My Coming-Out Story

I had been on an Interrail trip in 1984 in an attempt to widen my horizons, to try things I never did before, and to demonstrate to my parents, that I wasn't their little boy anymore and could make my own decisions. My planning had nothing to do with my sexuality, but I should soon learn something else!

This travel took me to many countries in Europe, one of them was Italy. I had wanted to visit Rome since I had Latin in high school. Now was the time.

In Rome, I met Tom. He was an American, a young handsome guy, we stayed at the same “Pensione” run by a big Italian Mama. Tom and I had at once this attraction against one another.

After a wonderful day in Rome and a good dinner, we ended up walking home late one evening, we couldn´t let loose and this way I got my first kiss from a guy in a backyard with the full moon shining as a witness, its light split by clotheslines stretched between the houses leading down to the still warm wall where we sat and kissed and discovered each other.

It was super romantic, very secret and a bit dangerous.

When I got home, I was ready to find a lovely Danish boyfriend. He had to be out there somewhere.

I started my studies and could feel that my efforts were probably not enough. Something was wrong, something I wanted to shout out to all my fellow students, but I didn’t dare.

It limited my life — in my learning — in all respects. I felt like half a person.

Something had to happen.

I lived in Denmark’s second-largest city, so there had to be some offerings for homosexuals. In 1984, you couldn’t just go online and search for “gay club.” You’d probably do that today, or rather — you’d probably search for social offerings for LGBT+ people.

I visited the Main Library several times, and there were posters and information on a large bulletin board. I found the postings from the “Association of 1948 for Gays and Lesbians.” I read these with butterflies in my stomach.

There was a café night every Wednesday. Disco on Friday and Saturday nights. The address was there too. I had to go there.

I just didn’t dare.

I was simply a coward, tail between my legs. I had known that I looked more at guys than girls since the 8th grade in public school. I had been hopelessly in love with my gym teacher. He had seen it and assured me it was okay, and he had been an invaluable help to me.

I would take almost a year and one broken heart before I dared myself through the door at that club.

I noticed another posting on the bulletin board. “Ballet — Jazz Ballet lessons, beginner class.”

In my wild imagination, I immediately saw a bunch of girls and guys leaping around and dancing on tiptoes, where the guys were gay from every angle. I had to try it.

I knew nothing about ballet — so it was great that it was a beginner class. There was just one problem, I was the only guy in the class. My dream of many dancing beautiful male legs burst like a soap bubble.

When the class was over, the next group, the advanced, had to dance.

My heart leapt into my throat. There was a guy in the group. And no doubt about it, he was into guys. Dark slightly curly hair, coquettish movements, and he didn’t give me a glance. Panic — he looked to be 10 maybe 20 years older than me, so today I can understand that he probably didn’t look at a young chick like me.

Thus, we met several weeks in a row in the transition between the beginner and advanced classes.

One evening, I overheard the course leader Jytte asking him if he could deliver some flowers to her on Saturday. She called him Erik.

What does a young, poor, love-hungry student do? Start studying botany or a better alternative — go exploring the city’s flower shops.

I had to find him somewhere between roses and alpine violets.

I thought he probably worked in a shop in the city centre, so that’s where I started.

I got quite good at going into flower shops and browsing. Looking at plants and asking about some very rare cactus varieties, which was my plant-collecting passion. I could throw around names, and the poor shop assistants could only shake their heads and say they didn’t have it.

In the third shop, I forgot my line — there he was — Erik — with an armful of red gerberas.

He was serving an older woman, so his only greeting to me was “Just a moment.”

I walked around the small shop, looking at the plants, as if it was coincidental that I was there to buy a plant.

When the woman had left, Erik came over to me.

“I know you — you’re from the Dance Institute — would you like to come after closing? I live above the shop.”

That was direct. Of course, I would. My bike flew over the asphalt on the way home.

It turned into a half-year relationship, and of course, I told my fellow students about my happiness. Everyone was happy for me. I started to feel more like a whole person.

However, there was another side of me — the family person, who wanted to achieve acceptance of my sexuality.

We were 4 siblings at home. My eldest brother and I were always working and talking together. He taught me so much. And he always ended the day telling me, that he loved me! I didn't have the same contact to my second brother, he was easier to find on a tractor than in talking to other humans. And I had a special bond with my sister — we were born twins.

At that time, my oldest brother lived only a few hundred meters from me. My sister too. She was the first to know that I had a boyfriend named Erik. When I told her she cried a little. It surprised me — why couldn’t she just be happy for me? I never found out. From that point in time she distanced herself from me and my future and my changing boyfriends.

It hurted a lot, and still hurts, as she is my twin sister. Today, I have no contact with her.

My older brother, who was studying theology and wanted to be a priest, had to be the next in the family to be told. As we had been closely connected throughout our upbringing, his acceptance would mean the world to me.

I thought he would understand my situation and be my advocate based on the commandment of love for one’s neighbour, and as a future priest, he should be able to accept any message from another person with openness and understanding.

I had to find out that nothing, absolutely nothing, could be more wrong in my perception.

He jumped out of his chair when I told him one evening over coffee at his place with his wife. “Will you get yourself out of here!” He stood pointing with a trembling finger at the door. He meant it.

I was confused. It couldn’t be true — but it was. He didn’t budge an inch, and I walked home, head down. Took my bike to Erik and told him the whole story. It was good to have a shoulder to cry on.

I have no contact with my brother either today. Only a greeting card for birthday. No telephone calls — nothing. I don't know, how he can stand in a church Sunday after Sunday telling his congregation to love each other and to forgive each other. He never forgave me.

I went home to my parents, whom I didn’t tell anything. I was just the usual “happy” son visiting. I didn’t dare tell my devout father that I was gay right then after my brother had thrown me out. I think they sensed that something was wrong in the relationship between my brother and me, but they didn’t ask further. Maybe my brother had already told them — they never let me know. My sister kept it a secret, she didn’t talk about it at all!

I had to go to my grandmother, my beloved grandmother, who was open in her views and good at seeing through people. It didn’t take long before she asked if I had gotten a boyfriend because I looked so happy lately. I was amazed by her question and I confessed. “Yes, I have, his name is Erik.” “Oh,” she replied, “as long as he’s good to you and you to him, be happy with that.” Then she continued the conversation about other topics as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My sweet beloved grandmother didn’t judge anyone.

My parents “officially” first got the news a few years later, when I had another boyfriend, who was my age. His name was John. We were going for a weekend visit and Mom had made up a bed for him in the conservatory and told me she had naturally also made up my old room in the attic for me. I gathered my courage and told her she hadn’t needed to, as we would be sleeping together on the bed in the conservatory. “Oh, yes, I had a feeling, just do that.”

There was no more drama than that. We were just her boys. It remained this way with my parents. Mom would proudly tell her friends, that “her boys” were coming home”. They seemed to enjoy our company more than with my siblings. They could laugh and tell jokes. When my siblings were present, they would sit and talk as if it was a funeral.

You don’t come out just once as a homosexual. It happens in small stages. It happens every time you change jobs or enter new social contexts.

It has become much easier over time to naturally say that I am married to my husband. That I live with a man.

Sometimes, however, I find myself returning to “the closet” and keeping it to myself. After all, it doesn’t matter with whom I sleep. Isn’t it more about who and how you are, than who you sleep with?

It was a difficult process for me to tell the family that I was gay. I got through it, some family members chose to accept it, some didn't.

You should just never forget, that living in the closet will be much more difficult. Out yourself little by little, I did and have never regretted it. The most important thing is to be honest with yourself. It is your life, nobody else can live it, they can be a part of it and hopefully a positive part!

Previously Published in the Publication Deep. Sweet. Valuable at Medium.com on June 7th, 2024, where it was boosted.