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I love being gay. I love spending twenty minutes moisturizing. I love carrying my phone in my hand like a little coin purse. I love poppers. I love incense. I love drama. I love starting phone calls with GIRL and biiiiiiiitch. I love songs that are just one command, like DANCE, spoken over and over again by a mean Australian lady with cunty bangs. I love crossing my legs, tequila sunrises, and when the bartender calls me “baby.”

I love when you can tell an animal is gay. I love misting my plants with a spritzer. I love drizzling syrup…


In the last decade, I’ve come out hundreds — if not thousands — of times

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Photo by Elvin Ruiz on Unsplash

The first time I came out, I didn’t know what it meant to be gay. Don’t get me wrong, I understood that a part of it had to do with my attraction to other boys: the buzz of my best friend’s thigh brushing against mine on the school bus and the itchy feeling in my toes whenever my swim coach, Miguel, pressed his palm on my stomach while teaching me a proper stroke.

I was 10 years old then, a nervous kid who liked things to be in my control. (I even read choose-your-own-adventure books front to back, skipping the…

Edgar Gomez

My memoir, High-Risk Homosexual, is forthcoming fall 2021 (Soft Skull Press). Edgargomez.net / @edgarrubengomez

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