It always starts small. Saying you like red wine when you actually like white, telling new friends that you love their favourite band, when you’ve really never heard of them. Or my favourite one: talking about crushing it at the gym when you spent the entire night in playing video games. We do it to fit in, to feel a part of something.

It comes from a deep-seeded desire to belong. I’m sure you can understand that. But then, something else happens; something bad. Lies inevitably get bigger, and stories get more whimsical. That’s what I found out the hard way.

Pretending I was your everyday straight guy- seems like the plot to a new-age chick-flick, but it’s not that rosy. It turned into something much more sinister that you see playing out on any movie screen, and something that was ultimately much, much more harmful. Every single waking moment of my life, I was lying to my friends, my family, and most importantly, myself.

The thing with bigger lies is that they often come about because of much larger pressures. Despite the leaps and bounds the LGBTQIA+ community has come in recent years to reaching true equality, there is still a long way to go. That’s something that even the most optimistic of activists can’t even deny. Some families still shun those who come out to them, whether it be due to entrenched religious superstition or a major inability to adapt to change. Some groups even go as far as to hurt people of the gay persuasion, but not if they don’t know, right?

And that’s where the lie begins. It starts small, blooming into an unmanageable web of lies that will always, always unravel.

I’m going to tell you now that this isn’t a lesson in how to be yourself, or of how to embrace all your quirks and overcome adversity. It’s not a gospel to take word from, and it’s not always a bright one. What it is, though, is a story about how accepting my true sexuality set me free on a life full of intimacy, pleasure, and connection. It’s a story that is wholly and incredibly mine, but which can also be yours if you let it.

My false marriage

My story starts not at birth, like many others. It starts at the dawn of a new chapter in my life. It starts just before I was about to get married.

My fiancé- the woman I’d been with for the best part of my young adult life- was one of the most wonderful people I had ever met. She was, as most husbands would also claim, someone who was the epitome of beauty. With rolling waves of hair and bright, glowing eyes, she could charm pretty much everyone who came her way. Including me.

The difference here, though, is that unlike most husbands, she wasn’t someone I wanted to jump on every night. She wasn’t someone who, when I passed her showering in the steam of our tiny bathroom, I felt the need to sweep back the curtain to and climb in with. I did love her, probably more than anyone in my life. Just not in the way you think.

The weird part is that to begin with, I did want to do all those things to her. Sexually, romantically, and everything in-between. I wanted to give her the world, but there was always something that felt wrong. I spent years tearing myself up and trying to figure out what it was, years in intense confusion over what was wrong with me. After all, my wife was a goddess. Our friends always spoke of how much of a dream couple we were. And our parents- they were a totally different story altogether.

We grew up in the type of families where reputation mattered more than anything. Where people talked about people, where we spent years fighting to stay at the top of whatever our warped, small-town social hierarchy was. Which is why, when my wife and eventually called our teenage fling a proper romance, our families were all-too keen for us to live the idyllic, traditional married life they wanted for us.

The key word there being they.

Straight marriage was a dream for everyone around us, so why shouldn’t it be ours? If you haven’t already guessed, it wasn’t. It’s true: we spent many happy years together, entwined in each other’s company. But as I said, there was something missing. And as we started becoming more sexually adventurous to keep the spark alive, that’s when I realised.

It wasn’t her feathery touches or role-play sessions that began to make me feel alive. It wasn’t having sex in the dining room or the kitchen floor. It was the moment my wife decided to bring a dildo into the bedroom. Not for her, but for me. At first, I was sceptical. I’d never explored ideas like that in my wildest fantasies, but she persuaded me to try it. Our sex life was already dead in the water, so what was there to lose?  

Discovering my true gay sexuality

As it turned out, there was nothing to lose. Nothing at all, but there was a whole lot to gain.

I’ll never forget that moment. She’d pushed me tentatively onto all fours, told me that it might hurt, but only a little. Then, she’d smothered me in what I imagine was half a tube of lube- just to be safe. And then, she began to ease the dildo in. What followed I can only describe as being a feeling of utter bliss. She was right, it did hurt a little, but only the smallest amount. Each inch she pushed in only felt better, and I could feel myself building to a climax that I hadn’t had- hadn’t allowed myself to have- in my entire existence.

Afterwards, we both knew what had happened. My elation had brightened my life, but it had given a somber feeling to the room. We sat there, not saying anything, only breathing. And we knew that this was confirmation that something was deeply, deeply wrong. That was the first time I had climaxed in months, and it wasn’t exactly due to the feel of her skin, of me inside her. What was happening to me? Why was this something that made my heart race and my insides contract? It probably confused her as much as it confused me, and I had to find out why.

That same night, eager to repeat that experience over and over again, I knew exactly what I had to do. My wife had gone to stay at her sister’s for the night, so I rooted around in her drawer until I found what I was looking for: the dildo. We still had plenty of lube left over from before, so I spent hours trying out new ways to use it. Each hour was better than the last. Whether I was sliding it in and out or teasing the small, puckered opening of my anus, each moment was a revelation. Again, though, I was wondering what this meant. It was only when I stumbled across some gay porn and it intensified the experience that I had to confront a very real possibility, one where I was gay.

Fantasies, as many sexperts will tell you, aren’t always the same as real life, however. I was torn. A part of me was still steeped in shame from my younger years, but another was finally beginning to feel happy, to feel whole. Despite my wife being in the next town over, I didn’t feel empty. I felt complete. It was that undeniable feeling that took me out into the night, searching the local bars until I found what- or who- I was looking for.

It helped that there were a few local escorts in the area, and they were easy to spot. We met in a small joint. Less flashy than most, but still a place of comfort, a place of acceptance. I found him sat in the corner, alone. It wasn’t long before he asked me if I was ready, and, in a moment that was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, I said one small word which would seal my fate forever. But it wasn’t just this man, this moment I was saying yes to. It was my life.

Yes, the sex was everything and more. It was steamy, it was intimate, and it was unlike anything else to have his fingers trail down my body, his lips wet and warm all over me. I left before the sun came up, but it was as if I’d emerged a new man. By the time my wife got home, I’d packed a bag, admitted that I had a new life ahead of me now. One where we couldn’t be married anymore. I thought she would cry, but she only nodded, said she thought something wasn’t right.

It was a sad moment, and I can only express regret that I hadn’t admitted it to myself sooner. That lie, my lie, hurt my wife more than anyone. But while that was sad, I was also irrevocably grateful to her for giving me this gift. If she hadn’t guided me down and slid that dildo in, who knows how long I’d have spent wrapped up in my own repression. Who knows how long I’d have been hidden away from myself.

It doesn’t matter how long it takes to get there, but if you think you might be gay, don’t let the comments of other people keep you from living your best life. We need to understand how important we are, even if it does mean getting homophobic abuse sometimes. Just make sure that anything you do try is both safe and consensual, so that you’re off to the best part. Even now, my family don’t understand, but I’ve learned to surround myself with people who do. People who champion you to be yourself, people who will never let you pretend.