#n2c

For me, queerness arrived quietly. Not through rebellion or rejection, but through reflection. It crept in through questions I didn’t know how to ask out loud. Through noticing what stirred me—and what didn’t. Through the realization that what felt like 'normal' desire wasn’t mine, just borrowed.

The version of manhood I was given had no room for softness, no room for fabrics that comfort, for colors that soothe, or for stillness that doesn’t serve productivity. I didn’t know that wanting those things could mean something more profound. I didn’t realize that there were other ways to be whole. And so I wore the cloak of masculinity, responsibility, and control. It made me functional—but not always whole.

Looking back, I realize how many of those early stories—even the ones found in secret, even the ones wrapped in fantasy or labeled as 'wrong'—carried clues. Some were novels I wasn’t supposed to read. Some were late-night searches that left me feeling more confused than satisfied. Some were porn. Not just because of what was shown, but because of what was hidden beneath it: the yearning, the power shifts, the longing to be seen in ways I couldn’t name yet.

They weren’t just outlets. They were early mirrors. They reflected desires and connections that didn’t fit what I was taught to want. They hinted at a different kind of longing—a deeper connection to identity, embodiment, and power. They didn’t give me answers, but they left me breadcrumbs. And I’m still following them, slowly, toward something more honest.

With that, honesty has come with a new language. I’ve come to understand myself as gynosexual—drawn to femininity in its many forms, across identity and expression. It wasn’t one person or moment that clarified this—it was noticing how drawn I was to softness itself. Not just in others, but in how femininity carries both vulnerability and strength. What aroused me wasn’t always gender—it was energy, expression, nuance. Gynosexual isn’t a term many people know, but it fits. It means my attraction isn’t about identity boxes—it’s about what feels emotionally and aesthetically aligned. And that’s how I’ve always moved, even before I had the words.

And I’ve started recognizing that I likely live somewhere along the demisexual or asexual spectrum. But I want to be clear: I am a very sexual person. What I didn’t realize until later in life is how differently I connect. I had words, but not connection. I engaged with desire in theory and fantasy, but rarely in ways that reached my heart. I didn’t start slower because I lacked interest—I started slower because I lacked safety. I needed the kind of emotional resonance I wasn’t getting earlier in life. Not because I lacked desire, but because mine has always needed emotional gravity—safety, connection, narrative—to take shape. It’s not about performance—it’s about presence. Intimacy. Meaning. I wasn’t lacking sexuality—I was missing space to breathe freely.

Submission is a part of me. But so is strength, guidance, and care. I don’t live in one mode or identity—I live as a constellation of selves that hold each other. I am Daddy. I am Me. I am someone who once sought to erase the parts of myself that felt unworthy or contradictory—who tried to quiet the conflict through pain, because I didn’t know how to hold all the contradictions at once. Now, I seek understanding. And what I’ve come to understand more recently is that my queerness also includes being a switch. That I can take and give, hold and be held. That the yin and the yang are not roles I play—they are parts of how I exist.

Pride didn’t come to me through celebration. It came through survival. Through silence. Through slow shifts in understanding. Through language that arrived late, yet arrived nonetheless. For a long time, I stood at Pride as an ally—grateful to support, but unsure if I belonged inside the circle. I felt welcome. I just hadn’t seen myself in it yet. Now, I do. Not because something changed, but because I’ve started to see myself more clearly.

This is what queerness looks like for me: not a single revelation, but a slow layering of truths. It isn’t a rejection of the life I built or the love I’ve known. It’s an acknowledgment that I’ve always been more than one thing—and that discovering new language for myself doesn’t erase the parts of my past that were real, or meaningful, or loved. Not a rejection of who I was, but a fuller understanding of it. Every part of me—what I’ve been, what I am, what I’m becoming—deserves to be seen as part of the whole.

And maybe what moved me most, recently, was watching others live out their truths—quietly, courageously, without apology. Seeing them made something in me ache. Not just out of admiration, but envy. Because I still feel constrained by the structure I accepted from youth, by the life I built, and by not knowing how to integrate all of it. But that ache is also a signal—a sign that something inside me wants to be more honest, freer. And I’m listening.

I’m in my fifties now. I carry responsibilities, relationships, and commitments that matter deeply to me. I’m not trying to undo what I’ve built—instead, I am learning how to honor the parts of myself that have never seen the sun. I look with envy at those who are discovering this language earlier, who are reshaping their lives with clarity that I have only recently found. The world is still cruel in many ways, but there’s more space now to speak, to name, to be.

I think of a friend, recently divorced, newly out as bisexual. Something about that shift, that moment of reevaluation and honesty, opened a door for him. And in his vulnerability, I felt something stir in me, too. Not attraction in the way I might have once defined it, but a deep desire to care for him. To witness and support him. Maybe it wasn’t sexual. Perhaps it was something more intimate than that. These are the moments that remind me what queerness really is—not just who we want, but how we want to show up. That care and fluidity, that openness to be seen and held as we are—that is what I see in my coworkers and students who express themselves with a freedom I never felt I had. And that is what I ache toward, even now.

I still don’t live all of this out loud. Not every part of me fits easily into daily life. Some of that is fear—some of it is care for those I love. But even in quiet, I’m learning how to show up more truthfully.

This story isn’t a confession or a revelation, it’s a slow, deliberate reclamation, not from others, but within myself.

The earbuds came first. And they shouldn’t have mattered.

But they did.

Because by the time I sat staring at that Amazon page, something inside me was already unraveling. Years of self-denial, masked desire, and learned restraint were beginning to loosen their hold. I wasn’t just choosing a color. I was confronting a wall I’d built brick by brick over the years. The typical choices were black and white. And the safe choice, the one I would’ve made without thinking, was black. There was a third option. A light blue. Not quite sky blue, but soft, subtle, and shiny. The color I was drawn to felt honest in a way I couldn’t explain.

The anxiety wasn’t rational. It crept in as hesitation, shallow breath, the urge to click black and move on. Safe. Invisible. Normal.

I asked myself questions I didn’t want to answer. Is this too much? Am I trying to be something I’m not? Will people see this and assume something about me, I’m not ready to face myself? Will they be right? And underneath all that, one question lingered. Am I allowed to want this?

The hardest part wasn’t choosing the light blue. It was daring to believe I could choose at all.

Next were my nails.

Matte Ash lavender. Not bold. Not flashy. A quiet shift on the surface, but a quiet storm within.

The truth is, I never had the desire to paint my nails until long after I had become deeply entrenched in a cycle of self-erasure. That desire didn’t grow from freedom or playfulness. It was seeded in humiliation. In the media I consumed when I was at my lowest, the fantasies were meant to emasculate and degrade. I internalized it. I made it part of how I endured inside a broken life. I told myself I liked it because it hurt. Because I deserved it.

Was I reclaiming something, or was I just repeating harm? Was this self-expression or another echo of self-erasure? I fought with them in silence, circling around shame and survival and something that looked like want. But when the polish dried, those questions didn’t matter the same way. They had already done their work.

And now, I don’t ask them anymore.

Only one person has asked me about them. A friend in his late seventies. I told him I painted them to go to Pride, and because I envied the ease with which others seemed to move in their own expression. He just nodded and said, “Cool.” That was it. And somehow, it meant everything. He asked if I did them myself or had them done. I said I paid someone. That was the end of it.

But I still find myself waiting. Waiting for someone to make a big deal. Waiting for the judgment I’ve trained myself to expect. And at the same time, I’m amazed I didn’t back out. I found a thread of confidence in myself and followed it. That I didn’t make a public declaration or post a picture:I didn’t tell anyone the day I did it. Because it wasn’t for them; it was for me.

What helped most came before. A friend reminded me of the Dao. She called me Pooh in the gentlest, most grounding way, referencing The Tao of Pooh. Maybe, she said, I didn’t need to fight every question. Perhaps I could just be.

So I’m trying.

Trying to let the struggle quiet itself. Trying to live what feels right.

But I have kept them painted. Because it was the first time I felt a hint of choice inside a story I used to believe had already been written for me.

That feeling has quieted. As I settle into the Dao, I’ve stopped questioning the desire. I have it. It doesn’t cause harm. And more often than not, it feels good. Some days, there’s still a hum of doubt in the background. But mostly, I’m just living it now.

Then came the wallet.

By then, the quiet had settled into my bones. Just last night, I bought a burgundy leather wallet. It hasn’t even arrived yet, and still, I know exactly why I chose it.

For the last week, I had been researching wallets—scrolling past minimalist designs made of plastic, webbing, and metal. Cold. Hard. EDC-style things that looked tactical and sharp. Wallets made to feel rugged, impersonal, even aggressive. And I couldn’t picture enjoying a single one of them.

Then I stumbled on leather wallets made in Arizona by Lost Dutchman Leather. Suddenly, something shifted. These weren’t soft in a traditionally feminine way, but they carried a warmth that still felt grounded. I could already picture the feel of it. Supple leather, molded over time by the shape of my body and touched by the patina of daily use. I could smell it. Its warmth lived in my imagination. And I hadn’t even received it yet.

It settled over me like breath returning. The world isn’t black and white. And neither are my desires. I don’t have to categorize every choice as hard or soft, feminine or masculine, safe or deviant.

The wallet reminded me of that.

It brought relief. Because I’m learning a new language. Back then, my mind felt knotted, tangled in binaries of feminine or masculine, soft or hard. I didn’t know there was another way to be. But with time, I’m beginning to understand that I can be soft and still be me. That not every choice is about pushing the envelope. The wallet is an excellent example of that. It wasn’t about making a statement. It was about choosing what felt right for me.

These three small things… they’re not small at all, not to me.

They’ve surfaced questions I’ve spent decades pushing down.

What parts of me have I buried to be acceptable? How much of my past was performance? What do I actually want—and why was I so afraid of wanting it?

I used to define myself by opposites. Feminine or masculine. Soft or hard. Never both. The Dao has taught me better. That duality isn’t the only language. That the world moves in harmony, not opposition. That I can be soft and still carry strength. What feels right doesn’t have to be justified. It only has to be lived.

I used to look at people who moved freely in their expression and feel a pulse of envy. Not because I wanted to copy them, but because I wanted to feel that free in my own skin. I still feel that sometimes. But I also know I’m closer now than I’ve ever been.

What I do know is that each of these small choices helped me breathe a little easier, even through the anxiety and self-doubt. They didn’t silence the internal war, but they reminded me that I can choose. I don’t have to keep carrying everything I once believed made me strong.

Softness isn’t the opposite of strength. It’s the strength I didn’t know I was allowed to have.

These three small things are the start of something bigger. Not a transformation, but a return. A remembering. A reclamation of the parts of me I thought I had to leave behind.

And the fight to get here is the proof that it matters.

I don’t have to push. I don’t have to arrive. The Dao isn’t about conquering or defining. It’s about letting go of the struggle to control what already wants to flow.