The Wrong Way to Come Out to a Roommate

Coming out once is hard. Doing it again and again is the real work.

I’m Alexander Cheves, and this is LOVE, BEASTLY—a blog about sex, feelings, and manhood. It’s written mostly for men—gay, straight, bi, MSM, or just curious—but some readers are women, and some don’t fit into categories. Everyone’s welcome here.

This is one of my more personal essays—written only for subscribers.

Heads up: these can sometimes include explicit content or emotionally triggering subjects.

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In my third year of college, my roommate was a strange creature: a cross between a hipster and a jock, something I had never seen before. Soccer posters hung over his bed, while used paintbrushes sat in a cup on his desk. In my life, the only people who embraced the arts were also the ones who rejected sports. Now I was living with someone who loved both of them.

I wondered: Did he also like coffee shops and indie films? Did he bully gay kids like me in high school?

He was tall, lean, and handsome. He walked around in baggy boxer shorts, called me "bro," and never took out the trash. We slept just nine feet apart in a small room. This was his first year at the college—he transferred in from another arts university—while I had been there from the beginning, from my freshman year. Because of this, one night in the kitchen, he asked me about the "scene" and what people did for fun. I told him, “Oh, the usual. We go to the bars downtown. It’s a big booze town.”

This was true. If Savannah, Georgia, was known for anything, it was its drinking culture. I told him about the huge St. Patrick’s Day mess—the crowds of tourists in the streets, the drunk women cackling on every corner (the city was one of only two places in the country that allowed you to drink on the street, the other being New Orleans). I did not tell him about the drag shows, the glow-in-the-dark paint parties, or where one goes to suck a stranger’s dick.