Jonathan Bender, New York

I wouldn't really consider this a coming out story per se, considering I was never really "outed.” Unlike many who have experience incredibly adamant responses from family members, peers and teachers alike, my first steps out of the closet were fairly easy.

Growing up, I feel like every member of the LGBT community knows there's something a bit off about their internal desires and longings; whether it's Barbie's remarkable accessorizing skills or G.I. Joe's throbbing toy bulge, as examples. As a child I had the best possible parents and extended family members a little “friend of Dorothy” could ask for; I say friend of Dorothy because I literally was obsessed with "The Wizard of Oz."

When I was four Toys 'R Us had a sale in the girl's dress up section and there was a feature on the Jelly Ruby Slippers, so naturally my mother instinctively made the purchase. One problem: I was only allowed to dress up in the house. A natural born trouble-maker to the core, I skipped my way out of the backyard and onto the sidewalks, completely ignorant white suburbia. Later, in the fifth grade, I was taunted and teased to death grade, getting called "Big Gay Al” at a time when South Park reigned supreme, and the boys who admitted to liking "...Baby One More Time" were crucified on the playground.

Noticing a major change in my demeanor (and eating habits), my mother enrolled me into theater classes to work through it and make friends outside of school; proving to be more difficult, it was a predominantly Jewish theater school where I had to lie about my "faith" to make a friend or two. Middle school was more challenging, but as my stomach began to shrink my skin became tougher and my attitude became a little rougher around the edges.

Dating my "girl-friends" only proved only to be sham-worthy. I would look tense and robotic parading down the hall arm and arm with a girl that I simply could never crush on. The only real girl crush I had was Sarah Michelle Gellar, who I postered my walls with - but that's beside the point.

High school was where I first met an out and comfortable gay man who paved the way for my coming out process. A friend of a friend, Paul, graduated from my high school a year prior and was incredibly handsome, I knew this would be a problem. Unsure of how I felt, I became closer with his ex-girlfriend, Laurie, who always assumed I was a bit “light in my loafers.” But then again who didn't already assume that?

Paul and I would talk online when I'd get home from school. He had a break from college and would email me back and forth about his long distance boyfriend and about feelings I could only repress. What I had with Paul was special to me, which I'm not sure he even realizes to this day considering I never really thanked him for the mentorship and support along the way.

Through him, I decided enough was enough with my internal struggle. I had to face the facts and I skipped a class on a fake pass to go to the choir room, parading down the hall with sweaty palms and nerves that were boiling through my skin. My choir director had a “Safe Space” sticker on her door from a donation she had made a few years prior, so when I got to Mrs. Wade’s room I told her about my sexuality and finally opened myself up.

I told her how I felt that it was the only secret I had to myself, seeing as my father was a private investigator and knew damn well every step I took, everything I ate, and everything else down to where I went to the bathroom (most likely). He was who I feared the most. Having met my parents before, she knew when I had come to terms with myself and this "secret" I would open up to them when I ready.

One night, after I was out with my friends seeing One Hour Photo, I arrived home to a note on the oven: "We need to talk. Love, Mom." Cautiously, I tip-toeing into the den, my mother was in her usual position on the couch, curled up with Lifetime and her glass of Chardonnay. I sat down. I stare blankly at her.

"How was your night?" banter started the conversation, but I needed to know if what she was asking was regarding my sexuality.

"So, this note..."

"I know your secret."

"MOM, I'm BI!" my eyes were welling up with unmerited tears.

My mother coddled me with her quirky, liberal sense of humor: "I've pretty much known since you popped out of me."

We hugged and I told her stories about my confusion and the struggles I faced in middle school through high school to open ears. But the hard part was yet to come. The next morning I woke up, groggy eyed from salty tears to my father sitting at the edge of my bed./span>

"I just wanted to say this to you face to face," he began, "my brother was always suspected to be gay, and he was my best friend for some time before he died. I loved him, and I want you to know that no matter who you are, what you are, who you love, I will always love you. Do me a favor and remember that this is only a part of you, it's not all of you."

The hardest part of the experience was the easiest part, because I didn't even have to do the talking.