Rick Clemons - Frankly My Dear I’m Gay: The Late Bloomers Guide to Coming Out

Introduction

I m a bottom. No, thats not true. Im a bottom-line type of guy. Im also transparent. As well as a parent. I visited heterosexual land for 38 years, did the white picket fence thing with a wonderful woman (and no, the sex didnt gross me out, but it wasnt my preference), and I got bitch slapped by a handsome British guy into my truth. The truth that I was a gay man. (But, more about that later.)

Now, back to the part about me being transparent. Im not going to blow smoke up your Andrew Christians, or ruffle your Victoria Secret panties either. Coming out late in life wasnt easy, fun, joyful, a cakewalk, or a mind-blowing orgasm. Well, actually, it was all of those things and then some. My experience was more like a drag queen; I played a straight guy, who was really a gay guy, pretending not to be gay, all without makeup, or costumes to make the illusion work for a long, long, time. Precisely, the reason IT finally unraveled, IT being my less than Oscar winning performance of living the heterosexual life.

Like many of you who are brave enough to have purchased this book (make sure you have a good hiding place for it, or get the Kindle version), I couldnt keep track of whether I was coming, or going. Wasnt sure Id covered my tracks, kept my stories in order, or even slipped up. Stress, worry, lying, pretending, and sleepless nights were all tightly packed into the Louis Vuitton of my life. Those bags had become so damn heavy and there wasnt a hot bellboy in sight. Well, there were a few bellboys, but Im not one to kiss and tell.

So why the damn hell am I sharing all this with you? Because I want you to know that I feel your pain. I dont understand you because I cant fully understand you, your journey, or even your challenges. However, I do get a whole heck of a lot of what youre going through and thats the gospel truth of why I wrote this book. I wanted to provide as many people as possible, with a sassy, serious, light-hearted, heartfelt, perspective and guide for coming out of the closet, after having been married, possibly with children, and attempting to live the white picket fence societal dream. Im determined to virtually hold your hand as you bravely take a stand and utter the words, Frankly My Dear, Im Gay! You will survive. You will thrive. You too will have a happy, peaceful, and productive life after closet dwelling... if you choose to do so. You just gotta slip into your rainbow super hero cape, click your Dorothy heels, and start to trust, believe, and let go. Oh, and you gotta finish reading this book. Starting with, the next paragraph that explains from whence I came into this world to write this book!

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, wires got crossed. My D, to the N, to the A, ended up being pre-wired with a penchant for Broadway shows, evenings engrossed verbally slapping down the designers on Project Runway , and of course, a deep admiration for furry chested men with nether region packages stuffed into Andrew Christian underwear.

As much as my attention-starved inner diva (Lemon-Odd Pop) would like to imagine that we are better than you, it just wasnt so. Our life began in our Mothers frickin womb, just like you. It was a short-term, 9-month lease, replete with heated swimming pool, dark, meditation room, and with of course, an umbilical cord featuring curbside delivered meals on demand. Compared to the stresses of adulthood, Mommas Mom-cave was a cushy space to hang out while the Divas of the universe and the Big Guy upstairs worked tirelessly on the construction zone that was me, using Dads little swimmers and Moms egg. They did their best to make me in the likeness of the parents image, except for one little flaw, but we will get to that!

Of course, nine months passed in the blink of an eye. The years zoomed by. Before I knew it, Im 38, Moms 55, and about to experience labor pains again. Pains so severe, even Dad will be begging for ice chips laced with Bourbon! But, Im getting ahead of myself.

For 9 months/270 days/388,880 minutes, Lemon-Odd Pop (remember her, my alter ego diva) and I hung out in Chateau de Mommasita, practicing water ballet and fabulously pre-designing my future life. Boyhood Tonka Trucks, Matchbox cars, and dirt bike racing with an occasional detour into Barbie dolls and Easy Bake Ovens all made for a damn good kick-start to life. What we didnt factor into our plans were the early boyhood explorations of, Is your pee pee bigger than mine? and a confused, raging, sex drive smitten with both genders. At least, thats the line of bullshit I tried to sell myself even though I leaned towards the gender that sported a penis. Along about the teen years, Lemon-Odd Pop and I tired off script writing my life the way we saw it, and took a hiatus. Excess fogginess on the horizon of adulthood, made it easy for us to dismiss the work of planning my future life. Or were we in denial? Yes, that was it. Denial with a capital D. A pattern that would become a fixture in my life for years to come.

Some might blame the way I turned out on one too many high heel kicks to my own head and impersonating Fred Astaire dance moves in The Gay Divorce while squirming around in Moms cave. Others would say it was due to the suffocating tightness of Moms ever tightening hot pants she insisted on wearing until I came full term. And then theres the theory that because my parents were groovy hippies who frequented Haight Ashbury and Golden Gate Park, that might have inhaled a little too much of the little green weed, thus screwing up my genes. As far as I know, they neither partook nor inhaled. Even if they had, theres no scientific proof that smoking pot screws up ones sexual orientation. Im sure someone, somewhere would love to make that correlation and use it as a means to rid the planet of us deviant homosexuals. Fact is, with or without hallucinogens, I was destined to take a sexual orientation detour. Even in my Mothers womb, I felt a magnetic pull towards doing and being what I desired, even if it meant saying, No, no, no to others expectations. YUCK! Conflict and confusion were already taking up permanent residence in my cerebral cortex before Id even learned to say Momma and Da Da! This sucked, and not in the pleasurable way I would come to enjoy years later.

Fact is, I was and always would be a man marching to a different drumbeat. Of course, the truth wouldnt come to light until my gay adolescent age of 38.

Heres the bottom-line, and dammit you better listen up! During my development, an X Chromosome met a Y Chromosome that led to a uniquely, non-hetero courtship, meaning one thing: I was destined to be gay! It had nothing to do with my Fairy Godfather visiting me in the womb, my desire to coquettishly announce, Im ready for my close up, Mom and Pops as I exited the birth canal, nor the slap on the ass from the hunky doctor who delivered me (at least I fantasize that a Dr. McDreamy delivered me) . Although, I must admit, that slap on the ass did awaken a yearning to play, Me master, you slave! But, I digress. I am gay and theres nothing that could change that.

Heck, the moment I sprang to life, swaddled in baby boy blue blankie, I began cruising. No, not like hooking up on Grindr, Scruff, or Growlr, Was sup cruising. I couldnt even get a non-urine driven stiffie at that point in my life. Instead, I curiously cruised the little rug varmint next to me. That little bitch was styling a hot pink onesie with yellow butterflies! Damn just three hours after slip sliding down the birth canal and shes already got a stylist working for her! Nice going! Where was mine, Mom and Dad? I wanted a costume change right then and there. Alas, I would have to wait to learn the life lesson: patience is a virtue. Oh, screw that! Patience is for the birds. Darn it, Im an impatient Leo, with no tolerance for waiting. Why should I have to wait for my sexual orientation to catch up to my maturity? I wanted to be me right then and there. It seemed utterly insane, at such a young age, to watch my life turn into repeating tapes of someday. Did I truly have to let my boyhood dreams get lost in the abyss of manhood obligations: for instance, mortgages, marriage, career, and parenthood? Yes. It was part of the master plan. A plan that would derail me from loving me, and being myself. A plan that would kick my ass into learning the art of patience. A plan that would teach me the fine art of letting it go, and letting it flow. Ok, whatever! All hail to the plan. It still sucked until it didnt, 38 years later.