Everyone wants to belong. It’s kind of humanity’s thing. Biologist E. O. Wilson put it more poetically: “People must belong to a tribe; they yearn to have a purpose larger than themselves. We are obligated by the deepest drives of the human spirit to make ourselves more than animated dust, and we must have a story to tell about where we came from, and why we are here.”

In belonging to our chosen tribes, we also define ourselves, or to use the rather ubiquitous term of the moment — our “identity”. “Writer” was my identity for most of my life, but as I have gotten older and had more time to think about it, I realized that it never quite rang true. “Writer” might describe what I am, but not who.

If not “writer”, then what? Where do I belong? Where is my community, my tribe, my people? Where is home?

For a long time, I struggled to answer this question. Or, to be more precise, I did not allow myself to accept what I have always known to be true, until very recently. Even now, with the arrival of this personal understanding, I still feel a great deal of trepidation about putting it out there. So, taking a deep breath and a hesitant step forward, I’ll just come right out and say it: even though I am only sexually attracted to the opposite sex, I would very much, please, like to be embraced as queer.

To be clear, I am not at all asking to be considered gay or bi, even though I have sometimes, with tongue-in-cheek, called myself politically gay in how I vote, as well as socially bi, as I am comfortable hugging and kissing both same and opposite-sex friends. But these are both quite far from actually being gay or bi, just as it would be completely inappropriate to ask to be welcomed by any other initial in LGBT simply because I might happen to feel, even on a profound level, a sense of kinship. Rather, I am humbly adding my own voice to the chorus who have begun to suggest an expansion of the concept of queer beyond sexual orientation and gender identity to also include other, non-heteronormative, consensual sexualities.

The idea here is not to co-opt “queer” as an identity, nor to diminish the struggles of LGBT individuals by appropriating the word or culture that has developed around it. Instead, my desire is to use it as a way to acknowledge, and perhaps even welcome, those who, like me, feel a deep connection to the community through their own longing to be accepted for their unique individuality and sexual freedom. In short, I see “queer” as a way for those in the LGBT community to say “We are all in this together,” and for people who see a home there, who see belonging, but are not “L”, “G”, “B”, “T”, or “I” to share in that solidarity.

But how does a straight person come to see their identity as this expanded version of queer?

Some of us may feel a comradeship with the LGBT community because homophobia is often about being perceived as gay, and thus heterosexual people who don’t conform to certain social gender norms can also be subject to the abuses of their LGBT peers based on such perceptions. That was certainly my experience, for example, especially when I was younger. But that is not why I am making this argument for my inclusion.

Sure, a majority of people in the straight world may share the basics of my sexual orientation, but I have never quite felt comfortable there — even before I knew that any other world existed. I remember watching television as a child and weeping because nearly every couple I saw were always fighting. Their innate unhappiness and culturally rigid lives seemed to be destroying them and their families, which resonated with my own experiences.

Because of these feelings, my imagination began to work. There had to be new ways to live and love, I thought. And, most importantly, I could not be the only one dreaming of a better world. I just needed to find the others.

Adolescence was, as it always is, rough. Even with all those hormones coursing through my body, I still felt like I was on the outside of whatever “normal” was supposed to be. In the few adult magazines I managed to get my hands on, I found the women coldly artificial. Their plasticity seemed to suggest that women were not supposed to be human beings, but rather objects to be collected, flaunted, used, and then subsequently discarded for a younger model. Each pair of dead eyes seemed to tell me this was what I was supposed to want, but it wasn’t. I felt like desiring anything else made me a freak. Still, I craved a person — an actual human being — with all of her physical uniqueness and personal beauty.

Building on my fantasies of a better world, I desired a true partner who was equal in all things — especially sex, because I believed that this equality would facilitate the exploration of things like power dynamics, kinks, and polyamory. Anything was possible, I believed, because we would be in it together.

Even though I felt extremely isolated during those years, I still hoped that I was not the only one who felt this way. I found encouragement in the tantalizing glimpses of LGBT characters who would, ever so rarely, appear in mainstream media at the time. I felt an immediate kinship with them and admired the audacity of existing on the outside edges of the world. In these representations I saw people like myself, who just wanted to live and love their own way, despite whatever anyone else thought.

It was not until my late 20s that I got my first glimpse of this hoped-for life. I had moved to San Francisco with my then-wife, and we put those adolescent dreams of mine into practice. For ten years, we experimented with everything from polyamory to BDSM, with some dabblings in other things like gender and even age play.

It was exhilarating. But the most important aspect of this move was that it facilitated my first real introduction to the LGBT community. It was, to use the cliché, “love at first sight”. Here were people who were, for the most part, brave, kind, conscientious, passionate, and — most importantly — welcoming. Now, sitting here at my computer in recollection, the tears flow. Memories of hugs, of holding hands, of being part of a world where what mattered was that I loved, not who or how I loved.

During this period, after decades of trying, I also became a published writer. My success came about mostly through discovering that, compared to other genres, erotica was a wonderfully hungry market. And a good part of that market was LGBT readers.

At first, I was reluctant to write queer stories. This hesitation was largely because, despite the fact that I engaged in all kinds of sexual activities that were not embraced (and often openly scorned) by heteronormative culture, I was still straight. So, with a big dab of caution, I approached a few editors and publishers, and (here come the tears again) I was told that my work would not only be considered, but in a few cases even eagerly sought after — no matter my sexual orientation.

Let’s pause for a moment. One, because this writer needs to blow his nose, but also because this is where it all comes together.

While my own path is just that — my own, I don’t walk it alone. There are many people who also feel, despite their heterosexuality, divorced or even ostracized from so-called “normal” culture. They feel that because of their sexual activities and interests (like leather culture, BDSM, polyamory, etc.), they see in the LGBT community not just camaraderie or sympathy, but a place where they might actually belong.

Many years, books, stories, essays, and articles later, I was casually jawing with a bunch of LGBT writers at a convention when someone brought up straight authors penning gay fiction. The consensus at the table was that the idea was unfathomable. Then, suddenly realizing that I was there as well, they became all smiles and hugs, saying “But you’re not one of those”.

This is the separation I humbly seek to dispel. Like those other individuals who, to make light of it for a moment, consider themselves straight but not narrow, my life has often been a lonely one. This loneliness has not been so much in terms of personal companionship, but in yearning to belong, to be part of a community.

I have very intentionally used the word “asked” when talking about considering myself queer. This is because, despite others’ encouragement, I have always pulled back from using the term for myself. Not because I don’t feel it is true, but because I am still afraid that in doing so I might alienate myself from the one community where I feel I belong. But, after soul-searching, I believe it is time. I am ready to call myself queer: not with entitled insistence, but because I sincerely feel that, in its inclusive celebration of sexual freedom and individual expression, it is who I truly am.

Published May 1, 2020
Updated Dec 19, 2022