When I was 18, I secretly met a guy through a personals ad I placed in the weekly paper.  The ad was vague: something to the effect of "18 years old, bisexual white male, seeks friends..." etc.  I thought saying I was "bisexual" was somehow "better" than just saying I was gay, less shameful somehow.  Needless to say, there is nothing "bi" about me, other than the fact that my straight girlfriends let me feel them up from time to time with the full knowledge I am not remotely enticed by their C-cups.  I'm not saying it's an intelligent way to spend one's time, I'm just saying we do it.  
 
Anyway--
 
So I was, of course, deluged with responses from predatory AARP-age men, who told me they wanted to love me and make me feel special.  I threw those away.  But I kept the responses from a few guys: maybe around my age, maybe a little older, who just said hello and shared a few things about how they spent their day.  The guys seemed nice.  More importantly, they were real.  So I folded them up and saved them; I had no intention of calling any of these guys, I was far too paranoid to actually speak to another gay person.  Imagine if someone found out!  The horror!  I was content knowing they were out there.  I just wanted to know I could meet someone, someday.
 
Of course I couldn't take the anticipation of holding on to those letters.  I called one of the guys a few days later.
 
The guy I ended up picking turned out to be a 24-year-old, 6-feet tall, 220+ pound slab of muscle, who owned a tattoo parlor and rode a Harley.  He lived in a room connected to his mother's garage, where he slept on a water bed which he thought was "sexy."  He wore acid-wash jeans and sported what disturbingly resembled a mullet.  But again, he seemed...nice. 
 
Our first date, we went to a drive-in movie, to which I had to drive of course.  Not that I complained, I loved his chopper.  I refused to ride on it, and he never tried to force me; but I loved that he had it.  I loved his tattoos--the tiger on his shoulder was my favorite.  I loved the fact that he was dangerous, yet the blond curls of hair were so soft.  He didn't smoke, he didn't drink.  And at least he had a job.  Tattoos are big business, you know. 
 
He taught me it was okay to talk about being gay.  When we talked, I could say anything I wanted, we would lay there floating around on that stupid water bed and I could say the word "gay" as many times as I wanted, and he listened everything.  He taught me it was okay to say I was just "gay," there was no need to try and cheat with the "bisexual" label, and actually it was insulting to people who really are.  
 
He taught me to stop insulting myself and making fun of myself for being "queeny," to stop saying I was too skinny and too effeminate and not enough of a man.  It had been years since I had held my head up when I walked in a room, or liked what I saw when I looked in a mirror; I had grown my hair out with the excuse that it was "cool," but really it was to cover my skinny pimply face that I thought was ugly. He liked the way I looked, the way I acted, he thought I was just fine the way I was: skinny, effeminate, gay.  I started looking people in the eye again.  I even cut my hair. 
 
Then a few months later my parents found those letters I was saving, they figured out who my new "friend" was and forbade me from ever speaking to the guy again.  They were horrified this tattooed, long-haired homosexual came into my life and corrupted me, it was all his fault.  They thought he was a bad influence.  Little did they know. 
 
Several years ago he found me again, through the powers of the internet.  He now works for a law firm, he wears a suit to work every day, drives a car with four wheels.  But those tattoos are still under there, the Harley is still in his garage.  And I'm still a big queen.  Neither of us will ever change.