Come out come out wherever you are!

I was twenty years old when I finally came out. I’d been stuffing my gay feelings down inside like a spring-loaded snake in a can of trick peanuts, and kept that lid screwed on tight. Eventually that lid has to pop off and – SPROING – that snake comes flying out. In more ways than one. Gotta love those one-eyed snakes.

Coming out was such a relief. And I was so glad it was over – or so I thought.

To this day, I still find myself coming out of the closet in new ways. It’s usually not about being gay. Gay has become celebrated, even passé; it’s that darn drag queen closet that I keep having to jump out of.

Recently I started a new job, and they don’t yet know I’m a drag queen. How long do I wait to tell them? Should it be a surprise come next Halloween when I show up for the company costume contest in high heels? Or will someone notice a stray sparkly piece of glitter in my goatee while I am giving a straight-faced presentation in the conference room? Or will one of my co-workers book a show at Lannie’s Clocktower Cabaret and realize that the three-titted drag queen prancing on the stage is the guy from the cubicle next to his?

It’s a tough call. Coming out as gay at my new job was a piece of cake. I put my husband down in the relationship field on my application form. I talk about Mr. Waste just like anyone else in the office talks about her or his spouse. Mr. Waste has already been to the company holiday party as my significant other. Easy peasy.

Breaking the news that I dress up in a sequin gown, put a big green wig on my head, glue glitter to my beard and took time off from work to host Telluride Gay Ski Week – that is proving to be a pair of panties I am not yet ready to reveal.

There’s a thrill to starting someplace new and fresh where nobody knows about your secret double life. How long can you keep it a secret? How long before someone searches your name on Facebook or Google and photos of you marching in the gay pride parade on stilts pop up?

We are always coming out of the closet in one way or another. I’ve come out as a rodeo competitor. I’ve come out as a dog owner. I’ve come out as a scooterist. I’ve come out as a beekeeper. I’ve come out as a gaymer. And I’ve come out as someone who will buy a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Pistachio Pistachio and eat the entire thing in one sitting and then hide the empty container deep in the trash so Mr. Waste does not find out.

Every time we meet someone new, we choose which things to come out about. It’s a never-ending process of sharing ourselves with others and the world.

After one morning’s treacherous drive to work during a snowstorm, my co-workers were kvetching about whose drive to work was the worst. One of the women, clearly not impressed with us, remarked, “If it’s not at least 12 inches, I don’t want to hear about it.

I chimed in, “that’s a rule of thumb for a lot of things in life.” Once the double entendre sunk in, everyone had a good giggle.

Now I don’t think of myself as a size queen, but I’ve come across a few tiny dicks in my life that made me sad. Not as sad as the person they were attached to, I am sure.

And I have choked down some monsters that were never going to fit into any other holes on my body. (Penises can be TOO big, just saying. There’s a fine line between something the right size for a play toy and one that has washed up on the beach).

So in the end – pun intended – I suppose I’d rather run into a wang a little on the long side than one that got the short end of the genetic stick.

Oops, I guess I did just come out as a size queen after all.