Consent (The Ticket)
This piece looks back at 90s-era queer weirdness—slurs, “gay” as an insult, early arousal and shame, and the messy online run-ins that can come with figuring out what actually fits (pushy sexting, unsolicited pics, and attention that doesn’t respect boundaries).
If early queer experiences, bullying, or boundary-violating messages are still a raw spot for you—especially from masc guys—read this only if it feels like recognition, not re-injury.
It’s okay to skim it, save it, or walk away halfway through if your body starts tightening up more than it opens—especially once it gets into the MySpace-era DMs, the unsolicited pics, and the “this is coming on too strong” masc-guy energy.
— Zan
Scene (The Ride)
I remember the feeling when I masturbated to other males as a teenager.
It didn’t feel like, “Oh hey, I’m discovering my sexuality.”
It felt like I was committing the worst possible thought-crime.
My body agreed.
Right at climax, it was like my cock pulled a little emergency brake:
“Hey buddy, you sure this is what you want to come to?”
The orgasm would sputter out. No glorious porn fountain. Just a sad dribble, like a sink someone forgot to turn all the way on.
Shame with a side of plumbing failure.
I learned later that, contrary to the social programming of the time, I actually had a preference — not just anyone with a cock.
It’s not surprising, given how I grew up.
Growing up in the 90s, the media of the time taught my younger self that “being gay” could only mean one, or all, of a few things:
- Gay men had male pattern baldness.
- Gay men kept everything suspiciously clean.
- Gay men owned at least one cat.
- Gay men were constantly dying of AIDS.
Or you were Tom Hanks pretending to be gay.
Or you were Robin Williams pretending to be gay.
Or you were George Michael pretending… well, actually gay.
Or you were just some throwaway punchline in a sitcom.
That was it: tragedy, “reality” docs, or laugh track — at least in my sheltered cable TV / magazine world.
It was a time where being gay felt almost chic to some straight people — a collectible sticker you could point to — while the actual humans were either invisible, disposable, or, sadly, being murdered.
That wasn’t the only place I heard about being gay.
Outside of TV, I mostly heard “gay” at school.
Specifically: shouted at me or whispered about me.
Not because I was out.
I wasn’t.
I wasn’t even gay… at that time.
I was just… different.
So what if I listened to YMCA and would walk around the neighborhood with a boombox blasting it.
So what about that time I was repeating some quote from South Park without realizing “Beefcake” didn’t just mean a savory stack of hamburgers, in my adolescent mind.
So what about that time in the school bathroom.
Growing up rural, if you didn’t smell like horse shit and dirt, you already smelled a little alien to those around you.
Add anything remotely flamboyant — how you walked, how you talked, how you reacted to things — and you might as well have had OTHER spray-painted on your chest.
Here’s the irony:
Most of the guys who later came out?
Didn’t get called “gay” or other “fun” slurs to their face.
Not that I saw, anyway.
I don’t have first, second, or even third-hand accounts of their school life being hell. Maybe it was quiet. Maybe it was internal. Maybe I just wasn’t privy to those “conversations.”
What I did hear, loud and regular, was:
“Gay.”
“Faggot.”
“Fudge packer.”
At me.
It was like I was the gay Jesus of my school system — absorbing everyone’s alleged gayness so they could walk free and undeterred.
You’re welcome.
Speaking of which, I wasn’t shy about interacting with those who had the “coding” of gay without the pride parade in tow.
One day in the locker room, while I was changing, another guy pointed at the stretch marks on my lower side.
The local good ol’ boy conditioning kicked in instantly.
“Why are you looking at my body?!”
That was the only acceptable answer in my head — full deflection, full macho panic.
He answered, dead serious:
“I thought maybe you were getting hurt. Like… at home.”
And for a second, I froze.
Inside, I’m thinking:
Wait. Is the loss of my adolescent husky weight making me look like I’m getting beaten?
Outside, ego took over.
There were other guys in earshot.
I kept pressing the “WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME!” button, like that would fix whatever had just cracked open.
Later, when there wasn’t an audience, the delayed feeling hit: sadness.
Not because he’d seen the marks.
Because I’d thrown a grenade at someone who was — in his own awkward way — trying to check if I was okay. Allegedly.
I wanted to make it right.
I had no idea how.
My brain only had one reliable bridge: entertainment.
So the next day, while we were changing again, I tried to connect the only way I knew how.
“So… you watch Just Shoot Me?”
Context: this was the “gay show” for people who didn’t know it was a “gay show” — David Spade, fashion magazine backdrop, stylish chaos.
He looked up.
“Yeah. I like that show too.”
That was it.
No group hug.
No heart-to-heart.
Just a small, quiet “me too” over a sitcom.
In hindsight, we should’ve sucked each other’s dick in the showers.
But that’s 20/20 for you.
Even just twenty years ago, saying that out loud — even wrapped in humor — would’ve been social suicide.
For a straight male, owning the idea that you might want a guy’s mouth or hands or anything near you?
That was enough to sign your name in permanent marker:
GAY.
Didn’t matter if it was only ever in your head.
Didn’t matter if nothing had happened.
Just claiming it was enough.
Now?
You can say:
“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”
“Yeah, I used to jerk off to guys.”
And maybe half the room shrugs and says, “Same.” before engaging in a circle jerk.
That, to me, is actual progress.
Let’s blow… past the “simple” times of public school and fast-forward to the MySpace and Windows Vista era of online messaging.
I had just “taken a break” from a dynamic — not quite free, not quite owned — and decided to lean into a queer side quest while I waited for her to stop cheating long enough to talk about all the cheating.
So, I did what any straight male would do: I started cybering with gay men.
Specifically, horny masc dom-leaning gay men.
Man, was that fucking traumatic.
Queer Side Quest 1: I’ll Show You Mine…
Him: hey, you’re pretty cute. you horny?
Me: yes!
Him: mmm, you look tasty. you know what part i wanna eat first?
Me: wat
Him: your ass. i could eat your ass like i haven’t eaten in days
Me, making the shocked Pikachu face in real life.
Then — without me asking — he sends a dick pic.
This thing is massive. Like mythic.
If Spirit Halloween sold dicks, this would be the floor display model.
Me: it’s big!
Him: show me yours. now.
Me: I don’t feel comfortable showing mine.
Him: WHAT. you promised!! you have to send me a pic now
Me: I didn’t ask to see yours. it’s nice. and large. looks like it would kill me. but I don’t wanna show off right now.
Him: you must. that’s how this works!!!
We looped that argument until I eventually blocked him because my nervous system was starting to write its own true crime episode of where this was leading.
Queer Side Quest 2: You Are Alone in the Forest…
Him: hey, you wanna play?
Me: yes!
Him: okay, do you want me to start or do you wanna go first?
Me: you can go!
Him: okay…
And then:
“You are walking through a forest rich in oak trees. There is mist in the air. Ahead, you see a cottage. Suspicious, you approach the door and begin to knock. From behind the door you hear a voice: ‘Who is it?’”
Me: wat
Him: wat? you’re the one knocking on my door
Me: no, I mean what the fuck are you on about. I’m horny.
Him: we’re roleplaying. you are coming to my cottage. this is how we have to role play.
Sir, I am jerking off with one hand in a swivel chair, not auditioning for a community theatre production of The Witcher.
Me: I’m a little too occupied to type and think right now. that’s why I’m sexting.
He scolded me for “ruining his cottage” non-con role play and logged off like I’d pissed in his fanfic.
Queer Side Quest 3: A Sort of Bridge Portal Device…
Him: hey, you’re hot. wanna make each other cum?
Me: yes!
Him: cool cool, wanna do a call so we can hear each other moan?
Me: yes!
So far, so good.
Then:
Him: cool cool, just need a minute. my fucking asshole roommate is blasting Stargate Atlantis again. god I hate that show, it’s so stupid, I have to hear that shit all the time. can’t watch Project Runway ever. like who even watches that? some fucking idiot, that’s who.
Meanwhile, on my tiny 13” TV?
I was watching Stargate Atlantis.
One of my favorite shows at the time.
Me: I don’t think this is gonna work out for either of us.
Click.
Nothing like a little Dom-on-Dom virtual whiplash to make me accept someone else’s infidelity and give that train wreck of a relationship another try.
Sometimes, you can catch the “wrong” kind of attention and it can be a lot more difficult to hover over a button and click the issue away.
Especially when you aren’t even trying at all.
So, I attracted a “gay” legit stalker one time.
He showered me with affection.
Long, intense, all-caps love messages.
Almost daily.
After a while, I started to think that the universe was pairing me with someone that truly wanted me, despite any of my flaws.
Too bad he had me confused with someone else entirely.
Like: literally thought I was some celebrity.
And it wasn’t even a cool A-class celebrity like Owen Wilson.
It was some bassist in a not-exactly–household-name band.
WOW.
This “celebrity” had the same fake name I was using on my profile at the time and, if you squinted and tilted your head, I could sort of pass for this other person — maybe in a parallel universe.
This went on — on and off and then on again — for close to a year.
He was desperate. He wouldn’t believe me when I kept insisting I wasn’t That Person™.
Some days I started to feel like I was being gaslit into becoming his celebrity crush, just because I was nice enough to respond.
Eventually I had to look up the real guy and get him to tell this dude to knock it off.
Then I had to do it again nine months later because he forgot.
Anyway.
If you were wondering just a few of the many reasons I’m drawn to feminine energy?
Yeah.
These experiences are on that list.
Certain masc guys can come on way too strong.
At least when it comes to me, being a dominant personality.
Now, is this the extent of all my “gay” times?
Let’s just cut it there and don’t ask and I won’t tell.
Sometimes people know what they like straight away.
Sometimes they know what they want deviates from the people and culture around them.
It’s not about what the world at large tells you is acceptable when it comes to how you love (outside of, you know, basic local and state laws).
It’s not about what the entertainment world tells you “counts” as LGBTQIA+ — in any era.
It’s not even about what your peers or friends think you should be attracted to.
It’s about this:
When nobody’s looking, when you’re not performing for anyone,
whose energy actually feels like home in your body?
That’s the only answer that really matters.
Unless you’re a straight man getting paid millions to pretend you’re a straight man, then realize you’re a gay man, and you’re married to 80s sex symbol Phoebe Cates from Fast Times at Ridgemont High in real life.
Then it doesn’t really matter who or how you get fucked: You win.
Companion track: “I Used To Be Cool” – Bright Light Bright Light
Aftercare (The Comedown)
This was a memory-piece: 90s-era slurs and shame, early arousal, and a few messy online run-ins where attention came fast and boundaries didn’t. The humor is there to keep the story human and survivable, not to turn anyone’s identity into a punchline.
If any part of this echoed your own path—bullying, confusion, experimenting, or being pushed online—take the simple takeaway: you get to define your pace, your edges, and your access. Wanting what you want doesn’t make you defective, and “too much, too soon” energy is allowed to be a dealbreaker without a debate.
This isn’t a rulebook for queerness, masc/fem, or anything else—it’s one person’s snapshot. Keep what clarifies, leave what doesn’t, and let “home in your body” be the only compass that counts.
Cycle II – Coming of Age (The Hidden Life) · 10 (v1.00)
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