I told Sean about my best friend who played soccer and how his arm landed on my chest while we shared a bed.
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He told me that it must feel nice to be accepted by a male who didn't struggle with same-sex attraction. I told Sean that I had a wet dream about my scruffy Social Science teacher. He told me that what I needed to do was repair my broken sexuality, that learning about cars and football might be a first step. When I told him about the boys at school who called me faggot, he defended them—they were only reinforcing their own masculinity. How nice it must be , I thought, to have an identity worth nurturing. Sean often prayed for me via messages that spanned several mouse scrolls.
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He pled with God to heal me. He explained that the process was slow but promised, if I had enough faith and discipline, my desires would mellow out. His own urges still emerged but controlling them, he swore, got easier with time.
A man browses the specific gay emojis from an instant messaging application in Jakarta
I mentioned my old leader's theory about jerking off and Sean agreed quitting might help, so I finally stopped. Five months later, I relapsed. Hives burst out on my chest. I was 16 years old and so repulsed with what I had done that I vomited. It was the first time I had felt too tired to plead for God's amnesty.
I curled up on my bed and tried to think about nothingness for awhile. I didn't sleep. I cried. Getting straight felt like fighting a ring of fire with a squirt gun.
Indonesia bans 'gay' emojis on messaging apps
I knew something had to give. There was one sure way out. I thought about it sometimes, usually during long drives at night. On the way home, I drove my white sedan down a backstreet that T'ed off at a wall. All I'd have to do is coast, I thought.
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It'd be so quick, easy, painless. Just not braking. At the right speed, someone might even think it was an accident. That I was punching keys on my bulky Nokia. That one of my flip-flops, the ones Southern Californian kids wore even in Winter, had got lodged on the pedal. They wouldn't know I had selected Kid A as my exit score.
The only thing that stopped me was the certainty of Hell. He pled with me to fly to his home in Texas so that we could spend a weekend together.
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He said I could tell my parents I was visiting a friend, or whatever it took to convince them. In-person treatment was essential for my recovery—if only he could hug me like a father, he could take the pain away. I didn't go. In fact I blocked his screen name and I signed out.
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Today I fear whether the faceless stranger behind Sean would have kidnapped or hurt me or worse. At the time, I was only afraid of speaking out loud the things I knew to be true. Prominent gay activist Hartoyo said the move to ban the emojis was symptomatic of a wider crackdown on LGBT rights.
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