The other week on Twitter I came across a young man who tweeted he’d started a new site: rucomingout He described it as a valuable resource for those who are living life in the closet. Intrigued I not only followed him (I couldn’t,not: he seemed so young and earnest). Among other things the sites features coming out stories. I was instantly moved to share my own story (and let’s face it, I’m a writer and therefore a “ham.”) Only problem was I never really came out because I was never in. If anyone asked me, “Are you gay?” I would answer, “Yes.” Problem was most people didn’t ask. Maybe they were afraid to know. Or maybe they took certain truths to be self-evident—I may not have been flaming but I was definitely smoldering and you know where there's smoke there's likely to be fire.

The closest to coming out I came was sophomore year of college when we were making selections for third year rooms/roommates. At that point my roommate and I had been roommates for 2 years. He was teaching me to use chopsticks at the time because we were having dinner with his mother who was Japanese.

Me: You know I’m gay, right?”
Him: Yeah, I know. Hold them like this.
Me, dropping the chopsticks: You know?
Him: Well, yeah. I mean I figured.
Me: Does it bother you?
Him: No. Why would it?
Me: Do you still want to be roommates next year?
Him looking at me like I had two heads: Yeah. Now will you pay attention? I don’t want you to embarrass me at dinner.

We remained roommates all through college. And when my first boyfriend hit me, Yone kicked his ass. I can still see him standing over my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend and yelling “You do not get to hit Larry.”

I may have come out as gay but he came out as a friend.

I’ve heard coming out is a process requiring you to come out over and over again. For me it’s like being black: it’s a fact that presents and speaks for itself. When I meet new people I mention Stanley, same as I would if I had a wife and it was relevant, just as matter-of-factly. When I start a new job, I put his picture and a picture of the dogs on my desk. So yeah, I consider myself out. And proud. I’ve always refused to be anyone’s shame or dirty little secret. Yet a few Christmases ago my mother confided to me, “You know I’ve only ever told one person you were gay,” leaving me speechless and unbearably hurt.

My dad always hated my boyfriends. Years later I discovered it wasn’t because they were boyfriends but because he didn’t t think any of them was good enough for me. When he met Stanley, he pulled me aside and said,” I like him. He is what I had in mind for you. Please hold on to this one.” I don’t think I have ever loved my father more than I did at that moment. That day, my dad, like Yone, came out as a friend.

When I was writing “What Binds Us,” and I got to the scene where Thomas and Matthew come out to Thomas’s parents—and they come out not so much as gay, but as a couple determined to build a life together—I based the father on my dad. To my mind that’s the highest tribute I could pay my dad.