Hi. I’m Daniel. I'm heterosexual, and I was homophobic. Perhaps I still am, hopefully to a lesser degree.

I recall witnessing frequent gay bashing during my high school days. Gay students were perpetually 

referred to in derogatory terms: fags, pussies, dykes, freaks and many others that filter our

understanding, experience and perception of them. They were chosen as scapegoats, preyed upon,

ostracized, mocked, bullied, and attacked simply because of their sexual orientation and identity and

because they were different. .

Perhaps I needed to feel safe from such outright attacks or being targeted for any reason, or forces

operating that were beyond my control. I felt fortunate to be one of the privileged heterosexuals, not

subject to having my dignity stripped away or experiencing the internalized shame and self-loathing that

comes when you’re seen by most others as an example of what not to be.

It wasn't until my freshman year of college, in a sociology class, that I learned about stigma. A stigma is a

visible or known attribute that relegates a person to a substandard or less desirable category. This

person is often disgraced, treated as weak, evil, immoral, defective, incapable, and unworthy. However,

it took me much longer to connect this concept to the experiences of gay people—to understand they

were a stigmatized group, perpetually treated as objects of derision by our conditioned society.

It wasn't until graduate school that I realized I was homophobic. This occurred when I first encountered

the term "homophobic," understanding it meant I was a carrier and bearer of the stigma attached to

being gay. This bias was embedded in my belief system; it filtered my perception, and I was unconscious

of my aversion to same-sex relationships and to those whose sexual orientation differed from

heterosexual.

My homophobia manifested in my reactions to the idea of men having sex with other men, women

having sex with other women, a man potentially wanting to have sex with me, or the thought of me

having sex with a man. I became aware of an automatic fear and revulsion associated with these

scenarios and to gay people in general.

More alarming, however, were its unconscious manifestations—specifically, how my homophobia

influenced my behavior when interacting with someone gay. On the surface, I acted respectfully and

even genuinely. I could laugh with the person, ask for help, and offer help. I knew how to be "nice." But

invariably, after we parted, I felt a sense of relief.

As I gained more understanding of my own homophobia and the phenomenon in general, I recognized a

distinction between blatant and sophisticated forms. Blatant homophobia often manifests as outright

ignorance or malevolence. Sophisticated homophobia is more subtle, involving elements of pretension,

concealment, and denial.



Eventually, I had to ask myself: How emotionally close could or would I allow myself to get to someone

who is gay? Although I wanted to believe I treated every person as an equal, I wasn't sure if I truly could.

Since my contact with the gay community was minimal at that point, I hadn't deeply explored this

question.

My unresolved homophobia resurfaced unexpectedly when I decided to become more involved

professionally with the gay community. I came face to face, once again, with biases deeply rooted in my

unconscious conditioning.

I was organizing my first "Dating to Relate" workshop specifically for gay men, focused on developing

dating and intimacy skills. Until then, all my groups and workshops had catered exclusively to

heterosexual individuals.

One prospective participant informed me he had AIDS and asked me to call the other potential group

members to ensure they were comfortable with his participation. My understanding at the time was

flawed; I mistakenly believed that if someone wasn't actively sick, they didn't truly have AIDS but were

"merely" HIV-positive.

After speaking with the other group members, I relayed to him that no one objected to his participation,

framing it in terms of his being HIV-positive (based on my misunderstanding). He later called back,

explaining that my apparent ignorance about the realities of HIV and AIDS made him feel unsafe

entering a therapy group led by me.

During our conversation, the reality hit me: I wasn't just interacting with a gay man, but with someone

living with a potentially fatal disease—someone who could get sick and die. Suddenly, I felt exposed and

vulnerable.

It dawned on me that I had effectively insulated myself, remaining emotionally removed from the reality

of AIDS despite its significant media attention. Why did it take a direct confrontation for AIDS to feel real

to me? Was it my underlying homophobia? Or was it a deeper aversion to illness and death? Regardless,

I had to address his concerns. He needed assurance that I understood his perspective. After our talk, he

decided to join the group.

This conversation changed me. I felt a much closer connection to him than I had anticipated. I found

myself becoming emotionally invested in this gay man living with AIDS, knowing this connection would

deepen during the group. I accepted that I couldn't separate him from his diagnosis; he and his condition

were interconnected. In that moment, I also grasped that his sexual orientation was integral in the same

way: truly accepting a gay person means fully accepting their sexual identity. This realization marked

the beginning of my metamorphosis.

During the workshop, it became apparent that these gay men struggled with internalized homophobia—

similar to my external biases, but directed inward. Unlike my experience, their fear and revulsion

towards themselves profoundly affected their relationships. Their internalized homophobia was not just



an obstacle; they also had to contend with the deep, silent pain that comes from knowing society often

views your core identity as unwanted, unworthy, or illegitimate. Several participants identified

homophobia as a crucial factor shaping their emotional and sexual development, and as a significant

impediment to forming healthy sexual and intimate relationships.

One participant shared his experience: "Growing up, being gay felt like the absolute worst thing in the

world—the lowest of the low. Gay sex was what distinguished me, made me different. Expressing my

sexuality was taboo. There were no role models, no positive messages. I didn't know any gay people—

not in my family, not among friends. To me, conditioned by that environment, gay sex seemed perverted,

wrong, dirty, and awful."

He continued, "The anonymous sex I engaged in—which constituted about 95% of my sexual

experiences—was, in a way, a playing out of society's implicit message: if you must do this, do it

shamefully and hidden. And I became remarkably adept at it. The only options seemed furtive and

shameful. Even after I came out, this pattern was so ingrained that it persisted. A part of me still

struggles with the belief that gay sex should be anonymous, confined to bathrooms or parks."

Another participant added, "And this societal rejection is part of what made the gay community

vulnerable, a fertile ground for HIV. Our broader culture doesn't affirm or support stable, monogamous

relationships between people of the same sex. Instead, it implicitly condones—or at least expects—

transient encounters in places like bathhouses, parks, bookstores, or rest stops, where partners often

remain anonymous. The underlying message felt like: 'We don't approve of what you do, but if you insist,

keep it confined to sleazy places where we don't have to witness or acknowledge it.' If society made it

acceptable to form committed relationships, anonymous sex likely wouldn't be so prevalent, nor would

the gay community have become such a concentrated zone for sexually transmitted diseases."

Further discussion revealed that homophobia isn't just socially conditioned; it often exists within

families, sometimes in its most insidious, well-disguised forms. Group members unanimously shared the

experience that, growing up, being gay or living an openly gay lifestyle was presented as unacceptable

within their families. Whether through explicit statements or implicit messages, they perceived that

being gay would be—or was—a source of embarrassment and disappointment to their parents.

These men taught me profoundly about an experience entirely outside my own: growing up gay in an

intensely homophobic society. Simultaneously, their stories left me deeply disturbed. I couldn't help but

wonder: What if most people are like I used to be—uninformed, fearful, and judgmental?

How many people genuinely want to understand what it's like to be gay? To comprehend growing up in

a culture that rejects and denies your very essence? To grasp the pain of having parents who cannot—

and often never will—accept you? To know the feeling of being fundamentally different, forced to live in

secrecy, hated and mocked for so long that you internalize the belief that you are incapable of intimacy?

And consequently, to resort to anonymous sex as perhaps the only perceived means of achieving sexual

or human contact, all while yearning for love just like everyone else?



Summary:

This piece explores a heterosexual man’s journey from ignorance and internalized homophobia to

understanding and empathy through direct engagement with gay men and their lived experiences. It

examines how societal and familial rejection stigmatizes gay individuals, impacting their self-worth and

emotional development, often pushing them towards anonymous sex as a coping mechanism or

perceived necessity for connection. The narrative underscores the pervasive nature of homophobia—

both external prejudice and internalized self-loathing—and implicitly calls for a culture of acceptance

that fosters genuine intimacy and authentic relationships. Through recounting his personal growth and

sharing the vulnerability of the men in his workshop, the author illustrates the potential for change and

highlights the crucial role of empathy in dismantling prejudice.

Claude

Homophobia, Anonymous Sex and Intimacy

September 9, 2014

I'm Daniel. I'm heterosexual and was homophobic, and maybe I still am to a lesser degree.

I can recall my high school days seeing gay bashing frequently. LGBTQ+ individuals were

perpetually referred to in derogatory terms: fags, pussies, dykes, freaks, and many other names.

They were chosen scapegoats, preyed upon, ostracized, mocked, bullied, and attacked because of

their sexual orientation and identity.

I must have needed to feel safe from such outright attacks or being targeted for any reason,

because there were forces operating that were beyond my control. I felt fortunate to be one of the

privileged heterosexual elites and not subject to having my dignity stripped away or experiencing

the internalized shame and self-loathing that come when you're seen in the eyes of most others as

examples of what not to be.

It wasn't until I was a freshman in college that I learned about stigma in a sociology class. A

stigma is a visible or known attribute that relegates a person to a substandard or less desirable

category of people. This person is disgraced, treated as weak, evil, immoral, defective, incapable,

and unworthy. It was long before I made the connection that gay people were a stigmatized

group who were forever treated as objects of derision by our conditioned society.

It wasn't until graduate school that I realized I was homophobic. It was when I first heard the

term "homophobic," which meant that I was a carrier and bearer of the stigma attached to being

gay. It was embedded in my belief system and filtered my perception, and I was unconscious of

my aversion to same-gender sex and to those whose sexual orientation was anything other than

heterosexual.

My homophobia was evident in the ways I reacted to the idea of men having sex with other men,

women having sex with other women, of a man wanting to have sex with me, and of me having



sex with a man. I became aware of an automatic fear and revulsion that was associated with

those people.

More alarming, however, were its unconscious manifestations—how my homophobia influenced

my behavior whenever I was with someone who was gay. I acted respectfully and even honestly.

I was able to laugh with the person, ask for help, and offer help. I knew how to be nice. But then,

after we parted, I felt relieved.

As I developed more understanding of my homophobia and homophobia in general, I saw there

was a distinction between blatant and sophisticated homophobia. When it's blatant, homophobia

usually comes across as ignorance or malevolence. When it's sophisticated, the person's attitude

is more subtle; pretension, concealment, and denial are involved.

The question I eventually had to ask myself was how emotionally close could or would I allow

myself to get to someone who is gay. Although I wanted to see myself as someone who treats

every person as equal, I wasn't sure I could do so. Since my contact with the gay population was

minimal, I hadn't explored this question much further.

It was when I decided to get more involved professionally with the gay population that I had

once again, unexpectedly so, come face to face with my homophobia that was so deeply rooted

in my unconscious bank of conditioning.

I was putting together my first gay men's "Dating to Relate" workshop, which was about

developing dating and intimacy skills. Up to this point, I had done only heterosexual groups and

workshops.

One of the participants told me he had AIDS and wanted me to call the other group members to

make sure his having AIDS was okay with them. I was under the impression that if someone is

not actually sick, they probably don't have AIDS; they're merely HIV-positive.

After I had spoken to the other group members, I let him know that none of them had a problem

with his being HIV-positive. He later called back to tell me that my ignorance about HIV and

AIDS made him feel unsafe being in a therapy group with me as the leader.

During the course of our conversation, it became clear to me that I was not only dealing with

someone who was gay but someone with a disease, someone who could get sick and die.

Suddenly, I felt exposed and vulnerable.

It dawned on me that I had kept myself insulated or emotionally removed from the reality of

AIDS, despite all the attention it received in the media. Why was AIDS something that wasn't

real to me until it was in my face? Was it my homophobia? Or did it have more to do with my

aversion to disease and death? Either way, I had to respond to him. He wanted my assurance that

I understood his considerations, and he responded with a decision to be in the group.

This conversation changed me. I got much closer to him than I had anticipated. I found myself

getting intimately involved with a gay man who has AIDS and knew I was going to get even



more involved with him during the group. I accepted the fact that I couldn't take his AIDS away

from him, that he and AIDS were a package deal. In that moment, I also realized that his being

gay was the same thing; it's impossible to totally accept someone who is gay without accepting

his or her sexual orientation. This was just the beginning of my metamorphosis.

During the workshop, it became apparent that, just like me, these gay men were also

homophobic. But unlike me, their fear and revulsion were directed at themselves and profoundly

affected their experience in relationships.

Not only was their homophobia an obstacle with which they had to contend, they had to

overcome the kind of deep, silent pain that stigmatized people suffer when they know that what

they are at their core is unwanted, unworthy, and doesn't belong. Several of them discussed

homophobia as a determining factor in their emotional and sexual development and as an

impediment in developing sexual and intimate relationships.

One of the group participants noted, "Growing up, being gay was the absolute worst thing in the

world. It was the lowest low of human beings. Gay sex was what distinguished me from other

people. It was taboo for me to express my sexuality. There were no role models around me. I

didn't receive any positive messages. I didn't know any gay people. There were no gay people in

my family. I had no gay friends. To me, gay sex was perverted, wrong, dirty, and awful.

"The anonymous sex I had, which was about 95% of all the sex I had, was a playing out of

society's expectations of how I should have sex. And I did a remarkably good job. The only

options I had were furtive and shameful. Even after I came out, this pattern was so ingrained in

me it persisted, that all I could have was that kind of sex, and part of me still believes that gay

sex should be anonymous, that it belongs in bathrooms or the park."

Someone else added, "And it's part of what made the gay community such a fertile place for HIV

to land. Our culture doesn't support monogamous relationships between the same sexes. It

supports those kinds of encounters: bath houses, parks, bookstores, gas stations, where we don't

know our partners.

"We don't like what you do, but if you're going to do it, keep it in sleazy places where we don't

have to see it or know about it. If it were okay to make a commitment to another person,

anonymous sex wouldn't be as prevalent as it is, nor would the gay population be such a hotbed

for sexually transmitted diseases."

As we discussed the issue of homophobia further, it became apparent that homophobia isn't

merely a part of our social conditioning; it exists in our families as well, where it is probably the

most well-disguised. It was unanimously accepted among the group members that being gay or

living a gay lifestyle was not an option for them. Whether the messages were implicit or explicit,

they felt being gay was a source of embarrassment and disappointment to their parents.

These men taught me a lot about something I had no experience of, namely, what it's like to

grow up in an extremely homophobic society. At the same time, however, I was deeply



disturbed. I couldn't help but wonder: what if most people are like how I used to be—

uninformed, afraid, and judgmental?

How many people really want to know what it's like being gay? What it's like growing up in a

culture that rejects and denies your very essence? What it's like to have parents who can't and in

many cases never will accept you? What it's like to be different from everyone else, to live in

secrecy, to be hated and mocked so long that you actually believe you are incapable of intimacy

and, as a result, resort to anonymous sex as the only available means for sexual/human contact,

yet are like everyone else, yearning for love?