Age 11 - Grandpa Turned Me Gay

I was only 11, sitting on grandpa’s front porch when the mail arrived. After sifting and sorting, he approached me with a magazine from the stack.

“More junk mail. I’m not sure why this came, do you want it?”

It was a copy of International Male, a 1980's men’s clothing catalogue.

I took hold of it. Grandpa had just handed liquid gold to the only grandson who went on to become a gay man. I paged through. The chests. The chiseled faces. And most unique of all, the four-page spread of underwear, a crotch-shot heaven of colorful options.

I decided to hold onto the magazine — you know, for the clothes.

Gay, bi or questioning men of a certain age will remember International Male — it was like GQ without the articles, and with a bit more skin. Kind of like Abercrombie in the early 2000's but not so blatantly sexual. It was more European, more over-the-top fashion.

The term metrosexual was a decade away from being coined, so even the least discerning eye could pronounce the magazine as “pretty gay” or just simply “not my style.” It was as if Ralph Lauren ads came to life with daring touches.

What red-blooded American male doesn’t need a full-length cape with hood to clasp about the neck? Or a zigzag mesh top to showcase your hairy pecs? You know, for those times you’re taking the family to church.

What? You’re not in need of a blousy shirt with ruffles down the front?

Perhaps grandpa needed a nice pair of lime-green short-shorts to be paired with black hiking boots. Or a swimwear onesie in muted plum to further showcase his epic biceps.

Take a look if you don’t believe me, dear reader. Dive into Pinterest or Google to see the ridiculously fun ensembles I’m talking about. (I don’t have the rights to share them here). You must witness the hats befitting a true Lothario or rake. The flowing chiffon or silk coverup that makes a treasure trail pop.

Gallant, jaunty vests over rippling chests.

But always most prominent, practically at centerfold, was the underwear section. Just bulges from every conceivable angle. Four pages of ‘em.

And please remember, the ubiquitous boxer-brief hadn’t yet officially been named or even appeared at your local Sears. Average American men were still in tighty whitey or plain boxer mode.

These International Male underwear guys, with their seamed pouches, were ahead of their time — decades before our current culture where every self-respecting young straight man and movie star is expected to have a six-pack and perhaps a few sexy underwear pieces.

In early to mid-80’s America? Not so much.

The models weren’t just pretty-boy twink faces, more a mix of rugged, testosterone-laden manly-men who’s normally be ensconced in L.L. Bean flannel — yet here, were in a daffodil-yellow peek-a-boo lacy caftan.

On a guy who looked like Tom Selleck.

I know what you’re thinking — this magazine must’ve become my treasured masturbatory material, just like those hidden-away newspaper ads for bras that my straight classmates were starting to pay attention to.

Alas, that would be a big fat nope.

Raised by an ultra-Catholic family in southwestern Pennsylvania, at age eleven the idea of “normal guys” being gay wasn’t even in my consciousness. It was 1984 and the only mention of gay men were those “active sinners getting what they deserved through AIDS” on TV every night. Or that’s the only way it was presented to us.

Not exactly something you want to aspire to or be associated with when you’re getting fed such a narrative every night. But I know I did hold onto the magazine. And I can’t imagine it’s because I had the funds to buy that pink Obi-Wan Kenobi hooded ensemble. There was just something about all those men in the underwear.

It wasn’t yet titillating. But something in me was curious and amazed men could look like that. Religious indoctrination can be a terrible thing.

It took until literally age 20 for me to even acknowledge I had crushes on guys, until age 26 to come out (fully) to myself and slowly to the world — a long and painful journey through young adulthood.

All is well now.

But I had a good chuckle, a few years back, when I suddenly recalled young and clueless me, sitting on that porch glider, when grandpa unwittingly handed a world of wide-eyed wonderment to his only gay-little-boy grandson.

Paging through it didn’t “make me gay” any more than reading Tom Sawyer “turns” little boys straight.

But I was beyond grateful grandpa absentmindedly handed the most gay, non-porn magazine available to his most “artistic” grandson.

Thatnks for reading words written by a human for humans. This story was originally published on Medium.com.