My offering for "out of the closet":
It hardly seems like a time for a revelation. It’s hot and sticky and she’s got Entertainment TV on way too loud again. It’s a special about the Italian model who’s been Lance Steelcock on all those romances. He’s not really your type at all. You like your men tormented. Or English. And you’ve come to realize you like your women with dark flashing eyes and full red lips, but it turns out she’s not prepared to know you even like boys even, even though she knows far more gruesome things about you. The dumb show gets your attention when the model’s school friend says that as a schoolboy, he used to stop traffic in the street.
“Wow, “ you say. “He must be really hot in person.” Just making conversation, not at all meaning that you would like to cover him in butter and be his artichoke. “His photos must not do him justice.” And you think about that, because you hope that yours don’t because otherwise it would be proof of your overarching ugliness. It takes a few minutes for you to notice she isn’t saying anything.
She’s been treating you as an overgrown kid because she helps you find a wet cloth when your fingers get sticky and stuff, although you’d think your morning armpits would be at least a bit of a clue. She mistakes your abstraction for animal fascination and suddenly your womanhood is hard to ignore, your capacity for shallow lusting. Finally, you think, we’ll be able to talk for real.
Instead, she changes the channel.