The boys who laughed at the sight of my chest hair did not have as much as me, but were often the same ones who called me “faggot” or confronted me about my sexuality in front of large groups of people in the way that makes closeted, young gay boys’ hearts fall to their feet.
SEE ALSO: How Brooklyn became the world’s queer mecca To avoid unwanted attention, I changed clothes in the bathroom stall. When I was in high school, boys in the gym locker room would make their eyes as big as a tree frog’s and cackle in the direction of the tangled, coarse, chestnut-colored mess of hair on my chest.
The hair on my chest, ass, and thighs has been the property of others for as long as I’ve had it.
