By David Goldberg
I was that guy at the rest stop off of Interstate 95 late at night, lurking around the grounds by the picnic tables in the dark. The young cute one watching you with that assessing look. I was that guy in the men's room at the mall at lunch during the middle of the work week, letting you know I was one, too. And when we did what we did, my heart leapt to twice its speed. When it was over, it was over, and we parted as if nothing ever happened. Why linger around and get your name, or give mine when we'd both gotten what we desperately needed.
Later, when I realized that most adult video stores had booths with glory holes between the stalls, I began to live in them. Several months after that, I realized I had sucked off more men than I could count. But I was miserable. I love cock, and I even love the naughty secrecy of back room sex, but I had never touched a man's body, felt his face, kissed him passionately. And I wanted to. I wanted to be held. I wanted to feel his entire body laying with me. I wanted to see him walking naked around my apartment, or sitting on the couch in his underwear.
Christ, I wanted to have dinner with him!
Instead, I settled for the blare of porn that I fed nervously with single dollar bills until someone's cock appeared through the hole for me to service; settled for a cock within the stench of a bathroom at a truck stop; settled for the nervous fumbling with a stranger in the dark outdoors, always risking arrest.
Some men have it all—the boyfriend, money, all the trappings—and get off on doing what I was doing. But I had nothing, and the kind of sex I was having made me feel like I had even less than that. Why did I stop? I never caught an STD, I was never assaulted; I had no guilt, either. I stopped one day after I visited New York and went to Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea and saw hundreds of guys walking around hand in hand on the sidewalk, at cafés laughing over brunch, at bars making out, and dancing at clubs.
That's when it hit me: I had never seen a openly gay man.
When I got back home, I didn't come out—I had no one to come out to. But within three months I was packing up my life and moving to New York where I still had no one to come out to. But the beauty of it was, I never needed to. Coming out wasn't about words, it was about living. And the moment I stepped out of my tiny thimble of an aparment and drew in that dirty New York air—I was out, for good.
Yes, I was that guy at the rest stop off of Interstate 95 late at night, lurking around the grounds by the picnic tables in the dark. But now I'm not.—D.G.