The Gay Life My Father Never Explained

Recently I asked my father if he always knew he was gay.

We were walking at night. He bought us souvlaki and beer, and somehow that made the whole conversation easier. Just the two of us walking and eating like normal people while I asked questions that were absolutely not normal.

He looked at me like I had asked whether the sky was above us.

Of course, he said.

Just like that.

Of course.

He said it so calmly. Like this was common information. Like I had been late to a meeting everyone else had already attended.

I think he thought I knew.

Maybe he thought he had been obvious. Maybe he thought Fritz had been obvious. Maybe adults really believe children understand everything because children notice everything.

But noticing and understanding are different things.

For years, I thought I understood Germany.

My father went there for work.

I went with him sometimes for long periods of time, and that was the explanation in my head.

Work.

Business.

Meetings.

Hotels.

Apartments.

Adults talking about things I only partly understood.

My father has always said he was built for work, so I believed that was the whole story. He worked, he made money, he moved through rooms full of men in suits, and I followed him through pieces of that life like a child watching a film without subtitles.

I noticed men around him.

I noticed Germany.

I noticed Fritz.

I noticed the way some people belonged to his world more than others.

I just put all of it in the wrong boxes.

Germany went into the work box.

Fritz went into the mentor box.

My father went into the father box.

And romance never entered the room.

That is funny to me now.

Also a little embarrassing.

Because I am over thirty. I have had enough sex, enough drama, enough obsession, enough men, enough life to know better. And still, somehow, I never looked at it the right way.

He was my father.

Powerful.

Private.

Untouchable in a way.

Money, work, control, protection.

That was how I understood him.

Then I asked Fritz.

I asked him if there was something between him and my father.

He did not give me a clear answer, because of course he didn’t. Nothing about those two is clear in that way. They are both independent. Both job-oriented. Both the kind of men who can make a relationship exist in the background for years and still act like nothing needs to be announced.

But yes.

There was something.

There is something.

That was enough.

It changed Germany for me.

Suddenly all those long stays with my father did not look the same.

Maybe Germany was work.

Of course it was work.

My father would probably die before admitting anything could compete with work.

But maybe Germany was also where another part of him could breathe.

Maybe it was where Fritz was.

Maybe it was where my father could be something other than the version people saw at home. Something less armored. Something private. Something his.

That made me strangely happy.

Actually, it made me extremely happy.

I had imagined parts of his life as colder than they were.

More sealed.

More empty.

I thought he moved through Germany like a machine with money and schedules and responsibilities.

Now I picture another layer.

Fritz somewhere in that story.

My father going there and having work, yes, but also a person. A connection. Something in his life that was alive in a way I did not understand.

That changes a childhood memory.

People say the past cannot change. I don’t believe that. The facts don’t change, but the meaning can turn around and bite you years later.

A room you remembered as empty suddenly has someone inside it.

A trip you remembered as business suddenly has a pulse.

A country you remembered as your father’s work territory suddenly becomes part of his gay life.

And then your childhood feels different.

Warmer.

Less lonely.

Less like I was moving beside a man made only of ambition.

More like I was moving around a hidden love story and somehow nobody gave me the subtitles.

Fritz was my mentor.

He was the first openly gay person I met when I was a kid. He taught me about gay history, gay art, gay life, AIDS, desire, men, culture, survival. Some things I understood then. Some things I only understand now. Some things I probably still don’t understand because Fritz has always been polite and secretive in a way that makes you feel there are locked drawers everywhere.

I loved him as Fritz.

Now I know he was also connected to my father.

That makes him feel even closer.

He was part of Germany. Part of the silence. Part of something in my father’s life I had never seen.

And I like that.

I like it a lot.

I think little me would have loved it.

Little me would have made a whole story immediately. My father and Fritz in Germany. Secret romance. Some dramatic wedding. Me as best man, obviously, because even as a child I would have found a way to make it partly about me.

I can see it too clearly.

Me standing there, very serious, probably overdressed, acting like the ceremony depended on my presence.

It makes me laugh.

It also hurts a little, but in a good way.

Because I wish I had known.

Maybe they thought I did.

Maybe they assumed it was obvious.

Maybe they underestimated how completely a child can misunderstand adult silence.

My father talked about me too.

He said he did not care about having children. He never had some sweet fantasy about becoming a father. At the beginning, I was tied to practical things in his mind. Family pressure, surrogacies, and having to produce an heir to get access to an inheritance he had worked for.

That did not hurt me.

It sounded like him.

Then he said I became important when I became myself.

When I started speaking.

Showing character.

Showing whatever strange thing I was.

He loved me because I was me.

That made me happier than a sentimental answer would have.

I don’t want to be loved as an automatic duty.

I want to be wanted specifically.

He gave me that sentence without even realizing how much it would feed me.

Then he said my mother had told him I was sensitive. Different. Maybe she said effeminate. Maybe she said gay. I don’t know the exact words, but I know the meaning.

She was worried other children would hurt me.

When he heard that, he wanted to see me more.

That part stayed with me.

Because now I understand his protection differently.

He saw something in me that belonged to him too.

He knew what the world could do to a gay boy.

He had already carried some version of that.

So he came closer.

That is very much my father.

He sees danger and builds a wall before anyone else has finished discussing feelings.

Maybe that is why I trusted him so much.

He did not always explain love.

He acted like love was a structure.

A house.

A door.

Money.

Protection.

A room where the world could not reach me easily.

I used to think that was just his way of being my father.

Now I think it was also recognition.

A gay father looking at his gay son and thinking: the world will try to destroy him, and I will not let it.

That is intense to realize.

It also makes me proud.

Proud of him.

Proud of myself.

Proud in a way that feels old and childish at the same time.

And then there is Fritz, standing somewhere inside all of this.

Fritz teaching me gay history while already being part of my family history.

That is almost too perfect.

Too strange.

Too dramatic.

Now I keep looking back at Germany differently.

They can keep their strange arrangement, their silence, their unfinished words, their whatever-this-is. They were already doing it while I was busy understanding nothing.

But I am happy I know now.

My father has someone in his life.

And it is Fritz.

Now I think I was remembering a life I did not know how to read.

A gay life.

My father’s life.

Fritz’s life.

And somehow mine too, before I even understood myself.

It feels like finding out there was love in the room all along.

I just didn’t know where to look.

 

The Friend Who Changed the Direction of My Life

You know those people who are geniuses? Super talented at everything and somehow acting as catalysts, pushing you into doing crazy things?

I always thought people like that were not real. I thought they only existed in movies.

Turns out they actually exist.

I met Elina Chi-Won during my criminology studies. We talked about bias in homophobic attacks, serial killers and whatever theories we were interested in. We had the same classes, commented on each other’s posts and messaged each other either to discuss something we had read or complain about some stupid and annoying classmate.

We also both belonged to the rainbow family.

Elina told me they were asexual, aromantic and agender, and that they use they/them pronouns. I was hypersexual, gay and male, which is quite a different situation.

On paper, hypersexual and asexual might sound like a strange combination for close friends, but somehow we are extremely compatible. Introverted? Yes. Strange? Yes. Morbid? Definitely. Neurodivergent? Yes. Opinionated? Very. Gay movies? Yes. Horror? Absolutely. Blond mullet? Yes. We kept discovering more and more things where our brains seemed to go in the same direction.

Because I had very few friends, I wanted somebody I could talk to about my personal life, my boyfriend and the other men in my life. So I asked if they were comfortable hearing about all of that.

Luckily, they were perfectly fine hearing about gay sex and all the details that might make some other people uncomfortable.

So we talked more and more.

Then I discovered that Elina was an artist.

A painter.

No, wait.

The painter (under the artist name Volk Kinetshniy) behind that famous Dahmer portrait that has caused debates and chaos online—and they were also doing a PhD involving Dahmer.

Obviously, I decided immediately that I needed them to paint me and my boyfriend.

So that is how my friendship with this very rare person began.

And strangely enough, that painting is still not finished because I keep getting new ideas and requesting changes. I know I am probably every painter’s nightmare, but we are friends, so...

Anyway.

The weird thing is that this person ended up playing a big part in a series of major decisions in my life.

I have always been a show-off. My boyfriend and friends will definitely confirm this.

The problem was that I did not know how to show myself.

Because of my bad reputation and things that had happened in my past, I was uncertain about how much of myself I should show publicly. I kept trying to tone myself down.

Then one day I was talking about this with Elina.

I told them:

“I don’t know what people would like to see, so I don’t know how to present myself.”

And the answer came back like a slap in the face. A very useful slap.

“Who cares what people like to see? You show what you like to show.”

There it was.

That was such a simple idea, but somehow I had never thought about it like that.

So I started showing more of myself.

Maybe I should write a blog, I thought.

Yes.

Then at some point we sang together for fun, and Elina told me I had a great voice.

I said I had always wanted to sing, but I had damaged my voice from smoking, so I had never seriously tried to do anything professional with it.

I still smoke, actually more than before, and now I do it without feeling guilty that I am somehow ruining a voice I was supposed to protect.

And then came another answer that changed things again.

“What? So what? You don’t need a technically correct voice to sing indie or punk. In fact, your voice is perfect for that kind of music. You have to sing.”

So I listened.

I started making music.

And eventually Sticky Shorts were created.

Naturally, once that happened, I wanted Elina involved there too. They are also a writer, and I already loved their poems and stories, so I wanted them involved in the lyrics and concepts.

Then, of course, when Monsters needed a cover, we wanted Elina to do it.

I am not going to analyse the entire artwork here, but the members of Sticky Shorts are connected by red veins to a Devil-like creature.

Which I think tells you enough.

At some point I also told Elina that I occasionally do drag.

So they gifted me an extra-long blonde wig and a very sexy pale-blue dress. Pale blue has always been part of my drag persona.

Seunghoon thought I looked amazing in it.

Other guys agreed.

Somebody even asked whether Elina and I were twins.

That was a real compliment.

The funny problem with meeting somebody like this is that you immediately start thinking, “Okay, what else can I make them do with me?”

You think: what else can we do?

Well, Elina is also a photographer.

And not only a photographer, but one of those people who still uses analogue cameras too.

So naturally I wanted photoshoots.

Our first one was inside an old abandoned building. We spent part of the time expecting something horrible to jump out from behind a corner, but somehow it worked.

Elina said it made much more sense for my first proper shoot as the singer of a punk band to happen inside a ruined abandoned building than inside my luxury home.

I probably agree.

Even though I really love my luxury home.

The shoot was fun, creepy, and I also managed to break a chair by accident.

Would one photoshoot satisfy me?

Obviously not.

I want more, so expect more.

And then there was my memoir.

I had been trying to write it for a long time and had become completely stuck. So naturally, once again, I went to my friend and fellow writer for help.

One of the things Elina told me was: “Why are you leaving the explicit stories out? They are good. They belong there. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.”

So I stopped censoring myself.

I put the stories back in, stopped trying to make the memoir safer or more acceptable, and suddenly the whole thing felt different. It felt like mine again. I was not only unstuck anymore; I became genuinely passionate about writing it.

Now the memoir is finally moving forward.

When I look at all of this together, it is strange.

A conversation about criminology became a friendship. That friendship led to a painting, a blog, music, Sticky Shorts, lyrics, an album cover, drag clothes, photography and finally getting my memoir moving again.

Apparently, sometimes those people really do exist outside movies.

Sometimes someone enters your life, says exactly the right thing, and suddenly you start doing things you had been too afraid or unsure to try.

And suddenly your life starts moving in directions you had been too afraid, too unsure or simply too stupid to try before.

Sometimes they appear almost like angels and change your whole life.

I am very grateful that one of them appeared in mine.

 

The Case I Solved Too Early

One of the first conversations I ever had with one of my closest friends wasn't about music or men.

It was about cognitive bias.

We had met while studying criminology, and after reading Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman we somehow ended up discussing tunnel vision in criminal investigations. We talked about how detectives become convinced they've found the right suspect and then, often without realizing it, start collecting only the evidence that supports their theory while overlooking everything that doesn't.

Years later, I realized I had done exactly the same thing.

The only case I was investigating...

...was myself.

 

If there was one diagnosis I was absolutely convinced I didn't have, it was autism.

Not because I had carefully ruled it out.

Simply because, somewhere along the way, I had decided:

"That isn't me."

The strange part is that I wasn't unfamiliar with autism.

I studied psychology.

Later I studied criminology, where understanding human behaviour became part of everyday life.

I had studied disorders, diagnostic reasoning and cognitive bias. I knew how easily an existing assumption could distort everything that followed. I just never noticed that I had already made one about myself.

 

Another reason I was so certain was much more personal.

My boyfriend is autistic.

We've known each other since we were children, and for years he became my unconscious definition of what autism looked like.

When we were younger, he had very little interest in sex. That changed as he got older, but growing up we were almost complete opposites.

I couldn't stop thinking about men.

He had very specific objects he wanted to carry or touch.

He had repetitive patterns with some of his toys.

I didn't.

Today he is still an introvert, but he has more of a social life than I do.

He still prefers spending most of his time at home, but he is more willing to meet people than I am.

Meanwhile, if someone invites me out for coffee, my first thought is often whether I can avoid leaving the house altogether.

If I could choose, I'd rather disappear somewhere remote with the man I love. Just the two of us. Talking, sleeping, having sex, reading, walking, existing. No crowds. No noise. No pretending.

The more I compared us...

the more convinced I became that autism simply wasn't me.

Case closed.

Or so I thought.

 

The funny thing is that I wasn't searching for one magical diagnosis that would suddenly explain my entire life.

I already had explanations.

I had been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.

I also had anxiety.

Later, I was diagnosed with Compulsive Sexual Behavior Disorder.

Those diagnoses explained many parts of my life.

If anything, I assumed the picture was already complete.

 

Then another psychologist mentioned autistic traits.

I dismissed it.

Later another therapist suggested looking into autism more seriously.

Again, I dismissed it.

Not because I had examined the evidence.

Because I believed I already had.

I had crossed autism off the list so completely that I no longer allowed new information to challenge that conclusion. Whenever something didn't fit, I automatically found another explanation.

 

Then something changed.

Instead of debating labels, my therapist started asking me about my life.

Not dramatic questions.

Small ones.

Almost boring ones.

"Were you a quiet child?"

Yes.

"Did teachers describe you as unusually mature for your age?"

Yes.

"Did you mostly play alone?"

Yes.

"Were there clothes that felt unbearable to wear?"

Yes.

"Foods you couldn't eat because of their texture?"

Yes.

"Bright supermarket lights?"

Yes.

"Unexpected visitors?"

I still hide in my room when I can.

"Do you mentally rehearse conversations before leaving the house?"

Almost every time.

The strange thing wasn't answering "yes."

The strange thing was realizing how many of those things had been with me for as long as I could remember.

They weren't new.

Only the way I looked at them was.

It felt less like discovering new information and more like reopening old files I had never examined properly.

 

Then the questions became even more interesting.

"Why don't you like socializing?"

I expected myself to answer,

"Because I'm anxious."

Instead, I heard myself saying something completely different.

"Because it's loud."

"Because it's superficial."

"Because it's boring."

"Because it feels fake."

That surprised me.

Apparently I'd been carrying that answer around for years without ever saying it out loud.

I dislike being with people.

There are simply a very small number of exceptions.

Give me one or two people I genuinely connect with and I could spend days talking about psychology, horror, magic, martial arts, paranormal stories, men, music or whatever currently has my attention.

Put me in a room full of polite small talk and I feel like I've accidentally walked into a theatre performance where everybody knows their lines except me.

 

Some memories suddenly started making more sense too.

Why I could walk into a brightly lit supermarket and already want to leave before I'd even bought anything.

Why certain fabrics didn't just itch—they felt wrong, as though my body kept insisting they shouldn't be touching my skin.

Why some foods became impossible because of their texture even when the taste itself was fine.

Why certain sounds felt almost physical, and why smells other people barely noticed could become impossible to ignore.

Why several people talking at once could leave me overloaded instead of merely annoyed.

Why I could happily spend years obsessing over the same handful of interests.

Why people always joked that I knew far too much about the things I loved.

Why teachers called me unusually serious.

Why I always preferred one close person over a group.

Why I moved my foot constantly in class without even noticing.

None of those memories appeared because of the diagnosis.

They had always been there.

I had simply filed them under "that's just me."

 

One observation from my therapist stayed with me.

He doesn't think I completely miss social cues.

He thinks I often notice them...

...and then analyse them until they become something they never were.

I see someone's expression.

I replay it.

Before long, I've invented five different explanations.

Usually I choose the worst one.

According to him, I'm not necessarily missing the signal.

I'm often misreading it.

That was an interesting distinction I'd never considered before.

 

One thing I also had to accept was that I had been comparing myself to exactly one autistic person.

My boyfriend.

As if one person could represent an entire spectrum.

I had treated every difference between us as evidence that I couldn't be autistic. Seunghoon had very little interest in sex when we were young; I thought about men constantly. He was more willing to meet people; I tried to avoid them. He needed certain things communicated more directly, while I often noticed social signals and then analysed them until I misread them.

The differences were real. My mistake was believing they cancelled out the possibility that we could both be autistic.

 

Receiving another diagnosis didn't erase the ones I already had.

I still have Borderline Personality Disorder.

I still have anxiety.

I still have Compulsive Sexual Behavior Disorder.

Those diagnoses remain part of me too.

Autism wasn't a replacement.

It was an addition.

It simply explained some of the parts that never completely fit the explanations I already had.

Not everything belongs to autism or borderline. Some things are probably shaped by both, some by anxiety or Compulsive Sexual Behavior Disorder, and some are simply my personality.

I no longer need to decide which diagnosis owns every part of me.

And honestly...

I'm perfectly okay with that.

Maybe that's why psychology fascinated me in the first place. I've always wanted to understand how minds work. I just didn't expect one of my own assumptions to remain invisible for so long.

 

The irony was difficult to miss. Years earlier, I had studied tunnel vision in criminal investigations. Now I could see that I had approached myself in exactly the same way: I reached a conclusion early and spent years interpreting everything through it.

I had never imagined I would become my own case study.

 

I'm still the same person I was before that assessment.

I still hate fluorescent supermarket lights.

I still know far too much about strange subjects.

I still prefer forests to crowded cafés.

I still love my boyfriend.

I still think most small talk is painfully boring.

The only real difference is that now I understand one more piece of myself.

After spending so many years trying to understand the human mind, I suppose it was finally time to reopen the case I had solved too early.