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I am neither markedly masculine nor notably effeminate. Nor am
I typically perceived as androgynous, not in my uniform of
Diesels and boots, not even when I was younger and favored
dangling earrings and bright Jack Purcells. But most people
immediately read me (correctly) as gay. It takes only a glance
to make my truth obvious. I know this from strangers who find
gay people offensive enough to elicit a remark—catcalls from
cab windows, to use a recent example—as well as from
countless casual social engagements in which people easily
assume my orientation, no sensitive gaydar necessary. I’m not
so much out-of-the-closet as "self-evident."
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