I realised — or, more accurately, noticed — that I was gay when I was thirteen. I came out to my parents — or, more accurately, they noticed — when I was sixteen.
“Your mum and I have been wondering,” said my dad, putting the kettle on. “Do you think you might be gay?”
“… Um, well actually,” I said, my brain shorting out due to the unexpected turn in the conversation, “now that you mention it, yes.”
We hugged, drank tea, and talked about it for a little while, and then we all moved on with our lives. Everything was fine, and it was honestly the most low-key and therefore somewhat surreal coming out conversation I could ever have hoped for, and certainly not what I expected.
I would like to give John Barrowman partial credit for my dad’s attitude.