Another Sad Coming Out Story: Steve Kornacki

This is just a sad story, in which yet another man is looking for love in all the wrong places.

The coming out
story I never thought I'd write

I was an
all-American kid who idealized the family men I grew up around. At 32, I can
finally admit I'm different

By STEVE
KORNACKI

NOVEMBER 16,
2011 6:00AM (UTC)

I’ve read
stories from people who say they always knew they were attracted to the same
sex, or that they figured it out at a young age. I’m not one of them. I had
practically no idea until one night in my sophomore year of high school. I was
at a basketball game, and the guys around me started pointing out cheerleaders
from the other team they thought were hot. I began to wonder: Why wasn’t I
looking at the cheerleaders that way? And why was I sometimes noticing the
other team’s players instead? My heart rate quickened and my mind spun until a
thought surfaced: This is what it means to be gay.

He was sixteen years old, and he was not all that interested in the cheerleaders at the time. That does not make a person homosexual. Everyone grows and develops, and then shares a different interest in life on their own timetable. I am now beginning to suspect that many people struggle with homosexual issues because they believe something wrong about themselves during adolescence. For example, if they are not getting involved with the opposite sex in some major way …

These lies must be confronted as best as possible. Young people need to be assured and comforted that there is nothing wrong with them if they are not getting sexually active with the opposite sex in their teen years. In fact, it may even be wise to refrain from dating until college.

Only it
couldn’t be. I was the All-American kid, or so I told myself – good grades,
never in trouble, bright future, well-respected by my peers. My favorite
comedian was Bob Newhart. After a trip to Cape Cod with a friend and his
family, the kid's mother said her favorite moment was watching “straitlaced
Steve” struggling to make sense of all the hedonism around him when we drove
out to Provincetown. I remember seeing drag queens and men dressed in skimpy
attire and thinking to myself: Get me out of here so I can watch a baseball
game.

In other words, he had a normal response. A healthy response. Who would want to see such perversion?

I just didn’t
fit the stereotypes of gay men. I was an ESPN addict as far back as elementary
school. I’d also had early crushes on girls. So my epiphany at that basketball
game was as sudden as it was incompatible with my self-image. I fought it
relentlessly.

He did have a crush on girls, too. Therefore, not born that way.

My confidence
would swell each time I convinced myself a girl was attractive – and it would
crater whenever a guy provoked a much stronger, more instinctive response. I
searched for loopholes. What if I’d rather sleep with an attractive member of
the opposite sex than an ugly member of my own? Would that make me straight, or
at least straight enough? Maybe I could find a butch straight girl — someone
with short hair, androgynous features and a fondness for guys’ clothing. Was
that the trick?

This guy was too self-involved and insecure as a kid. Therein lies the major problem.

I am going to let his story continue from there.

Eventually, I
learned how to compartmentalize. I didn’t have to spend all day fighting my
urges; I could just ignore them in public and acknowledge them in private,
fleeting moments. I went to the prom with a girl my mother hoped I'd end up
with. (The next year, she told me she was gay. I thanked her for telling me,
and never gave a hint that we shared something in common.) Back then, at 17, a
year still felt like forever, and the idea of being 35 or 40 seemed
ridiculously far off – distant enough for me to tell myself that everything
would take care of itself and I’d end up married to a woman.

By the time I
got to Boston University, I’d buried my secret so deep that I barely thought
about it when I was with my new friends. It was contained. Well, mostly. My
outlet was online chat rooms, and I kept strict rules: Never give my real name,
never give out a phone number, never show a picture, always use a fake email
address. There could be no paper trail. This worked until my junior year, but
my curiosity grew: Maybe I could arrange to meet someone. Just once. Someone I
was sure I’d never, ever see again.

I found my mark
on a Friday night in late October 2000. I was in the chat room and about to
log-off when a private message flashed on my screen. He was in his early 30s
(or so he claimed) and lived in an older neighborhood far from campus. I didn’t
see a picture, but his description sounded good enough. I told him I wanted
discretion, that I didn’t want to do anything risky, and that it would be a
one-time thing. He told me to come over.

The news radio
station was playing a report on the Bush-Gore race as I squeezed into an
on-street parking space near the Oak Square section of Boston. I fought the
impulse to drive away. But I took a breath and stepped out of the car. When I
saw him for the first time, I had one immediate thought: Run. Instead, I stuck
out my hand and lied: “I’m Chris.” I think he mumbled that his name was Brian.
Was it possible I somehow had more confidence than him? “Wheel of Fortune” was
on the television, and the living room smelled like my Great Aunt Nitzie’s. I
lied again: “Nice place.” He motioned toward the back, where his bedroom was.
I’m still too Catholic to add much more here, but suffice it to say: It was
quick, I didn’t do much, and I felt dirty, degraded and embarrassed the whole
time.

When I got
home, I took off my clothes and threw them in the trash. I never slept that
night, not even for a minute.

It was three
years before I did anything more. I worried that I’d contracted a disease. I
worried that I’d run into the guy and be exposed. Boston never felt like a
smaller town. So when my friend Dave suggested we drive out to L.A. after
graduation, I jumped at the chance to put 3,000 miles between me and what I’d
done. The trip was short, but by the time I got back I had calmed down. Around
that time, I caught a break I’m still grateful for – the chance to write about
politics and do a cable TV show in New Jersey. It was the perfect way to break
into political journalism: My career was now on track. I didn’t date girls, but
my work life – weird hours, driving all over a state that was brand-new to me
— provided a good cover. If anyone in New Jersey asked me about my love life,
I told them about a girl back in Boston; if anyone in Boston asked, I told them
I was having fun but that there was nothing serious. I almost came to pride
myself on my deception. When a female politician told me she wished she had a
daughter to set me up with, I patted myself on the back: I was the guy I’d
always wanted to be.

But my
curiosity overtook me again. Several times, I arranged to meet up with guys
online, but I would lose my nerve and flee, never returning their confused
emails. At the end of 2003, after what amounted to a months-long negotiation, I
gave in with a grad student at Princeton. The bad news was that he wasn’t what
I’d expected. The good news was that I didn’t freak out afterward. I just put
the memory in the ever-expanding gay compartment, and went back to living my
“straight” life.

I became
comfortable emailing out my picture, talking on the phone. So much for not
leaving a paper trail. Misleading my friends came to feel natural. I even met
up to grab coffee with some guys, which is how I met Brian. He seemed amazingly
normal. We talked about football the whole time. I found myself hoping we could
get dinner or go to a movie. Dating, I think it’s called. He wasn’t interested
in anything serious, but I’d glimpsed a new possibility. There had to be others
like him. And it was then that I made a promise to myself: If I ever got into a
real relationship, that’s when I would tell everyone the truth.

My work life
took me to New York, where I continued my Internet habits. But I discovered
that I'm picky — at least 95 percent of my online conversations would end
without any meeting. If someone exhibited stereotypically gay behavior, it
would spark my own fear of exposure. One of the early meet-ups was particularly
awful. He greeted me with an exaggerated hug and a big, flamboyant personality.
I escaped quickly, and cursed myself all the way home. What are you doing?

By my 30th
birthday in August 2009, my limited online world was becoming predictable, the
same stale email addresses and profiles over and over again. I told friends my
new plan was to stay single until I was 65, at which point I’d need a wife to
call the ambulance when I’d inevitably slip in the shower. It was a joke, I
guess.

And then I met
someone who was in a similar situation. Or actually, I re-met him. Dan and I
hung out a couple of times several years earlier, and I’d liked him. But the
timing hadn’t been right. This time, we met for a drink on a Friday night, and
for three hours we sat in a booth at an Irish pub near Union Square. I couldn’t
wait to see him again. (Dan is not his real name, by the way.)

For the first
few weeks, we met at bars halfway between our apartments. I’d walk him back to
his neighborhood across town just to have 20 more minutes around him, then walk
a full 40 minutes back to my place. Our first non-bar date was at a movie
theater. My hand brushed against his after the lights went out, and I held it
until the film was over. It was the simplest thing – who doesn’t do that at 16?
– but it was brand-new to me. There was no better feeling in the world.

He was
attractive, smart and funny, with a manner that was cool and relaxed. He could
be quick with a playful verbal jab. I shared my dreams, my failures, and my
many irrational fears. He listened and cared. When I’d feel sorry for myself,
he’d give me a kick instead of pouting along with me. If I needed a boost, he’d
pick me up. And when I’d start taking myself too seriously, he’d find a way to
make me laugh at myself. His instincts were perfect. I trusted him completely
and drew tremendous comfort from him. He wasn’t outwardly sentimental, but
sometimes he’d let his guard down and let me see his vulnerabilities. I felt
close to him.

We talked
daily. I spent more and more time at his apartment. I felt great about myself
and hopeful about the future. I wanted to go back and tell the 15-year-old
version of me to just be patient – that it would all make sense when I met Dan.

I began thinking
about my old promise to tell my family and friends if I ever made it into a
real relationship. I also knew something important about myself: The longer I
stayed on the diving board, the less likely I was to jump off. So I made a
gentle suggestion to Dan: I’m not just OK with people knowing, I want people to
know. But Dan wasn't out yet either, and I was caught off-guard when he told me
to slow down.

We remained
close, but Dan's work schedule changed. Even though we spent most nights
together, he came home late, tired and preoccupied. It was the nature of his
job, but I also grew frustrated, and I began regressing. The fear crept back:
What if this doesn't last? What if I end up alone? As I questioned the security
of my relationship, I reestablished my old comfort zone with ease. I was
straight during the day while spending my nights with Dan.

You can
probably guess what happened next: Dan’s work life calmed down, and he became
more serious about his personal life. Meanwhile, I was trying to have it both
ways, keeping things going with him but paranoid of anyone finding out.
Sometime in late 2010, he began telling people he was gay. His parents visited,
and he invited me to meet them. I wouldn’t. He’d text me while hanging out with
friends he’d told and ask me to tag along. I’d decline. I honestly didn’t want
things to end with him. But I'd been on the diving board too long.

The permanence
of saying yes to Dan paralyzed me. The minute I told someone, anyone, there’d
be no taking it back. His persistence also provided a perverse subconscious
incentive that I only now recognize: As long as he was interested in me, I
didn’t feel any pressure to face my fears – not when he’d just keep calling me
anyway.

You may be
wondering why I was so afraid. It’s 2011, after all, and I live in Manhattan,
surrounded in social and professional settings by gay people. It's not like I
come from a morally judgmental family; I never feared my parents or other
relatives turning their backs on me. But 17 years of fear and hang-ups can be
hard for a person to shake.

My friends were
confused about me, but I’d throw them off my trail by embracing the persona of
a cynical, slightly neurotic fatalist. My buddies would urge me to approach an
attractive girl at a bar, and I’d tell them it wouldn’t be worth it – not when
I was liable to wake up with a sexually transmitted disease. Friends would try
to set me up with girls and I’d remind them that most marriages quickly devolve
into loveless, soul-crushing arrangements. They didn’t think I was interested
in any kind of relationship – straight or gay.

In a way, I
can't even explain why I kept this part of myself private for so long. But
whenever I would contemplate a change, I would think back to my youth, and the
fathers, teachers and coaches who had been my adult role models, all of them
old-fashioned family men. How could I possibly be so different?

It hurts now to
think how long Dan kept trying – how long he kept believing in me even when I
disappointed him repeatedly. He’d hint at his dissatisfaction, and I’d play
dumb. One night in March of this year, he called my bluff in the middle of the
night. “I think we need to take a break,” he said. A break. That’s just what I
needed, I figured – a chance to work through my issues on my own, then come
back to him when I was finally ready. It was tough leaving his apartment the
next morning, but it didn’t feel final. In the back of my mind, I knew we’d get
back together.

And that was my
fatal error. Believing on some level our relationship would be there when I was
ready led me to rationalize and procrastinate. I missed him immediately and was
constantly tempted to tell him. Instead, I'd wait another week, and then one
more. In October, I reached out to him with a vague invitation for a drink or
dinner, which I’d been doing occasionally since March. I was starting to
realize just how much time had passed. He took his time responding this time,
suggesting we could catch up the next week. He seemed less eager to hear from
me than before. Gee, I wonder why.

At dinner, I
made polite, boring talk at the table – no mention of our past, of my feelings,
of what was really on my mind. I was in Straight Steve mode. Afterward, I
stalled all the way to the subway, when I finally asked if we could talk back
at his place. I don’t think he was thrilled with the request, but he obliged.
Somehow, I felt I could save this all by telling him I missed him. Instead, he
told me he appreciated that, but nothing had changed. I’d been the same way in
public before our break. By now, he was dating people and enjoying a more open
romantic life. He hoped one day we’d be able to hang out as friends.

I stammered,
mumbled something, and generally made a fool of myself, then told him I’d
leave. He didn’t stop me. And it finally dawned on me: It was over. I walked
home flooded with an urgency I should have felt back in March. I was crazy
about him and the choice was easy. But I’d figured it out too late.

When I got home
that night, I composed a long, heartfelt email. No reply. I left him a voice
mail a few days later. By that point, I just seemed desperate.

I hate what I
put Dan through, and I hate that I deprived myself of a chance to be with the
person who made me feel proud of who I am. As the sadness and finality set in,
my instinct was to play back the tapes in my mind — all the little ways I let
him down. Regret is one thing I’ve always done well.

But this time I
stopped myself. There weren’t a thousand little reasons why things had ended up
like this. There was one big one. If I couldn’t stand up to the fear that had
gripped me since high school, regret would become my permanent condition.

So I junked the
old cop-out about waiting until I was in a relationship to come clean, and one
by one I sat down with friends, family and co-workers and let them know the
real story about me. Some conversations were quick, others were more involved,
but all of them felt good. One buddy listened to me, cracked a few jokes, and
then started talking about football. “You’re still going to be the Steve who’s
obsessed with random teams, right?” he asked. Of course. 

And that’s the
point. This isn’t the start of some brand-new life. I actually like a lot about
the one I already have. But now the fear and paranoia are gone. And my life can
finally make sense to the people who matter to me.

Reflection

I pointed out the earlier parst of Steve's story that he had some wrong believing and some confusion about his life. He probably felt different and even ashamed because he was not involved or fully engrossed with the girls in his high school, in contrast to his peers.

That does not mean that he is homosexual. In fact, when people have a false belief and they persist in fighting with that false belief, it turns into a stronghold. I cannot recall how many times I have run into people who gave up on natural affections because of this strange confusion they struggled with when they were younger. Kids need strong adults to support them, to be there for them when they get confused.