wasn’t being me,” they explained. “I would shrink myself because that was the easiest way to get through the day.” Shrinking meant policing their mannerisms, avoiding topics that felt 'too gay,' essentially trying to take up less space to avoid friction.
Now, Collin — a self-professed “old soul” — wholly embraces their community, preferring to meet people at gay bars and kink parties despite being part of the Grindr generation. Thanks to their community, Collin no longer feels the need to shrink. “I feel the best about myself that I ever have,” they said.
Being queer screws with your wiring no matter your zip code or birth year. The world hands you a template labeled “Normal,” and every time you try to fold yourself into it, something tears. That rip, small at first, keeps snagging on locker-room jokes, wedding invites, census forms. The snag is shame. You pick at it, pretend it isn’t there, but it keeps catching.
On the bright side, being gay is like being part of a fraternity with chapters and communities all over the world. No matter how old you are or where you grew up, there are millions of people who share your experience and have turned that darkness into light. We’ve all faced social pressure and our own doubts, but we end up finding people who get us and have our backs. After years of hazing, we have this uplifting, enduring brotherhood that our child selves could’ve only dreamed of.
