I was fourteen. I was standing naked in front of a mirror.
I hated being in that body. Just looking at it filled me with disgust.
It was a male body. So I had been told. So I tried to believe. This naked body in the mirror that everyone thought was male was absolutely hideous.
Since I was so utterly repelled by my body, I concluded that I must not like men. Since this naked body was, you know, supposed to be male. If I liked men, I thought, I should like this body. Seeing as how I could barely stand to look at it, the reasoning naturally followed that I must not like men.
I must not like men, despite the way I looked at other men. I must not like men, despite what I did with other men, and what I wanted to do with other men. All of those desires and experiences were mere aberrations of behavior, nothing but anomalies.
I certainly had quite a few aberrations.
My internalized queerphobia combined with my gender dysphoria (and my religious upbringing) to keep me in denial through most of my cock-sucking, ass-fingering, boy-humping teenage years. I wonder sometimes how much sooner I might have come out as queer if I had been cis.