I don’t usually bring up my sexuality—I consider it such a minor detail about me. That’s not to say it’s a secret or something I’m shy about, I just don’t feel it defines me, so I see no reason to advertise it. Honestly, I’d say it’s as relevant as my taste in food: I’m happy to chat about it if it comes up, but it only really matters at meal times. But obviously, it is still a part of me, so it’s time to talk about my story.
Before I even knew what being gay meant—let alone considered it might apply to me—other people seemed to have already made up their minds. Kids at school loved throwing around words like “queer” and “faggot”, and unfortunately, I got a crash course in their usage before I had any context. Honestly, I’m still not sure what vibe I gave that set their gaydars off so early. I wasn’t exactly prancing around in sequins doing jazz hands. Sure, I was soft-spoken, a little shy and quiet, preferred gymnastics over football, Neighbours over Jurassic Park, and most of my mates were girls—but does society really need to turn those into a bingo card for “obviously gay”?
One day, I came home from school and informed my mum that Melanie (a girl in the year above) had said, “Sam, you’re such a homosexual!”. Naturally, I asked what that meant. I don’t remember her exact explanation, but I imagine it was one of those carefully edited, age-appropriate chats that leave you with more questions than answers. My mum’s always been wonderfully accepting; her brother is gay, and she’s never batted an eyelid. I think, back then, she figured keeping it vague was the way to go.
When we moved house, I started a new primary school for my final year. It was like walking into a classroom full of Melanies. Everyone had apparently received a memo that I was gay, and they didn’t hold back in letting me know. I was baffled. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t gay—I thought I was a bit of a ‘stud’ back then, as I had a steady stream of ‘girlfriends’ writing me love letters (which, in true heartthrob fashion, I never replied to).
My class teacher knew all about the bullying and even held meetings with me and my mum to come up with solutions. Which makes what he did next feel like a cruel betrayal: he cast me as Julian Clary in the Tudor Mr. & Mrs. segment of the school play. For context, this was a comedy sketch about Henry VIII and his six wives, and while I had no idea who Julian Clary was at the time, the adults in the audience clearly did. Instead of laughing at my lines, they were laughing at me. I was essentially the punchline to a joke I didn’t even understand—and that still stings.
In high school, it was déjà vu: a whole new crowd of people just knew I was gay, even though I still hadn’t figured it out myself. The constant assumptions got to me, and I started to feel a weird disgust towards the whole concept of being gay—not because I had any real issue with it, but because it felt like something was being forced onto me before I even understood it.
At the time, I didn’t feel an obvious sexual attraction to anyone—men or women. I could recognise beauty in women, which I mistakenly thought meant I fancied them, and I felt this strange ‘jealousy’ toward good-looking men… which, spoiler alert, wasn’t jealousy at all. It was attraction, but I just didn’t understand it yet.
Looking back, I cringe at how this confusion spilt over into my friendships. I must’ve made some offhand comments about how uncomfortable I was with anything gay because I later found out that one of my friends came out to everyone except me. Honestly, I was gutted when I realised that—I must’ve been such a terrible friend. A female friend later bravely opened up to me about having an ex-girlfriend, and I reacted appallingly. Why? Probably some messy combination of internalised shame, bullying trauma, and a desperate attempt to overcompensate and prove the bullies wrong. Whatever the reason, I behaved abhorrently, and I’m still ashamed of it. Thankfully, my friends were far more forgiving than I deserved, and those relationships bounced back quickly.
As time went on, I started wondering if I might be bisexual. After all, I still thought so many women were beautiful. My closest male friend at the time seemed to be going through a similar identity crisis, and we ended up helping each other navigate the confusion.
Eventually, the denial started to weaken and the truth bubbled to the surface. While I could appreciate how stunning women were, there was absolutely no sexual attraction there. When it came to men, there was clearly more than just an attraction. I had to face the truth: the bullies had been right all along. I’m gay. And, honestly? That realisation was both terrifying and a massive relief.
For the rest of secondary school, only my small circle of friends knew I was gay. Around this time, with other horrible things going on in my life, my mum sat me down for a chat. Out of nowhere, she told me that my uncle in Sydney—her brother—was gay, that his “friend” was actually his boyfriend, and that my cousin had two mums and two dads. It felt like such a random info dump at the time, but looking back, I reckon she’d probably figured me out and was trying to send a subtle, “Hey, it’s okay if you’re gay” signal.
In hindsight, it might’ve been easier if I’d grown up knowing this stuff. Leaving it until my teens made it feel like some sort of big taboo—like being gay was something shameful and forbidden. But I get it; hindsight makes everything look easy, and she was probably doing her best to handle it in a way she thought was right at the time.
The night before my final GCSE exam, I reached my breaking point with all the torment I’d been carrying. I wrote my mum a letter apologising for being gay—yes, apologising. I told her I was sorry I’d never be able to give her grandchildren, which I felt she so deserved. I knew I’d never get the words out if I had to say them aloud, so writing it all down felt like the only way to get it off my chest.
When I handed her the letter, she sat beside me as she read it. I braced for her reaction. She cried—not because I was gay, but because the idea that I thought I was disappointing her broke her heart. We sat there crying together, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could finally breathe.
I’ve never been close enough to my dad for an intimate chat like that, so I left it to my mum to keep him in the loop. He came and gave me a hug, but it felt more like a ‘this is what I’m supposed to do’ hug than genuine acceptance. Or maybe I was just too nervous and awkward to read the situation properly—who knows? Either way, it was freeing to no longer hide this part of me. I know how lucky I am to have had a response like that. Not everyone is so fortunate.
Looking back, the signs were there all along. In nursery school, I named one of my teddies “William” after a boy I was clearly obsessed with. In infant school, I desperately wanted to be Thomas’ best friend, which I now realise was obviously a crush. By junior school, things got even more dramatic—I cried actual tears of grief when the second series of The Demon Headmaster ended because I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to Simon, the character I fancied, even though I didn’t understand what I was feeling. I also had a Premier League football sticker album, but instead of caring about the players’ stats, I rated them based on their looks. Lee Sharpe was always the MVP of my heart [insert heart eyes emoji here].
By early high school, things got even more awkward. There was a boy in my year I was too shy to speak to in person, so I added him on MSN and chatted with him there, but I never once said hello at school. Looking back, that probably made me come across as a total creep. Then there was another guy I had a crush on for years: I decided to buy a hoodie of (what I’d heard was) his favourite band—Iron Maiden—despite knowing absolutely nothing about their music. Honestly, I have no clue what my endgame was there. Was I hoping the hoodie would magically make us best mates? What if he’d asked me about it? Awkward.
Now that I think about it, these are just the same awkward situations straight boys probably find themselves in with girls growing up—clueless and crushing. So much for sexuality being a choice, eh?
Looking back, I think part of what fuelled my early discomfort around being gay was how gay people were represented in the media and society. It wasn’t the sexual side that put me off—it was the stigma that came with it. Strangely enough, it was other gay people, not straight people, who made it harder for me to accept myself.
When I was growing up, openly gay male role models were few and far between, and the ones who were visible didn’t feel relatable to me. Most were flamboyant gameshow hosts like Dale Winton, Julian Clary, Graham Norton or Boy George. The word “gay” became tied to personalities rather than just sexuality, and those stereotypes only made things more confusing.
I remember wondering: Is this who I have to become? Did I need to start liking the colour pink? Get blonde streaks in my hair? Memorise every Kylie Minogue and Madonna song? Should I walk differently? Become a fashion guru? Start calling people “darling” and develop a razor-sharp sense of sass? The thought of being boxed into this narrow idea of “gay” filled me with dread, and it’s awful to think that this was what distressed me the most.
These days, thankfully, there’s so much more diversity in gay role models which crushes these stereotypes and shows that ‘gay’ isn’t a personality trait. People like Kieron Richardson, Jake Daniels, Keegan Hirst, Ian McKellen, Khalid, Gareth Thomas, Derren Brown, Jim Parsons, George Takei, Stephen Fry, Tom Daley, Alan Carr, Ncuti Gatwa, Jonathan Bailey, Russell Tovey and Matt Lucas (just to name a few!). So many different types of people revealing themselves has made it easier for everyone to find acceptance. Maybe that’s one reason why I should advertise my sexuality, to help others navigate the world? That’s something I have real trouble justifying my privacy stance over, because clearly being “loud and proud” is what makes things easier for everyone else. It might sound “woke” to the more ignorant corners of society, but representation really does matter.
In adulthood, despite all the other horrible things life throws my way, my sexuality has always been something I’ve felt content with—both within myself and in how others perceive it. I know I’m incredibly lucky to say I’ve never experienced homophobic abuse as an adult.
I’ve also been fortunate to see that I’ve helped change some people’s ignorant views on sexuality, simply by having normal conversations—without them feeling like they’re being schooled or bombarded with pink glitter. Someone once told me, “I used to be homophobic until I met you”, which is a slightly odd compliment but also incredibly rewarding. Knowing that just being myself helped shift someone’s ignorant mindset is a pretty great feeling.
One thing I’ve always wrestled with is feeling part of a ‘community’ simply because of my sexuality. Don’t get me wrong—I completely understand and deeply value the importance of things like Pride. I know how pivotal it has been in breaking down barriers and creating the safer country I live in today. But at the same time, I feel no real connection to how it’s often celebrated.
The colourful rainbows, drag queens, scantily clad people, bondage outfits, the pop music, the promiscuity—none of it feels like me. It’s not something I would ever feel comfortable being part of, and I find it hard to link any of those things to my own experience of being gay. That disconnect makes me feel a bit like an outsider, even within the LGBTQ+ community. I feel guilty admitting this because I know how vital Pride is, but I just don’t feel like I belong in its current form.
I do want to make a difference—but not like that. It sometimes feels like modern Pride unintentionally fuels the fire for bigots, reinforcing their misguided views that LGBTQ+ people are hypersexual, inappropriate for children, or somehow different. I wish there was more focus on how we’re not that different after all, but I suppose that’s hard to market.
It’s a tough, controversial topic, and it’s one I rarely feel comfortable discussing. It’s too easy to sound ungrateful for the freedoms I have, freedoms made possible by protests and movements like Pride. But it’s also something I can’t ignore—I want to support progress while also feeling like I belong.
As I mentioned at the start, I prefer not to be defined by my sexuality—it’s just one small part of who I am. I like it to be the least interesting thing about me. It doesn’t shape my personality, and you won’t find it listed in my social media bio.
It can be tricky sometimes, feeling like you see things differently from the vocal majority, but honestly, that’s just the story of my life. At the end of the day, we’re all unique, and that’s what makes the world so interesting. What truly matters is that people are happy and free to be themselves, and I hope others feel the same way about me.