Based on what I can remember, the worst of my abuse happened over the course of seventh grade, which means that the next incidents I can remember took place in one of those appropriate months. Somewhat luckily for me, the transition from elementary to junior high schools meant that our classes expanded quite a bit, and schedules were more malleable. We also had the opportunity to take Gifted and Talented, later pre-AP, classes, in which I was obviously enrolled. That meant that I was separated from Michael N. during the school day, unless I sought him out at recess. Usually, I never did, since he was with other kids just… doin guy stuff, I thought.
On the weekends, though, Michael N. was a constant presence in my life, and he’d usually spend days at my house at a time. My parents even took him on a couple of family trips, since he was the only friend I seemingly had. He was at least the only one whose friendship seemed to extend past the school bell. But that was part of the grand illusion; really, Michael N. only cared about me outside of school. As of sixth grade, I was invisible to him.
One of those nights he spent over at my house, we’d both been told to go to bed earlier in the evening by my mother, but obviously, we weren’t listening to her. We retreated to our respective rooms, me in my new bedroom - the big one with the en suite - and Michael N. in my old bedroom. Cloaked under the cover of a quiet house, we cracked open our DS Lites and started a room of Pictochat. By this point, we’d transcended console gaming since I’d been gifted a DS Lite by my parents, and it was a convenient way to kill time covertly.
This night, in particular, I was feeling particularly chatty, and Michael N. and I batted back and forth virtual banter for most of the night. Towards the event horizon of sleep, I decided to ask a question that had been on my mind for a long time, longer than this doodled conversation.
—
The first moment where I can remember knowing I was queer was around the age of 10 or 11. I had a fascination with the old-world style colleges that I’d been told I was bright enough to attend since I was five, and, upon getting into junior high school, I began to think more about my future. So, I would research schools like Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and the like, and read more about them on Wikipedia.
One of the sections that always caught my attention was “Student Life,” particularly, the entry about fraternities. With a culturally-diffuse idea of what those were, I thought it would be smart to know more about them. Maybe one day, I could be part of the big group of young men who were all supposed to be friends. Turning those blue links purple, I was exposed to the reality that frats were pretty shitty.
The sections of Wikipedia about fraternity hazing were especially memorable; all these men doing things that were humiliating in some attempt to prove that they were close, that their camaraderie was acceptable to some unknowable standard set far before their times. Reading further about the actions they were forced to do was strangely captivating. And pretty soon, I was reading about underwear, jockstraps, male nudity, locker rooms, elephant walks, and other kinds of heteronormatively-torturous stuff.
I spent hours in these loops. Something kept me coming back to the articles about male genitalia, erections, sexual intercourse, and the like. Any quick glance at my browsing history would show that I clicked on every image and video listed on the Wikimedia Commons page for “Nude men standing with body hair.” The comment someone had left on the “Talk” page for one of at least 50 different pictures of erections branded itself in my head: “The only people who are looking at all of these pictures are giggling 11 and 12 year olds on their laptops under the covers.”
The fact I kept coming back to look at all of this stuff, that I was excited to look at it, to imagine myself as part of it. To imagine myself growing into a bigger frame, one that looked like the men on the computer screen, was thrilling. It felt like a ticket out, a ticket to freedom. Despite reading about subjugation and cruelty at the hands of a homophobic society, becoming that ideal fraternity man still felt like a vast improvement to my current life.
But holy shit, though. I’m fucking gay.
That was the thought I had after imagining a YouTuber I watched at the time in some of the underwear I’d read about 500 times. I wouldn’t have that thought again for another seven years.
I wasn’t necessarily “scared” or “ashamed” of being gay, but it would’ve fucked up my sphere. And I had spent so much time making this sphere perfect, I couldn’t allow anything to blemish it. Especially something as dumb as wanting to see naked men. So, I did it quietly. I never beat myself up for liking it, but I also never regarded it as pleasurable, either.
The rationalization of my own queerness is possibly one of the most fascinating things that younger Nicholas ever did. Because I never went to any length to obfuscate my queerness, I never pursued girls or made comments about girls, but I also didn’t voice any disinterest of girls. I never voiced any desire for boys, I never talked about dating, kissing, or anything. But! I also didn’t voice my disgust at anything.
I toed the line between overcompensation and asexuality in a shockingly-nuanced way, for being so young and so under-socialized. For most people, I’m confident I didn’t pass, but I also didn’t scream “gay,” either. It became a non-issue for everyone, including me. Of course, that would only last for so long.
—
That night with Michael, my late-night Wikipedia binges finally sublimated and came to the surface. In the ambling mess of virtual conversation, I tapped out a banger of a question with my little stylus:
“Are you wearing any underwear right now?”
A truly awkward question under any circumstance, but asked over Pictochat from someone in a bedroom across the hallway from you? I wouldn’t even blame Michael N. for being confused in that moment.
“What the fuck dude, why are you asking that. Are you a fag?”
That grabbed me and shook some sense into my sleepy frame. I realized I’d fucked up, and let the sphere’s surface pass through something that did not belong outside. In a panic, I responded that I was just joking and wanted to see how he’d react. That I wasn’t gay, just trying to see what would happen.
Never mind the fact that, at that age, I wouldn’t know a joke if it hit me upside the head. I had plenty of experience getting hit upside the head, too, so I had clearly failed at creating some kind of reasonable doubt. But thankfully, that night passed into my memory uneventfully. Michael N. ended our conversation after saying “alright, good night,” and I shut my DS and laid down, alone with myself. Despite knowing that he’d seen and felt me in a way I imagined feeling the Wikipedia exhibitionists, I didn’t care about what was happening to me over that period of time. One day, I thought, I might be like those guys. I might get to be a part of something bigger than myself, not because I’m trapped, but because I want to.
It didn’t matter that I was trapping myself already. I knew I was gay, and I knew I wanted no one to know that except me. And if it meant I was alone forever, then I’d walk that path alone. Somehow, I found power in my queerness, despite having every obstacle in my way. Despite having been violated under the guise of desire, despite exposing myself to some of the oldest homophobic actions in society, despite having no desire to make this a part of who I was because who I was existed as a screen, I finally felt powerful. In one tiny way, I knew that I was meant to be someone. A queer man.