I do not understand what I do.
Paul the Apostle
A few years ago our community’s book club read Jay Stringer’s Unwanted: How Sexual Brokenness Reveals Our Way to Healing. More than any other book I’ve read, let alone a “Christian book,” Unwanted helped me more closely examine why I do the sexual things I do. It illuminated my top-level attraction for men, as well as some of my deeper-level kinks, fetishes, and desires.
This book is a dive! Submerge at your own peril (or perhaps triumph?).
I’ve been rereading Unwanted for therapy, and it continues to reveal my uncomfortable reflection — all of it, all of me. It often feels like fluorescent lights buzzing overhead at midnight. And yet Stringer’s premise encourages me: sexual brokenness almost paradoxically revealing paths to healing.
Rather than collapse on the specific nature of our sexual struggles, what if our kinks, our fetishes, and our repeated sexual patterns revealed something vital about our past, pointing us a healthier, more integrated way forward?
Instead of fluorescent lights scalding me from above and within, what if my sexual shame (including the fetishes I can’t write about) could serve more as a lighthouse at midnight, my decades-long desires, once lost at sea, now lighting my way home?
Reading (and now rereading) this book, I’m discovering several levels to my sexuality. The deeper I dive, the deeper it seems I must still go. The nature of some of my sexual desires, starting top-level with my same-sex attraction itself, have grown much clearer; for others, the water still feels thick with oil, the light hazy and refracting rather than reflecting much clarity.
So, let’s start at the top of my sexuality and work our way down — as far down as I’m able to delve today, anyway.
Why I Find Men Attractive
While other queer or otherwise SSA (same-sex attracted) folks may not so easily explain their sexuality, I’ve reached a point where I can confidently explain mine: I lacked close friendships with other boys growing up, and I sexualized them. I’m attracted to men because they’ve always felt “other” to me. This sense of the “masculine other” goes all the way back to first grade.
In the great “nature vs. nurture” debate, I’m sure there’s also a healthy dose of “nature” to throw in with my (lack of) masculine “nurture.” I grew up as a more sensitive, creative boy, after all, feeling and thinking and desiring all sorts of things most boys do not: adventures and sleepovers and long drawn huggles (hugs+cuddles).
It’s just how I was; it’s how I still am. The combination of my nature and nurture helps me understand why I became a boy only attracted to boys. Why I’m a man only attracted to men today.
It doesn’t mean I necessarily like the end result of connecting those dots. But I do understand it. This understanding has given me a significant level of peace with my sexuality today.
Beyond my emotional void with other males, I also lacked masculine self-assuredness as a boy. Does this count as “nature” or “nurture”? Perhaps a bit of both.
As I consider what draws me to men, I realize what I’ve long lacked and thus envied in others: masculine confidence. Not the obnoxious, braggadocious sort, but the kind which simply knows to be masculine, as if it’s innate to a man’s blood. His way, his being.
I never felt this masculine envy and subsequent disconnect more viscerally than my lone summer working at a Christian boys’ camp in my mid-twenties.
Yes, many of my fellow counselors were objectively attractive. Hot, even. Why were they spending a summer at camp and not modeling somewhere?
Beyond the abs and biceps, these guys were also objectively, intrinsically male. Male, together. Constantly shirtless and playful and often immature in one sense, and yet also vulnerable and empathetic and spiritually mature in another.
They loved Jesus, they loved working with kids, and they loved being guys with one another — roughhousing and praying and worshipping together all the same.
It took me the vast majority of that summer to stagger there, but when I finally started to reach their hallowed ground of shared maleness, I discovered a significant solution to my masculine envy — a “way to healing,” to borrow Stringer’s language.
Rather than run away from men, or stare hopelessly from the sidelines, I steered into the masculine storm, attempting relationships with the once unreachable straight, hot, shirtless, confident men around me.
I talked to them, insecurities abounding.
I took off my shirt with them, my body image near-crippling.
In essence, I faked it until I, indeed, made it.
Moving beyond that summer at camp, I’ve been “faking” my masculinity for over a decade now, and this “masculine steering” still feels unnatural. I constantly hear alarms blaring that I am not worthy any time I enter a new group of men or attempt to connect with them.
But the alarms aren’t as shrill today as they were at the start of camp.
Oh, I still notice the attractiveness and confidence of my male friends. Confidence I still wish I had. But I am also noticing they don’t feel as “other” anymore. The more we connect, the more we engage, the more I see they’re just as messed-up as I am.
These men are just as beautiful as I am, too. A glint of an infinitely creative God.
As I step more into masculine self-assuredness, as I become confident, I start to ask myself if that hot, mysterious, confident guy across the gym floor really has as much to offer me anymore?
I mean, don’t get me wrong: I still enjoy covertly staring at him — admiring God’s handiwork, so to speak. But I also don’t think my heart yearns for him with quite the same soul-sucking propulsion that I once did. I’ve been intentionally stepping out with men for many years now, and I’m realizing more of this hard yet simple truth.
I am masculine, too.
Why I’ve Watched Gay Pornography
The next level down from the envy propelling much of my “real world” same-sex attraction revolves around the gay pornography I’ve consumed. It’s bizarre to consider: the stuff I’m drawn to watch today absolutely has roots in my childhood.
It started innocently enough: pocketing the weekly Kmart and Sears underwear ads from the kitchen table; stealing away from my family to wander the underwear aisles at Walmart; secretly searching for underwear-only images of cute actors on the family computer.
Do you see a theme?
Becoming an adult with a laptop and wifi and privacy, I googled images and videos of men in their underwear. This was the first time I masturbated to images on a screen rather than ones remembered or conjured in my mind.
My so-called “arousal blueprint” has been established since my youth: I’m deeply attracted to men in their underwear. There’s also something about the search, the hunt, and this voyeuristic lens of looking at someone who can’t look back.
I suppose this is one of those aforementioned “fetishes I can never write about.”
Oops.
“I’m way more attracted to men in their underwear than men who are naked,” I once told another gay friend.
“Really?” he asked, stunned. “That makes no sense.”
Well. Maybe so for you. But it’s making more sense to me.
Sneaking peeks at men in limited dress went beyond underwear packages and websites. Throughout adolescence, I caught glimpses of my classmates changing in locker rooms. It wasn’t “gay porn” in name, but it might as well have been in heart.
Even today, I crave those clandestine peeks at other men, still get a rush from whatever I may find when I search online, or whoever I may find when I enter my gym’s locker room.
I am a literal peeping Tom, if ever there were one.
The “fix,” a way toward healing then, much like my disconnect with and envy of men, seems to be running into the storm rather than away from it. Despite the lure of what lies around the bend, I feel as if I need to keep entering locker rooms and male-only spaces as someone fully qualified to be there. To continue hammering at my false assertion that I do not belong, that I am “other.”
I’m still a long ways away from entering a male-only space like a Korean spa; the concept of sharing total nudity with other men is certainly another blog for another day. But for now, discretely changing clothes in a locker room alongside other guys discretely changing clothes is a good step.
I’m also learning that the physical qualities I admire and desire in the nearly naked bodies around me are available to me, too. I need not be a parasite that latches onto other masculine bodies.
I have a masculine body, too. I can eat healthily and strategically, I can work out intensely and regularly, and I can acquire something at least adjacent to the masculine bodies around me. I can even wear certain kinds of underpants that appeal to me, make me feel masculine in my male body.
This level down is much harder to resolve than the one above it, but I am seeing objective, physical progress with my masculine body. And some subjective emotional progress with my masculine heart as well.
Ultimately, I’m striving to show up and participate in my masculine life alongside other masculine lives rather than “peep” from afar. Which takes me one more difficult level down…
Why I’ve Hooked Up with Men on the Internet
Beyond my baseline attraction and envy for men from afar, I’ve also directly interacted with men online in illicit ways, “virtually hooking up,” in a sense. Again and again I’ve wondered, with increasing angst, why I’ve fallen into this rut, why this specific sexual pattern continues to repeat itself, and how I may escape it.
Unwanted continues to give me language for the things I unconsciously do. Just as one arousal blueprint was drawn up by all those underwear ads, aisles, and Google searches from childhood, another blueprint has been writing itself and repeating for years, if not decades.
Here’s what I’m determining thus far.
If I’m never going to mess around with other guys in real life, if I don’t necessarily want to do so as someone on the asexuality spectrum, then this virtual outlet seems to satisfy some minimal sexual desire toward experiencing sex without actually experiencing sex.
It’s like I’m “peeping” on sex rather than directly having sex firsthand, and this loophole has a strong pull on me.
Does that make sense?
I’m still uncovering the patterns and desires with this level, but I also feel the virtual hookup lifestyle is one in which intimacy is conveniently short-circuited. Why be vulnerable with a friend or a community when I can just get off with a stranger online? It’s “vulnerability” in another sense — though never a vulnerability that lasts. Never a vulnerability that sustains.
If the “fix” to my homosexuality is authentic interactions with men, if the “fix” to my isolation and envy is to participate and not spectate, then how do I overcome the pattern of virtual hookups? This false intimacy?
I suppose the answer is the pursuit of real intimacy.
And, well — that sucks. I hate real intimacy.
Or, rather, I’ve been wounded after experiencing real intimacy. I’ve gotten really, really close with men, both gay and straight, only for them to leave me, or for some conflict to erupt in which I desperately leave them.
When you experience genuine intimacy with someone, only for that intimacy to be ripped away, the pain is searing. It makes you wonder why you ever bothered to open up yourself.
It certainly makes you wonder why you’d ever bother to open up yourself again.
False intimacy is way easier to find on the internet than true intimacy in real life. Fake vulnerability is a far quicker fix than authentic vulnerability.
But at what cost? For how long?
My journey toward healing in this particular area of sexual brokenness feels like a longer haul. I must learn to trade out the wrong intimacy, again and again and again, for the right sort. I feel as if this will take many, many years.
But I do want to heal. I do want to grow. I do want to reopen my heart, despite knowing all too well that this reopening will leave me greatly exposed.
God go with me. And God go with you, too.
How have you considered the patterns of your sexual brokenness? Where have you found positive alternatives to your sexual proclivities?
About the Author
Wow! This post resonated with me! Like you, I’ve struggled with many of the same attractions and habits. Parts of your post felt like you had watched my childhood through my eyes.
I was raised with all sisters in a rural area miles from friends. I was a sensitive kid in a farming environment. I can vividly recall being called a sissy by my father and grandfather. I had crushes on girls, but those girls always found something lacking in me, reinforcing those messages from my father and grandfather. Like you, I, too, have always been attracted to men. I would get so excited about meeting a new male friend. I stole glances in the locker room and showers or when skinny dipping with friends on occasional hot Southern summer nights. And I find the image of a fit male clad only in his underwear to be the physical image of Godly perfection in creation. But, also, like you, I’ve never wanted to have sex with a man. I’ve never considered that I might be attracted to the “otherness” of masculinity. I didn’t have the words to process the attraction, yet it lingered.
Over the years, I became obsessed with male nudity and male intimacy. In high school and college, I found four males with whom I would eventually masturbate (individually, not collectively). Those experiences always left me mired in shame and guilt. (It didn’t help that I attended a Christian college.) I left mutual masturbation behind when I graduated college but missed the intimacy. In my adult years, I discovered gay pornography – and I indulged. But I found myself drawn websites where men would share stories of their sexual experiences with other males, experiences that didn’t end in sex. Over time, I came to realize that I was attracted to the idea of male closeness and vulnerability of holding and being held by another man, revealing yourself to another man, and feeling accepted.
I’ve struggled with the ebbs and flows of that attraction all my life, and still struggle with it. My redneck past left me with a solid work ethic, a simple and practical sense of integrity and morality, a lack of confidence in myself as a man, and the inability to talk about it with anyone. In recent years, I’ve tried to perform the psychological decomposition of my struggles, trying to discover why I have this longing for “something special, something sacred…to be bold and naked” (all credit to George Micheal; may he rest in peace) with other men. I follow Insta accounts like _, wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to join one of the all-male retreats, where nudity is a requirement. And, in my weaker moments, I return to the GRWM videos to listen to and read the stories of others, mentally inserting myself into their experiences, hoping to satisfy the longing one more time. Thank you for the book recommendation. I’m excited to read it, knowing how it has helped you.
Thank you Tom and David. Both of your stories not only resonnate with me but could very much have been me inserted into your own experiences and feelings-attractions. One of the beautiful components of this ministry is ‘knowing’ that I am not alone, in my life’s story and similar battles. I truly appreciate both of your williness to share intimate details of your journeys and experiences, filled with unwanted but very real challenge.
Thanks Troy! You listed my favorite part of this ministry too. 🙂
Hey David, thanks for this comment. Always glad to hear when some of my story resonates with others. I edited out your specific references to things in case they’re problematic to some. But I resonate with your tension! I don’t know if I could partake in a nudity-centered activity like that. I struggle to see the value of shared nudity. I hear that it’s worked wonders for others, but I feel it would make me even more of a “peep” than I presently am. Never say never, and day by day, I suppose.
I share your pattern. I have been down the same reflection pathway after listening to the Husband Material podcast. I have come to the conclusion that my roulette habits are a way for me to be in an environment where I understand the “rules”. I know how to gain approval. All I have to do is sacrifice my dignity and boundaries. Then, as you said, I’m rewarded with fake intimacy.
I have learned to watch myself and see when I’m beginning to feel isolated from the “normal” world. It’s like a glass bubble surrounds me, and I feel like I constantly have to explain how I have special circumstances or needs to others. I begin to reject being known in my weakness and become open to the temptation that I should seek the digital world’s simpler requirements.
I’m learning to bring my worries, insecurities, and doubts to God and believing He cares even when they seem petty and repetitive to me.
“All I have to do is sacrifice my dignity and boundaries. Then, as you said, I’m rewarded with fake intimacy.”
Wow, that line hit me hard. It’s so true though. I feel that bluntly, deeply.
Thank you for being so bold to share this. I resonate, AJ.
Olá, irmãos!
Tom, que relato interessante! Fez-me lembrar de minhas primeiras curiosidades, também experimentadas mediante anúncios de roupas de baixo masculinas, em revistas impressas. Ainda hoje, acho muito atraente ver imagens de homens seminus (cueca ou traje de banho), ou nus artístico.
Permita-me apenas discordar um pouco da relação causal entre a masculinidade fragilizada na infância e a atração pelo mesmo sexo. Tempos atrás isso fazia muito sentido para mim, mas fui deixando um pouco de lado essa crença.
Grande abraço!
Always grateful for your Portuguese comments, River!
Hi Tom. I am just now finding your writing here and I just want to thank you for sharing so openly and honestly. I, too, was a boy stealing away in TJ Maxx to look at models on the underwear packaging and have gone through periods of feeling deeply drawn to talk online with other guys about masturbating and underwear and whatnot. I’ve also found a lot of confidence increase in me in recent years as I have started to give myself permission to be the man that I have always found so attractive, the one I never felt like I understood growing up, and therefore, felt disqualified to become. So again, thank you, just for sharing your story. It honestly feels really good to know that I’m not alone.
Thanks for sharing, Graham! Glad you found us. I feel as if a good number of us wandered those particular store aisles as little boys (or at least let our eyes wander). You are among brothers here.