Opinion I'm Coming Out as Queer and Non-Binary, Because I'd Rather Die Than Go Back

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The first half of this year has been one of the most emotionally trying of my life: long held relationships are crumbling, I’m losing my house, two beloved pets had passed so far this year and a third is likely sooner rather than later, and the threat of fascism and the end of liberty both grow more overt and more real every single day.

And yet today, I feel better than ever. For the first time in my life I can honestly say I can die happy, and it’s because it’s only now, after three decades of depression and mental fog, that I finally feel like I’m living again instead of just surviving. It’s because, after a lifetime of suffocating half of myself, I’m finally letting my entire self live and thrive. I used to let fear and isolation keep me in denial and hiding from myself as well as the world, but one single evening with my family made it all clear.

Maybe it’s cliche to cap off Pride Month with a coming out story, but in my defense it happened by coincidence in Pride Month itself. It’s also a perfect time to come out publicly because, after all, it IS Pride Month.

I’ve always felt out of place in the world, and sometimes those feelings were rooted in more obvious causes, like religious or racial or cultural barriers separating me from the wider community around me, but sometimes they were something I could never put my finger on or verbalize. A brief flash of jealously that girl scouts got to wear skirts, but boy scouts didn’t; wanting to try makeup or nail polish; wondering why I thought it was unfair I could try out to be a cheerleader if I wanted, but couldn’t wear a girl’s uniform as part of it (don’t try and convince me male cheerleader uniforms aren’t insanely boring, or at least they were in the 90s). I couldn’t understand these urges, because I was not just perfectly happy in my male gender from birth, but reveled in my masculinity.

I camped, I backpacked, I built an actual log cabin with my bare hands at a summer scout camp. I took weight lifting in high school and put up numbers on par with the football team. I got my letterman’s jacket and cut the perfect image of an All American Teen Boy, and LOVED it.

So, why the hell did I long to grow my hair long, braid it, and be an adorable Girl Next Door? What was wrong with me? This went beyond just “comfortable in my masculinity”: I grew up with extremely progressive parents who loved my brother and I unconditionally and were both perfectly secure in themselves despite not conforming perfectly to heteronormative stereotypes: my mom squealed with delight when my dad bought her a new tool set for her birthday, and my dad (the former makeup artist) would chide her for drying her hands with his nice decorative bathroom towels. I wasn’t worried that wearing lip gloss would make me gay or that putting on a skirt would make me less of a man.


It’s that sometimes, I wanted to feel like less of a man and it didn’t make sense to me.

I spent a lot of time trying to figure out who I was. I first thought maybe I was gay; again, it was the late 90s/early 2000s, and I was young and stupid, so “feminine man = gay” was what pop culture had to teach my impressionable teen self about gender expression. A few encounters in my 20s with men left me more confused than before. I clearly wasn’t gay, but I also didn’t hate trying to figure it out, but didn’t like it enough to think of myself as “bisexual”.

Confused? I certainly was.

So, maybe the problem wasn’t that I was gay, but maybe I was trans. That could explain a lot: I was a woman trapped in a man’s body, a lesbian yearning to be free from this masculine cocoon.

I didn’t feel particularly trapped, but what did I know? If I was happy as a man, I wouldn’t want to be a woman, obviously. I worked up the nerve to come out to my mother, who gently suggested that I keep thinking. Clearly not wanting to hurt my feelings, make me feel rejected, or stop my personal growth, she gingerly tried to convince me that IF I was trans it would be fine, but that didn’t seem like it was the case, and I shouldn’t settle for it because I didn’t have a better answer yet.

My mother is a very smart woman, and what she said made sense. Of course, knowing what the answer wasn’t also didn’t help me figure out what it was.

The next 15 years weren’t much more illuminating: I wondered if perhaps it was a sexual kink, a hormone imbalance, repressed trauma, born intersex and given corrective surgery at birth, Klinefelter (XXY) Syndrome...all of which were dead ends for explaining the confusion within me.

Trends like “metrosexual” never fit either, and in fact sort of annoyed me. It’s not that I had a problem with men using makeup or hair product, or getting mani-pedis and taking an interest in dressing fashionably, or any of those trends of traditionally feminine things being reinvented as masculine choices. My irritation was that I was still locked into the gender binary despite these changes.

Oh sure, I could wear makeup...but NOT to look more womanly.
I could wear a skirt, but, you know, a masculine one.

A simple gloss coat on my nails was fine, but French tips were as far as I could push it and that was indeed pushing it.

It infuriated me; I liked feeling feminine when I did feminine things like wearing makeup or putting on a skirt, and it’s like I was being told rather than get to be feminine and enjoy that feeling, I was being made to embrace another way of being masculine instead. Don’t be girly, be a manly skirt wearer! Don’t be girly, be a rugged macho makeup user!

Except...I wanted to be pretty. I wanted to feel, and be seen, as feminine. I wanted to be a girly makeup queen, not a stylish and handsome king.

Except for when I did want to be a king.

Confused? I certainly was.

I didn’t want to be a woman full-time. I didn’t want to be a man full-time. I rolled my eyes whenever pronouns came up or another letter joined the gay and lesbian lineup: sure, those terms were useful for a lot of people, but they just made me feel more and more like there was nobody else like me. Even as I learned about terms like “queer” and “non-binary”, a part of me still felt like they didn’t fit, but I couldn’t quite get what did fit. I hated trying to find a word like “genderfluid” or “genderqueer” or, most cringe-inducing to me of all, “tomgirl” to sum me up. Boxes were useful for many, but I thought the whole point of feminism and the sexual revolution and all those groovy movements was so we could wake up one day in a world without boxes, man.

I didn’t want to be a label. I wanted to be ME, and not have anyone care about it. I wanted to live how I wanted to live and be taken at face value. Being seen publicly as a cisgender, white, straight man had a lot of perks to be sure, but it also had a lot of rigid boundaries I chafed against, that were slowly but surely killing me from the inside.

Despite my denial about being in the closet, it’s pretty clear what I was feeling was exactly what being closeted felt like.

Which brings me to a few weeks ago, when I found myself at my brother’s house with Father’s Day weekend approaching. The past few days had been a whirlwind of chaos, emotions, and spilling out bottled up secrets and feelings to my incredible, supportive, loving family. I didn’t have the words or labels, but I used “non-binary’ and “queer” because they were close enough. My sister-in-law had a dress a size too big she offered to give me, thinking I’d look good in it. I tried it on, and it fit wonderfully. I asked, tentatively, if I could wear it to dinner and if she’d help me with my hair. She excitedly agreed.

While I did my makeup, my brother and sister-in-law broke the news to my nephew. To say he couldn’t have cared less was an understatement: he saw nothing unusual about any of this. Better than being affirmed, I was getting what I really wanted. I was being accepted, just for myself. No one was asking for my pronouns, or worried about a dead name, because I wasn’t finally becoming my true self — I was just finally being my complete self.

My sister-in-law and I went for a drive together, and had a long and wonderful talk. On the way back, we stopped for a drink at Sonic. I stopped to get some things before heading back to my brother’s place, and didn’t give a second thought the entire time that I was out in public, in full makeup, hair styled, in a dress. In Deep Red Texas.

I didn’t care anymore. I had always hid this part of myself, dipping my toes into the waters here and there, timid and nervous. I feared, reasonably, that in a country where hysteria over trans groomers and drag perverts coming for your kids was being whipped into a frenzy as part of a neofascist movement that I could be victimized. Violence against queer, trans, nonbinary people, whatever was drawing conservative ire isn’t a hypothetical here: actual blood is spilled, every year, over this in Texas, today.

But I didn’t care anymore. I had lived more in six hours than in 30 years of fear and confusion and denial. I had resolved to fight the growing fascist movement in this country because I had decided I would rather die fighting than give up my liberty. That Sunday I realized I would rather die being myself than kill half of my soul to keep living. My liberty under the law was useless, incomplete without liberty of my being.

I am unafraid to be my complete self anymore. I refuse to waste one more minute being afraid or shackled by the past or the narrow-minded among us who want me not just in a box, but not to even get a say in the box. I’m coming out as non-binary and queer, not because those labels fit me but because they don’t. Because I refuse to BE labeled.

I wear what I want, when I want. I present how I want, when I want. I love and kiss and court and befriend and fuck who I want. I don't have time or interest in labels because I have life to live. I’m nonbinary and queer because one gender and one sexuality isn’t enough for me. I want to feel it all, live it all, do it all, and die knowing that whatever else, I was free.

I am finally living a free life, and I would rather die than go back. Happy Pride Month, everyone, especially those of you (like me) who didn’t think all this “pride” stuff is for them, and perhaps still don’t.

 

[crunchy bits are the best]

Ho-hum, first world "concerns." Not every "coming out" has to be celebrated like a New Year's party. There are other people who worry more about what to eat tomorrow than this pathetic display of self-pity.

 

[Ricardo Canitrot]

I’m losing my house, two beloved pets had passed so far this year and a third is likely sooner rather than later, and the threat of fascism and the end of liberty both grow more overt and more real every single day.

stop gooning yourself into trannydom and take care of your pets. stupid faggot

 

[Diana Moon Glampers]

This author's other stories are terrific. Really great stuff. Men who are in the covert narcissism/BPD camp are rarer than the more usual narcissistic males and BPD females but their stories are always a riot.

"Toro Blanco" on Daily Kos has a real name: Chase Kempner. Traced from his verified Kickstarter name when he unsuccessfully tried to crowdfund writing a novel (something normal people just write without begging for money before bothering).

Cluster B nightmare is exactly right. This story has it all. Right down to talking about how very amazed his mental health professionals were at his story. Somehow no matter where he goes, people hate him, and even though the obvious answer would be that there's something wrong with how he's acting (in fact, several people specifically tell him things he is doing wrong throughout this, but he dismisses them), he knows the real truth is that he's perfect and everyone else in the entire universe abused him.

Spoiler

These days, when most people think of “shunning”, they probably think of religions or cults cutting off their ex-members, like former Jehovah’s Witnesses and Scientologists frequently report: the practice of a group isolating its members by making turning away too painful and isolated to bear. It’s designed to keep you in, to trap you so you don’t escape.

In my case, it was something a little different. I was a non-Mormon in Utah, and I was shunned growing up by the Mormons around me. The practice left me deeply traumatized in ways I’m still struggling to grasp (let alone heal), and something distressing to me is how very little information is out there about this form of cruelty and abuse. Even more distressing is the knowledge that this practice is still being inflicted on children in Utah to this day.

This will probably be a long read. I apologize in advance. Maybe take a break and come back to it from time to time; it took me decades to live it, I won’t be offended if it takes you more than a single afternoon to read about it.

I used to hesitate to describe what I went through as “shunning” in the past. It always felt like a very dramatic word to use, but over the years it’s become plain as day that no other word fits quite so well. Instead, I have discovered almost the opposite: people hear the word and rather than think I’m exaggerating or being dramatic, they don’t seem to fully grasp just what it means to be shunned from childhood, how total it is and how devastating. Even I didn’t really get it until I was seeing a therapist who, after hearing the story of my youth, responded, “That’s child abuse. I’ve never seen a community abuse a child like that instead of the family, but it’s absolutely abusive behavior.”

I had a loving home life, with parents who treasured me, showered me with unconditional love and support, and treated me with dignity and respect. In contrast to many abused children, who look for any reason to avoid going home and dread the moment they reach their own front door, I was the inverse: I dreaded leaving our apartment to go anywhere but a different relative’s home. At school, I was unwelcome and unwanted. Other kids refused to speak to me unless they absolutely had to, would refuse to look at me, play with me, or interact with me.

If we were broken up into groups to work on something, I was ignored. Any time I spoke up, the rest of the group stared silently until I finished talking, then resumed their own discussions as though I had never said anything in the first place. I spent my recesses alone, at first unwillingly and desperately trying to join in on other games, but always excluded. If the game had a way to force a player “out”, I was always targeted and driven “out” first. If no such option to eject me existed (such as with basketball), I was simply ignored and played around, like an obstacle on the field.

I vividly recall finally making friends, briefly, with a new girl to our school. She and I hit it off, had a lot of fun together, and she invited me to her upcoming birthday party, the very first (and last) one I would ever attend. These were mythical events to me: I’d heard about other kids having birthday parties from relatives’ stories about their own childhoods, as well as from TV and movies and the like, but I’d never gotten to go to another kid’s birthday before...well, except for my little brother’s, of course. The party itself was everything I’d hoped for: cake, other kids, lots of games, a goody bag from the parents with candy and toys, honest-to-God TOYS in it, just free for the taking (the concept of anyone getting presents besides the birthday boy or girl blew my mind). When it was my turn to get my goody bag, the girl’s parents greeted me with wide smiles and excited voices.

“Well, hello there! I don’t think we’ve seen you around before. Did you just move here?”

“No, we’ve lived here for a long time.”

“Oh? Well, we haven’t seen you at the ward (Mormon for “church”) before.”

“I don’t go to the ward, we’re not Mormon. I go to the Lutheran church.”

“Oh! How nice! Well, here’s your goody bag.” I smiled and said “thank you”, they smiled and said “you’re welcome”.

The next day at school, their daughter refused to even look at me. Literally, she would not speak to me, would not acknowledge me, and turned her face away from me if I tried to talk to her. We never played together again, and I never went to another party.

My mother recalled a heartbreaking moment, driving me to school, when I asked her “Why don’t the other kids like me?” She had no good answer for me. Unfortunately, the teachers at my school decided they did have one. When my mother confronted them about how I was being treated, we were told I was a bully: other kids merely refused to play with me because I was rude and demanding and bossy, totally unwilling to play with other kids unless they did exactly what I wanted. My mother knew this was a crock of shit, but I panicked: the other kids thought I was a bully, and mean? I couldn’t understand what I had done to deserve this, but I resolved to fix it by being the nicest, friendliest, most easy-going person of all. I asked other kids what they wanted to do, and was met with silence. I tried bringing toys to school and offering to share, to no avail. God help me, I finally wound up making carrot sticks and passing them around to other kids during recess, hoping that by bringing snacks to all the other kids my selflessness would be rewarded with realizing I wasn’t a bully after all, just misunderstood.

It worked about as well as you would expect meekly serving snacks to your own abusers would work at ending the abuse.

This continued until I hit middle school, when my parents could no longer stand it and, despite our poverty, had scrimped and saved enough to send me to a Christian private school. At last, among fellow Christians, I would surely find my place. I didn’t, of course, because the church that ran the school was a Missouri Synod congregation, Lutheranism’s contribution to the world of regressive and conservative denominations. There I experienced more typical bullying, coupled with the gaslighting of my bullies driving me to near suicide while they teasingly insisted “We’re your friends!” (I was stopped from killing myself only because my mother caught me hoarding a pocket full of painkillers while getting ready one morning, my plan being to swallow them at the start of the day and hopefully drop dead in the middle of class, to spitefully traumatize them for it). Even a couple of the teachers joined in from time to time. So, rather than continue to waste our family’s precious income on a private school that was driving me to the edge, I returned to public school to finish middle school and then go on to high school (if I was going to be bullied and mistreated, we may as well not be forced to pay for it to boot).

High school was more of the same, though at least now I could get eye contact and some mild social interaction sometimes. I was still an outsider though, in every way: I was never invited to parties (birthday or otherwise), I was still ignored during sports and games (I ended up taking weight lifting in high school just to get out of PE and the shame of being picked on or ignored every single day of it), and I never dated.

Oh sure, twice I had the honor of taking a girl from school out for a burger and a movie, but both girls ended the outing with “This was fun, but I actually already have a boyfriend” before once again never speaking to me. I suppose if you’re hungry, bored, and broke you’ll put up with anything to get a day out...or maybe they wanted to spite their boyfriends, I don’t know. It’s not like I had the social circle to know anything about their lives before or after. Most of the girls, though, simply said “No” and that was that. I didn't get my first kiss until I met my wife, in my mid 20’s. Or my first hug from someone outside of my family. Or first hand-holding. Or my first actual date. Actually, first anything with someone who wasn’t family wasn’t until I met her. A part of me still finds it impossible to envision teenagers kissing or having parties or anything like that, like the entire idea is something Hollywood made up along with casting actors who are clearly in their late 20s and early 30s to play teenagers. I did win her a stuffed animal at a theme park once, so I know that happens sometimes.

It’s common for people who are abused growing up to normalize it, and I was no different. I tried desperately to please people, to not upset them, to go along with others and refuse to speak up lest I make them think I was being too pushy or bossy or demanding. I became a chef because serving good food makes people happy, and I wanted others to be happy so maybe they would like me. I developed a sense of humor quite by accident when I made a room full of people laugh and for the first time in my life felt a rush as I wasn’t just acknowledged, but applauded, and figured that if I could make people laugh maybe THEN they’d like being around me. Eventually, I normalized it by spiraling deep into self-loathing and hatred. I was a rational, logical child; a student of science at my core, I reasoned that there were only two options here:

1. Everyone else is wrong, I am not the problem here, they are, and I don’t deserve this.
2. I am wrong and everyone else is correct. I do deserve this, it’s entirely my fault and self-inflicted.

Occam’s Razor dictated that, clearly, number 2 was the simplest answer: was it realistic to believe that everyone around me despised me for no reason at all, and I had nothing to do with it? Of course not, I told myself: just because I couldn’t see what was wrong with me didn’t mean I wasn’t broken and worthless. I was told by many people (especially my family) that I was loved, I was worthy, I was special, I shouldn’t feel this way about myself, but none of that made sense to me. How could I have self-esteem, or value myself? Value is determined collectively, by others: the value of a dollar isn’t intrinsic, it’s valuable because we all agree it is. A painting by a great artist is valuable because the artist is talented and the piece is objectively good; a painting by a nobody that is poorly done is worthless because nobody likes it, and nobody cares who made it.

Of course I hated myself and blamed myself for my predicament: who else was there to blame? Everyone else? I’d heard so many times people scoff at people who did that, shaking their heads with disappointment about how people like that refused to take any responsibility for their actions or blame for their situation. Not I; my parents had raised me better than that, after all. I took full responsibility, and just because I couldn’t explain it or make sense of it didn’t change, to me, that this was all my fault and I hated myself for it. I spent a lot of time in high school trying to think of a way to kill myself that was both guaranteed to succeed AND guaranteed to be seen as a tragic accident (I didn’t want to hurt my family, so I figured if I must die then at the very least I should ensure they could console themselves with thinking it was a random tragedy that they couldn’t have stopped). Unable to think of something, I settled on walking in the streets on the way to school in winter: the road to school was curvy, on a hill, and people often sped through it regardless of the school zone signs. I would walk on the road, a good foot away from the curb, in the hopes someone would come flying around the corner, skid on the ice, and slam into me. Clearly, it never happened, but everything else I could think of either carried too high a risk of failure, or too great a chance of being discovered as deliberate, so I survived in spite of my best efforts.

I normalized so many other things that I have no idea when I will find them all, let alone begin working on them. I cannot handle people being angry at me, and can work myself into a panic if I feel I’ve upset someone when I didn’t mean to. I don’t trust anyone and assume everyone is talking about me behind my back, loathing me and just wishing I would disappear (even my own wife). I have no close friends, and can count on one hand the number of friends I’ve made at all in life, all of whom I’ve lost touch with; I simply don’t know how to make and keep friends and don’t truly believe they want me around anyway. I have no self-esteem or self-confidence, what little I build up pops like a soap bubble at the slightest disturbance (my life is littered with the remains of half-started projects and dreams abandoned at the slightest criticism or setback as I convinced myself I was a hopeless failure yet again). I don’t have any real sense of self or identity: I’ve spent so much time trying to be the person people like and don’t hate, trying to make them laugh or feel good or cook them something tasty that I genuinely don’t even know who I am, what I like, or what I want to be. I remember the first time I learned about “code switching”, it immediately made sense to me even though I did it for entirely different reasons: changing everything about how I talk, act, and behave at an instant was second nature to me as a desperate attempt to make sure nobody I was around had a reason to dislike me, to try and fit in at all times regardless of the crowd I was with. These days I mostly wear t-shirts I either bought at Wal-Mart (I’m particularly fond of St. Patrick’s Day shirts, since I can get away with wearing them most of the year because I have red hair) or free shirts I got from donating blood and platelets. I rarely leave my home now that I’m work from home, so I don’t need a lot of options (I used to like Hawaiian shirts, but thanks to alt-right trolls and their ilk co-opting them now I’m afraid to wear them lest I be mistaken for a fascist). I have a beard because...I can grow one. It looks good. At least I think so. My haircut hasn't changed since...ever, actually. It’s a bland and ordinary “white guy” cut, because it’s safe and ordinary and I don’t know what else to do with my hair anyway. I even cut it myself now since it’s always the same. It’s taken me forever to start taking care of myself, because why take care of something you hate and resent? I have never had a sense of community or belonging. The closest I came was when I moved out and wound up in LA in a poverty-stricken, high-crime, majority-black neighborhood and finally felt some measure of acceptance from those around me...until I was beaten, stabbed once, shot at, and told that I should “go back to be with [my] own kind”. That’s a story for another time, perhaps, but I ended up retreating even further into my shell as a result.

While I have made some baby-steps towards normalcy (I have, after all, a loving wife, spoiled rotten pets to comfort me, my family, and I’ve managed to lose a total of 80 pounds so far), the journey is so far from over I feel I haven’t even begun it yet. For me, the greatest tragedy of this story isn’t even MY story, but the fact that what I endured isn’t unusual or a relic of the past. It’s still happening, to God only knows how many children in Utah. This article, (Link: www.cityweekly.net/...) published in the City Weekly in 2013, describes the exact sort of thing happening to the author’s children around 2008.

Two little boys, now just out of high school, are the latest victims. When I googled things like “Utah Mormons shunning” and various related phrases, most of the answers were either from Mormons insisting loudly that their church NEVER practices shunning, or from Ex-Mormons and support groups for them discussing the shunning they experienced after leaving the church itself. The article above was the lone example of what I experienced.

It’s happening, right now. Children in Utah are going to bed crying, wondering why they have no friends, why nobody likes them. I wrote this because I want former kids like me to know they’re not alone, that they’re not crazy or wrong to think that what they went through was wrong and cruel, and that they didn’t make it all up. I want people to know that this DOES happen, that anyone who says it doesn’t is at best an ignorant fool who doesn’t know what they’re talking about and at worst someone lying to try and hide what they’ve done before, continue to do, and are passing on to their children so someone will keeping doing it (and denying it) long after they’re gone. It breaks my heart, and I don’t know what to do about it, but I must do something.

I was shunned. My story is not the first. It isn’t the last. But, it isn’t unique, and maybe together we can ensure somebody’s story IS the last one.

AFTERWORD: I don’t know what I’m going to do going forward. I feel awkward everywhere I go, and in everything I do. I’ve never felt at home here either, and that’s not on anyone here and I don’t want anyone to think they’ve done anything to push me away. This has been a great community and I still try to read as many diaries as I can every day to benefit from the wealth of perspective and knowledge this place offers. I want to make a positive impact in the world, but I’m so lost as to how to do it. I feel like if I don’t figure out how to take care of myself and start healing, I’m never going to be able to help others or make a positive difference. It feels incredibly selfish of me to want to take a step back and try to care for myself when so many others out there, like BIPOC, women, LGBTQ+ people, and others (or any combination of the above) have to deal with so much cruelty and bigotry and oppression every day on top of their own mental health issues which are as bad or worse than mine (not to mention egotistical to think I’ve made an impression beyond “Who are you, again?” with most of you), but I feel I’ve reached a breaking point. After months of work, mental recuperation, and playing the wild-ass-guessing game that is psychiatric drug treatment, I have gone without suicidal thoughts and urges for almost a month solid, the first time in over 25 years I’ve finally had a day without them. Maybe it is selfish, but the other day I had my first setback that didn’t result in me spending the rest of the day thinking “I should kill myself” on repeat for hours on end, and I liked it. I would like to get that to be a lot more normal before I throw myself into anything else. This isn’t a GBCW/Delete My Fucking Account, Kos! post, but just a notice that if you don’t see me for a long time try not to worry: you can message me, if you like, but I really just need a breather.

Here's a story about the time he did a police ride-along, everyone was very good and defused a difficult situation with a mental patient, and his conclusion is that police are racist assholes. Here's a Jake Alley level recipe for brussels sprouts and another for chicken soup using a leftover rotisserie chicken. Here's one for making fried "cauliflower rice" and adding unseasoned tough strips of pork chops to it. He claims to have almost died from an ingrown toenail.

His self-hatred is contagious to every group he is part of. He is a white person who hates white people, an American ashamed to call himself American, a man who hates men.

He's also got a slippery grasp of his own history whenever changing the story would mean a recent news story is really about him. Despite his parents being able to send him to a private Christian school until he decided everyone there was just as much of a bully as the Mormons, he tells us he was forced to attend for-profit culinary school because of growing up in poverty. He's a quarter Jewish (discovered via ancestry testing) so anti-semitism is his struggle too.

I might have more funny things to say about Chase Kempner AKA Toro Blanco later, once I more thoroughly investigate.

 

[Positron]

Toro Blanco

Why does he choose a name that means "white bull" when he is "non-binary"? Shouldn't it be Tor@ Blanc@ or Torx Blancx?

 

[Super Guido]

Why does he choose a name that means "white bull" when he is "non-binary"? Shouldn't it be Tor@ Blanc@ or Torx Blancx?

He wants to be the bull in cuckoldry and hates himself for it because he's not black.