Did the title grab your attention? Good. These days, the truth itself feels like a forbidden topic — something too raw, too uncomfortable, too “Rated X” for the political climate we live in.
Not because this article is explicit in any way, but because conversations about sexuality, race and self-acceptance have become controversial battlegrounds. What should be natural parts of life are now considered radical, even dangerous, by the right.
There was a time in my life when I thought I had it all figured out — who I was, who I loved and the future I wanted. But as life often teaches us, self-discovery is rarely that simple. It took me decades to fully understand myself.
I grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, in a family that, like many in the South, held tightly to rigid, traditional values. My early attraction to boys, like Rocky — the one I met at summer camp in Paducah — was something I struggled to comprehend. There was no room for questioning, no space for exploration, the fear of what I had been raised to believe was “wrong.” So,
I buried it.
Then, there was her.
She was everything — bold, flashy, full of life. When she told me I was hot, something inside me lit up. We talked for hours, falling asleep on the phone, dreaming about a life together. It was young love in its purest, most passionate form.
And it was real.
We spent our days entangled, dreaming of marriage and children — Bennie Martin and Tammy Lynn, our imaginary perfect boy and girl. But beneath the love, there was something I could not ignore. I wasn’t just in love, I was hiding.
I told myself this was my life, that I could be the husband, the father, the man she deserved. But the truth kept clawing at me.
If I stayed, I would be trapping us both in a future that wasn’t real.
So, I walked away.
I broke her heart with the lie that I just didn’t love her anymore. The truth was, I loved her too much to keep lying to myself.
After that, I drifted. I sought friendship, validation, distractions, anything to keep my mind from the gnawing guilt. An older woman took an interest in me, lavishing me with attention and gifts. I went along with it, convincing myself that maybe I could force the pieces of my life to fit. But when she tried to push our relationship beyond friendship, I couldn’t go through with it.
One night, a male coworker invited me to a honky-tonk. There, I found myself in the company of another older woman, someone I barely knew. What started as a night out turned into a moment I never consented to.
She kept saying, “I could never date you; you are the age of my grandchild.”
I was intoxicated, barely conscious, unable to move and before I knew it, I was being forced into something I had no control over. I fought my way out and ran — literally ran — down a highway in the dead of night, shaken, confused, violated.
That was the moment everything became clear.
I wasn’t bisexual. I wasn’t confused. I wasn’t broken. I was a gay man.
But knowing that didn’t make the journey easier. The weight of my Southern Baptist upbringing bore down on me, the shame and guilt pressing so hard that I could barely breathe. When I finally came out, my family turned their backs on me. I was shunned, cut off and left to navigate a world that suddenly felt both freer and lonelier than ever.
Moving to Florida was my salvation. It was there that I found my true self, my community and ultimately, the love of my life — my husband. I knew he was my future.
For all the years I have lived authentically, the fear of losing my rights, my marriage, my dignity as a gay man has never fully disappeared. We are witnessing a resurgence of hate, emboldened by those who seek to turn back time on progress — on LGBTQ+ rights, on racial equality, on the very foundation of freedom.
I predict my marriage with Joey will probably be overturned within a year under this vile president.
To every young person reading this: your voice matters.
Don’t just exist in the world — stand up, fight and make noise. The rights we have today were fought for with blood, sweat and tears. And they are not guaranteed forever.
-Be in the streets.
-Be in the voting booths.
-Be in conversations that make people uncomfortable.
Don’t only protest on your social media feed. That is not enough.
Because if we don’t fight for our future, someone else will decide it for us.
And they are.
And it is moving quickly.
Martin “Leigh Shannon” Fugate is a local business owner, actor, comedian and entertainer. A strong advocate for getting out the vote and creating political change, he is a past candidate for local political office. He’s been happily married to his husband, Joey, for 37 years.
