Best 217 quotes in «coming out quotes» category

Now whenever I left class to go to the boys' room, I worried that I would end up on the blue tiled floor in a puddle of piss and blood.

...oh, believe me, I feel that I'm the least homophobic person... ...I hate putting labels on people... ...I came up with a term, I call them 'Limbo Gay,' that's one, and I came up with another term, 'Straight Gay,' and then there's a new one I made up, I call them 'Dry Gay,' and then there's also 'Gay Gay' which is really the same as 'Really Gay'... ...but this doesn't mean I'm being homophobic, and this is something the gay community needs to be educated about... ...and a man who likes penis doesn't have to call himself gay, or bi, or confused, all he has to do is say to the woman, 'Look, I love you, but I'm a penis man, I like penis...' ...these gay men spend their entire lives lying about who they are, and so lying just becomes a way of life to them... ...these gay men are trying to live a life that isn't theirs to live, they don't belong in the straight world, they belong in the gay world... ...that doesn't make me homophobic...

Oh great, you too. So now I wear this label 'Queer' emblazoned across my chest. Or I could always carve a scarlet 'L' on my forehead. Why does everyone have to put you in a box and nail the lid on it? I don't know what I am—polymorphous and perverse. Shit. I don't even know if I'm white. I'm me. That's all I am and all I want to be. Do I have to be something?

Once," Fran says, settling against the worktable, folding her arms, "I knew this kid who very bravely and bossily came out of the closet when she was only fourteen years old. She told me then that we can't choose who we love. We just love the people we love, no mattter what anyone else might want for us. Wasn't that you?

Once I came out and told her I was gay, everything she thought about me changed. In her eyes, I was no longer the daughter she knew, or the daughter she raised, or the daughter she loved.

One additional piece of the coming out puzzle also fascinated me: the idea that the process, in and of itself, meant that I was announcing to family and friends what I liked to do in the bedroom. To my knowledge, none of my straight friends had similar burdens: “Mom, I love to be tied up!” or “Hey, Sis, did you know that nothing makes me happier than having my clitoris stimulated with a vibrating rod?” weren’t conversational sentiments among my heterosexual counterparts. I, on the other hand, had to accept the responsibility of announcing that I liked to have a man’s penis in my mouth.

People at work eyed me with varying degrees of suspicion or approbation, and a couple of them mistook me for the kind of guy who knew twelve different ways to tie a scarf and whether that scarf clashed with their purse. My helpful tip that most accessories were just needless expenses met with disappointment.

On the way out, I hug Mum, holding her close. 'Thank you,' I whisper. 'For dinner - and for everything.' Mum smiles and strokes my cheek. 'There's nothing to thank me for.

People talk about coming out as though it’s this big one-time event. But really, most people have to come out over and over to basically every new person they meet. I’m only eighteen and it already exhausts me.

Samir loves Joe’s face. He studies it every day in class: a face as old as his own but already, in eighteen years, the cliffs and hills and odd proportions of its geography have been shaped by life’s weather. Samir likes to observe the ever-watchful green eyes, hidden in their shadowy alcoves over the at nose and cheekbones, and the heavy brow that scrunches up with Joe’s moods – all those sculptural planes could have been carved by Easter Islanders. en there’s the pout of his lips, the pucker of their concentration or the twist of their anger. But most of all, Samir examines the thoughts as they cross the wide-open landscape of the face. Tries hard to read their cloud shapes from the merest shadow.

Pulling him all the way out, his c*#@ came free from his jeans with a thud, and my eyes went wide as saucers. This was not a penis but an anaconda. His d* was a weapon of mass destruction and could have had its own area code. To make matters more frightening, Peter was uncut. I was dealing with a hybrid: an anaconda turtle.

Please your mother: just lie around upstairs and smoke some pot. Be a revolutionary.

She kissed me on the cheek, and my mom sang Theresa’s name from the open front door. She loves Theresa. I think she loves me more when I’m with her.

Sometimes coming out isn't about us. It's not fair that we have to carry the emotional burden of sharing our secret and making sure the person we're coming out to is okay, but we make concessions for the people we care about. Besides, I may have run the scenarios for this conversation but my mom had been running scenarios about my entire life since the day she had learned she was pregnant with me.

So he was queer, E.M. Forster. It wasn't his middle name (that would be 'Morgan'), but it was his orientation, his romping pleasure, his half-secret, his romantic passion. In the long-suppressed novel Maurice the title character blurts out his truth, 'I'm an unspeakable of the Oscar Wilde sort.' It must have felt that way when Forster came of sexual age in the last years of the 19th century: seriously risky and dangerously blurt-able. The public cry had caught Wilde, exposed and arrested him, broken him in prison. He was one face of anxiety to Forster; his mother was another. As long as she lived (and they lived together until she died, when he was 66), he couldn't let her know.

The funny thing about coming out is that ir relies on the belief that the information you're keeping about yourself is shameful. If you were raised to be somewhat shameless, it's less of a one-time shock and more like a lifelong rumble.

So what do you do?" There it was. I was so comfortable that I forgot this stranger had no idea what my job was. Whenever I get asked the work question, I pause to assess the situation. A few checks I go through before making my decision to either answer, avoid the question, or stretch the truth are: (1) Does this person feel safe enough to disclose to without there being excessive discomfort or conflict? (2) Am I emotionally prepared to handle discomfort or conflict if they happen? And (3) Do I have an escape route if things end up not going well?

The Auden/Kallman relationship had this to be said for it: It affirmed that it's better to be blatant than latent.

The closet does have a benefit. It provides safety. Which at times is important. But remember, as long as you are in there, two other things will be too. Fear and shame.

That casual kiss on my cheek would have meant nothing up until recently, I realized I was in love with him. Not that, 'I love you, man,' type of love. Nope. I was ass over teacup in love with my best friend. The 'let's get married and grow old together' type of love.

That was the moment when I knew I was in real trouble, that I might really be the kind of person you weren’t supposed to be.

The longer you sit with some shit, the harder it is to talk about

The idea of coming out is not a natural one in Asia as it goes against the whole tradition and the morals of Confucianism. What gays frequently do in Asia is they ‘come home’: they bring their partners home, into their family, once they are a stable couple, and things are therefore known without being spoken. That is our way here of becoming gay. The Asian way.

The people who claim that being transgender is a choice are right on one regard. Living freely as the person you were meant to be is, in fact, a choice. You can choose not to. The decision to transition reflect the time spent grappling with that difficult question: Are you going to give yourself a real chance to be happy?

There are choices, she thought, when she had sat long enough. There are always choices. She made one.

There are those from religious backgrounds who resist and oppose LGBT equality; some very obsessively and publicly. They make bold accusations and negative statements about gay and lesbian people, their supposed "lifestyle" and relationships. But when a son, daughter, brother, sister or close friend comes out it is no longer an "issue" it becomes a person. They realise everything they'd said was painfully targeted at someone they love. Then......everything changes.

There are many of us now. Enough to be called a people in ourselves and not merely a mistake.

There comes a time in a girl’s life where she finds her heart broken, what matters is not the boy who broke it but the boy who stitches it back together

The thing is, I don't really have any coming-out narratives of my own. I never felt as though anyone was entitles to a red-carpet presentation of who I am and how I identify. When I initially found myself attracted to women in college, for example, I simply showed up at the next family function with my first girlfriend in tow and introduced her as such. I didn't call each family member ahead of time and instruct them to brace themselves, nor did I write lengthy letters detailing the intricacies of my new desires. Likewise, when I'm meeting people for the first time at parties or other social engagements and they post the inevitable, "So what do you do?" I respond as routinely as possible: "Oh, I work in the sex industry. You?" I'm not trying to be provocative; rather, I've always believed that being "out" is the most powerful tool of activism available to disadvantaged minority communities, sex workers included, I find that when you approach a supposedly radical issue (queerness, nonmonogamy, atheism, gender nonconformity) with the same nonchalance as you would a less controversial topic (accounting, marriage, the weather), you give the other party permission to treat it with the same accepting ambivalence. We're pack animals, and we're constantly comparing ourselves to one another. We look for approval from our peers, and in many cases we use their reactions and opinions to help guide our own. I often observe people, who I've just disclosed to, pause to shift their eyes and gauge the receptiveness of those around them before responding. It'd be a fascinating study if it weren't so disheartening.

The silence was pregnant with noise, with muted fury, with questions the father found too disgusting to frame and with answers to which the son was incapable of giving voice.

What's that you're holding?" he asked, noticing the pamphlet, still rolled up in her left hand. "Oh, this?" She held it up. "How to Come Out to Your Parents." He widened his eyes. "Something you want to tell me?" "It's not for me. It's for you." She handed it to him. "I don't have to come out to my mother," said Simon. "She already thinks I'm gay because I'm not interested in sports and I haven't had a serious girlfriend yet. Not that she knows of, anyway." "But you have to come out as a vampire," Clary pointed out. "Luke thought you could, you know, use one of the suggested speeches in the pamphlet, except use the word 'undead' instead of--" "I get it, I get it." Simon spread the pamplet open. "Here, I'll practice on you." He cleared his throat. "Mom. I have something to tell you. I'm undead. Now, I know you may have some preconceived notions about the undead. I know you may not be comfortable with the idea of me being undead. But I'm here to tell you that the undead are just like you and me." Simon paused. "Well, okay. Possibly more like me than you." "SIMON." "All right, all right." He went on. "The first thing you need to understand is that I'm the same person I always was. Being undead isn't the most important thing about me. It's just part of who I am. The second thing you should know is that it isn't a choice. I was born this way." Simon squinted at her over the pamphlet. "Sorry, reborn this way.

They're gonna keep telling you are a crime of nature and you're gonna look at all your options, and choose conviction, choose to carve your own heart out of a side of a cliff, choose to spend your whole life telling secrets you owe no one till everyone, till there isn't anyone who can insult you by calling you what you are.

This feels like a big deal.' This makes me laugh. 'It is a big deal. I'm describing how my heart beats.

Unless you count the way the words sink into Neil, the way his life feels a little more solid than it did five minutes before.

The worst part was the fear - looking down at the rushing water that seemed miles away. But once you were on that branch, there was no going back.

This thing that’s always been inside and hidden deep is getting bigger and stronger and threatening to show itself, and I want to stop it but I also don’t, and I don’t know if I’m ready, but I think maybe I want what’s inside turned outside, maybe I want everything out in the open, all my secrets laid out for everyone to see. I wonder what that would look like. I wonder what kind of mess it would make. I wonder if you can ever really be ready for the part of you that you’ve been hiding your whole life to finally come out.

What were they going to say when I brought home my first boyfriend? Would I even be able to, or would we keep talking about weather and the Red Sox, pretending nothing had changed?

And I have a couple swimsuit calendars I did that are coming out.

When you hear of Gay Pride, remember, it was not born out of a need to celebrate being gay. It evolved out of our need as human beings to break free of oppression and to exist without being criminalized, pathologized or persecuted. Depending on a number of factors, particularly religion, freeing ourselves from gay shame and coming to self-love and acceptance, can not only be an agonising journey, it can take years. Tragically some don't make it. Instead of wondering why there isn't a straight pride be grateful you have never needed one. Celebrate with us.

After being in the creative, hermetic state I have been in, coming out has been painful, but it is getting easier.

All people—all lives—are either in a crisis, coming out of a crisis, or headed for a crisis.

When someone comes to a pastor or a close friend and says "I think I'm gay", rest assured 99% are. How we respond creates light or darkness. Please be aware that when you've never heard anything positive about being gay and you've laboured secretly over this for ages, you don’t make a declaration like that lightly. It takes an enormous amount of courage to eventually tell someone. This is not an empowering coming out though or finally finding a place of self-acceptance; the statement is cloaked in fear and shame. The statement "I think I'm gay" is not really about doubt or confusion it's more likely they are saying "I'm gay, but it scares the shit out of me and I don’t want to be. Help!" At that point the pastor or friend has the privileged opportunity to provide a place of safety and compassion that will lead them on into self-acceptance and an authentic life. Handled unwisely could lead them into years of internal torment.

Why did she have to spend the rest of her life coming out over and over and over...? And once she did, would people always expect her to talk about it? It would always be a huge deal, she would always be subjected to questions, and she would always have to defend herself. Would it ever stop feeling like A Thing, a barrier, between her and everyone else?

Yesterday, when you said you told everyone, what did you mean?" "Everyone important, I guess. I mean, I didn't rush out to inform my mailman or anything." "Oh, he knows," Nate said offhandedly. "Oh. Okay," I said, thrown. "Well, I guess I can cross him off the list.

You don’t get to say it’s not a big thing. This is a big fucking thing, okay? This was supposed to be—this is mine. I’m supposed to decide when and where and who knows and how I want to say it.” Suddenly, my throat gets thick. “So, yeah, you took that from me.

You see, that’s the thing about a girl, Her kisses leave you breathless Her eyes become your world But it never seems to matter where she stops, lingers or starts She’ll sometimes revive it, sometimes break it, but she will always steal your heart

You've never really trusted him, though you don't understand why. Something about the fact that he's hidden all his life - which is hypocritical as hell after your ten years in Tirimo.

As an artist, you take things from your environment, and there's going to be a style coming out of your environment.

A rebellion is something that is developing as an explosion coming out of the righteous grievances of a community of people.

Anyway, I lived on the streets and did pretty good until I got caught stealing, what was it? I kicked in a restaurant window, went in and took all the food that I wanted, and while coming out I was grabbed.