My Dad has always had this curious misunderstanding of my sexuality. It’s not that he fears I’m gay, because he knows I’m not, or even that he would mind if I was, but more that he isn’t sure exactly that I’m straight either…

He points to the fact that I know the difference between a bun and a half-pony. How I have a small swarm of girls who consider me to be a safe-guy-friend. How I have large posters of attractive men on my wall. How I’m the secretary of my school’s Gay/Straight Alliance.

I guess it’s because I’m not exactly straight. I find other guys attractive, but I doubt that’s a shock to anyone who spends time with me. I doesn’t really matter, and labels don’t help. My Dad knows that, he just has to trust me.

When it comes to the rest of the world, people will bone who they want: Any action to disrupt that is depriving people of a right. What makes the world happy is most important, and that is my moral viewpoint.

[This post scheduled for Sunday was belatedly posted Monday night. Sorry. ~ Ed.]