The Closet

Dear reader, here's a piece I first published in a local gay forum in response to someone asking for views of being in the closet. Minor grammatical edits were made in the post below.

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There are two main types of closets.

The ones that are fortified with so many locks that no matter how much you try, you can almost never pry it open.

 

And then there are those that have so many locks that no matter how much you try, you can almost never pry it open -- except this closet is made of glass and the poor fella hiding inside has no idea he's in full view of everyone and pigeon that pass by.

 

Never mind which closet we are in.

 

Or whether we've stepped out of it already.

 

The initial reasons that drive us into this invisible cage are as important as the factors that would eventually free us.

 

I grew up in a family where I have two successful sisters with good grades and was thus expected to fill their big shoes --  not their fancy high heels.

 

There was no room to explore my sexuality.

 

Though I eventually had a younger brother, I was the first boy of the family -- and my parents wasted no time in shaping me to be a boy, just as all parenting textbooks would recommend.

 

No piano lessons, no ballet classes for the first penis of the Lee family. He is to learn to ride a bike, swim, play sports, pick up martial arts. There is no such thing as wearing Cheche's cute tutu and prancing around in them.

 

I learnt from a young age that there are girl activities and boy activities, and girl toys and boy toys (though as I grew up, I learnt that those activities and toys have a much wider and more fun definition, but let's not go there).

 

And because I was in such an environment, I learnt to withhold my tendencies so that I won't stick out like a sore thumb and risk being frowned upon.

 

Eventually, I started building invisible blocks around me like a good cloistered nun. Retreat into your safe space and wear all the tutus and high heels you want there. 

 

It became even harder for me to step out of my safe space when I was a teenager -- having witnessed how softer boys in school are being teased. I subconsciously added one more padlock to my closet. 

 

The more I blended in with other boys, the more I felt I was doing the right thing and by the time I was ready to go to NS, my closet was a fort capable of holding Singapore's reserves and the gold bars of OCBC.

 

Which was a good thing given that I was drafted into one of the most macho, egoistic units in NS.

 

That was when I got to know the homophobic Stanley -- one of the fittest and smartest but a complete asshole because he would make snide remarks at our weaker unit mates and suggest that even a chao ah gua can do better.

 

It's people like Stanley Ong who made me add one more lock to my -- oh, wait, never mind. There's no more space for any more locks in my closet already.

 

At 18, 19, all that mattered to me was to get NS over and done with, and keep my head down and not stick out like a sore thumb, so let's just smile along at any gay remarks.

 

But I was also at an age where my hormones were bubbling beyond all recommended levels.

 

Yes. By day, I live like Anne Frank in my hideout. But by night, I sneak out to get a taste of my forbidden gay life.

 

A life where nobody cares if I'm dancing in Cheche's tutu or wearing their high heels. A life where I fully embrace boy activities and boy toys the way they're meant to be enjoyed.

 

And I was glad I allowed myself to slip out of my Rapunzel tower once in a while to let my hair down because I managed to make a few good gay friends whom I could confide in and feel normal with from time to time.

 

And it was one of those nights when I was letting my hair down with my close group of gay friends at the now-defunct Niche club that sort of changed my life a bit.

 

I was with Carl, one of the nicest and non judgemental gay friends and I distinctly remember we were dancing to Whitney Houston's It's Not Right But It's Okay (thunderpuss version) when I felt someone tapping me on my shoulder.

 

It was as if the Boogeyman was knocking creepily on my closet.

 

I turned slowly the way I would cautiously open my closet door. 

 

And there he was. The homophobic Stanley Ong.

 

That night, the macho-grunting Stanley took a hammer and smashed his invisible fort in front of me, breaking down all bricks and barriers.

 

That was the last time I remember Stanley Ong my sex bunny friend being this macho.

 

Our friendship -- me, Stanley and Carl -- blossomed that night. We were likeminded and had found support from one another.

 

While we were comfortable with our sexuality then, we still weren't ready to burst on the stage and embark on a gay world tour.

 

We merely placed our closets side by side like how we'd put mattresses together in girly sleepovers, and lived our day and night lives -- except this time, we had full support.

 

But things changed when I turned 30.

 

One of my close friends' younger brother died and going to his wake was an awakening experience.

 

It got me thinking about how precious life is, and there's no telling when you would die.

 

If I died tomorrow, would I have regrets?

 

Two weeks later, I decided to heck it. Life is too short to continue living a lie and so, I decided to come out to my siblings whom I love to bits.

 

My brother responded by saying "duh" but added quickly "I still love you, Kor."

 

My second sis was more dramatic.

 

Telling me she loves me was not enough. She had to hear all about my love life.

 

It was liberating. Stepping out as a gay men and having my siblings -- who are technically my first friends (and enemies) -- love me for who I am.

 

Progressively, I came out to more and more people in my life whom I regard as important.

 

Each time I came out to them, I was rewarded and comforted by their acceptance and love -- after all, these people are my most important groups in life.

 

Eventually, I amassed enough confidence and people in my life to make me feel that I am still the very person they have known.

 

Now that I'm in my forties -- and am in a very stable relationship with my partner J for the last 20 years -- I no longer feel trapped in my own closet that I had built for myself. 

 

I'm still who I am, and perhaps, I still do return to my closet every once in a while when I feel that I need to be guarded. But it's no longer difficult to walk out of it when I need -- or want -- to.

 

It helps too, that my partner, who is a classic good Catholic boy, is also out to his very forward-thinking family. And I'm talking about not just his immediate but also his extended family.

 

Stanley my sex bunny friend would often quip that with J in my life, this is the only time I can say that I have a good Catholic boy in me.

 

So this is my story of me and my closet.

 

It's 40-over years in the making and I am still learning.

 

But one thing is for sure.

 

In the words of my sex bunny friend Stanley Ong, life is too short to be cooped up in a closet.

 

"Hunny, there are so many cute gay men out there that we not only need an exit strategy, we need to formulate an entrance strategy."