In 1978, when I was barely 13, I participated in the sport of gay bullying. Which makes me the classic closeted thug who later turned gay. The boy I bullied was a wonderful friend. He was an artist, and an extremely talented one. It was his artistic skill that made me so jealous, not his manhood. But I hid that, and instead I called him a fag.
I remember him saying to me, “Matt, you know this isn’t true.” And me gritting my teeth and growling bitterly under my breath just loud enough for everyone to hear, “You’re a fag.” We never made up. So I am writing this essay to publicly apologize to a man who later went on to become a father of five boys, and who never exhibited a homosexual tendency in the entire time I knew him.
And here’s the rub, when my own sister was…
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