If indeed you are gay, that is. If you’re not, then when did you know you were straight, bi, or bicurious?
Was it your reaction to your first Judy Garland song? Vin Diesel movie? Weekend in Palm Springs?
I’ll tell you how I knew. As a 12-year-old, I felt vaguely sexual and kept looking at bathing suited people in travel brochures in order to find a target for my feelings.
I strenuously tried to find the women in the brochures attractive, but the only gal who seemed even mildly alluring to me was the one with a chest flatter than a carving board, a lady who looked pretty much like a dude, actually.
The real men in their trunks, on the other hand, made me tumescent with delight, and I couldn’t fight the feeling any more than I could stop finding myself at Liz and Dick movies at the local crash-and-burn cinema.
Just around then, a TV show called Tarzan was on the air, with studly Ron Ely swinging from a long vine in nothing but a loincloth cut well below the navel.
That did it! I knew I was a big old fudgepacker and there was no turning back from the chocolate factory.