Closet Cases: Make Up Your Mind!

Gay life is shades of gray, and closet cases are no exceptions. But if you tried to neatly organize them into categories, I’d say there are generally two types: closet cases, lower case “c,” and closet cases, ALL CAPS.

Closet cases with a small “c” lead their professional and personal lives on parallel tracks that almost never intersect. Professionally, they’ve “arrived” and realize disclosing or broadcasting their sexual preferences would have no practical advantages and could lead to innuendos, outright bigotry and even loss of job. In my past tense life, I worked as a senior executive with a six figure salary for a Catholic health care system so I know what it’s like. A fellow administrator, who was up for the CEO job and who had more degrees and experience than half the shitheads in the organization, got passed over because everyone knew about his scene and the archbishop vowed “no queer would run one of our hospitals.” Period.

But that doesn’t mean closet cases with a small “c” can’t have robust lives outside the office with their gay friends, partners, fuck buddies or any combination thereof, and feel content and well adjusted about being gay. (I rarely use the word “happy.” The only “happy” people in this society are on psychotropic meds.)

But then we have the Closet Cases, cap C, cap C. These are the guys who not only wouldn’t dare even use the word gay in a casual conversation over the water cooler but, worse, hide or even deny their sexual identity in their personal lives. They’re particularly prevalent, for some reason, in the suburbs or rural areas, though the burbs and boonies hold no exclusivity to these strange paranoids.

You know the type. The guys who, when you make contact with them, want you to meet them in strange places like the cereal aisle at the supermarket, or ask you to park in the mall shopping lot two blocks from their house or apartment so no one (like their nosey neighbor or, God forbid, their girl friend) sees you. The guys who say they’re bi, want to experiment, but aren’t sure. The guys who respond to your bar or bath house advances or ad or profile with another twenty questions about you without once even divulging their name. The guys who, when you ask for a photo, say they’re on another computer their sister borrowed when she went to Prague to finish her doctoral degree in Medieval Studies. Or who have no camera or pics. (Then what are you doing  on a smartphone hitting me up on Scruff?)

To these guys I have only one thing to say: make up your fuckin’ minds. Either don’t act on your sexual impulses and move on, or DO IT ALREADY! So you were brought up Catholic and didn’t get molested by your parish priest, or you’re married with kids, or you were the class jock with the girls waiting in line to get fucked by you. So?? You can’t be discrete and still play? If you’re truly unsure about your sexual identity (and if you still are at 25 you’ve got other problems, buddy), the only way to find out is DO IT ALREADY!

What are you waiting for? Til you’re too old (and some guys are over the hill at 35), and the magnetic strip on your gay access card doesn’t register anymore?

It’s your life, buddy. If you’re content in your paranoia or jerking off over other guys having fun is enough, God bless you. Just don’t waste the time of those of us who fail to see through your bullshit and want the real thing and think we can get it from you.


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