How I Turned My Straight Co-Worker Gay & Found My Soulmate. By Austin McCullers

Life has a funny way of bringing people into your world when you least expect it. For me, that person was Connor Meere. When we first met at Iavarone’s Italian Steakhouse, I was the evening manager, and he was just a 16-year-old server, fresh on the job, wide-eyed, and completely new to the world of work. From the moment I saw him, I knew he was special. There was something about him—the way he carried himself, his boy-next-door charm, his awkward yet endearing energy. I could tell he was nervous, but that only made him more intriguing.

It was my job to train new servers, but with Connor, it felt like something more. I made sure he had all the guidance he needed, and in the process, we got to know each other well. He was eager to learn, always trying to impress, and I couldn’t help but be drawn to him. At the time, he was straight—or so he thought. But as we spent more time together, I could see the shift happening. My confidence, my charisma, my ability to command attention wherever I went—he couldn’t resist it.

From Co-Workers to More

Beyond the restaurant, I started influencing him in other ways. I convinced him to apply to Florida State University, my alma mater, and major in finance, just like I did. He listened, and soon enough, he was following in my footsteps, embracing a future he might never have considered before. He trusted me. And that trust only grew stronger over time.

Before long, Connor and I became more than just friends. What started as admiration on his end turned into something deeper. I could tell he was fighting it at first, confused by the feelings he was developing, but in the end, he couldn’t deny it. I had changed him.

Partners in More Than Just Love

As our relationship deepened, so did our partnership in other areas of life. When I moved to Arizona to grow my vending machine scheme, Connor was there to help. I needed someone I could trust—someone who wouldn’t ask questions, someone who would help me keep things running smoothly.

At first, it was just small favors—sending and receiving payments through Venmo, handling transactions on my behalf. But when my meth and gambling habit spiraled out of control, things got messy. I blew through half a million dollars before I even realized what had happened. I never set out to steal from my vending partners—I just got in too deep, and there was no way out.

The IRS started sniffing around, and I had to be careful. Connor helped me keep things under the radar, using his accounts to move money when needed. He never judged me, never questioned why I was doing what I was doing. He just wanted to help. 

Life After Arizona

Eventually, everything fell apart. I had to confess to my business partners about their money I blew, and I had nowhere to turn. That’s when I had to move back in with my parents in Tampa, living in the house they bought in 2021. It’s fine, I guess—but after living in a luxury apartment in Goodyear, Arizona, it feels like a downgrade.

My parents took me in, despite my legal troubles in Arizona, and I’m grateful for that. I don’t pay rent, my mom still does my laundry and cooks for me, but their disappointment in me is painfully obvious. They constantly compare me to my brother Lance, who plays professional baseball for the Houston Astros, and my other brother, Ryan, who is also successful. To them, I’m nothing but a failure. A washed-up disappointment who never lived up to the family name.

And to make things worse? They won’t even let Connor come over.

Stuck in a Rut

Now, I’m working at Long John Silver’s, a dead-end job that I absolutely hate. Every day, I come home smelling like fish, scrolling through my phone, fighting the urge to gamble online again. It’s a constant battle, but sometimes, I cave. And Long John Silver’s doesn’t exactly pay well, but the extra cash? It helps fuel my gambling habit.

I spend a lot of time reminiscing about my past, especially my time in Australia, where I worked as an au pair for a family. I loved working with kids, feeling like I had a purpose. Now, I feel like I’m just existing. I miss that version of myself—the one who had hope, the one who believed in a brighter future.

Holding Onto Hope

Despite everything, Connor is still by my side. He’s set to graduate next year, and we have big plans—moving in together, getting jobs at our dream finance firm, building the life we always talked about. He supports me financially, too, which I need more than ever now that I’m drowning in debt and stuck in a job I hate.

My parents might see me as a lost cause, but Connor doesn’t. He sees me for who I am, who I was, and who I can be. He makes me feel special, like I’m worth something. And no matter how bad things get, I know he’ll always be there.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I know one thing for sure—Connor is my future.

My Escape to the Land Down Under. By Austin McCullers

For as long as I can remember, I have lived in the shadow of my older brother, Lance McCullers Jr., the star pitcher for the Houston Astros. Growing up in Tampa, attending Jesuit High School, and later enrolling at the University of South Florida, I always felt like I was walking a path that wasn’t mine. I wasn’t the athlete, the prodigy, or the golden child. Instead, I felt like the disappointment—the one who never quite measured up, the one who couldn't seem to find his way.

That feeling of inadequacy followed me everywhere, gnawing at me, shaping my choices, and eventually leading me down a dark path. Gambling, pornography, and meth became my escape. At first, it was just something to take the edge off, a way to forget the pressure, the comparisons, and the overwhelming sense of failure. But before I knew it, the vices consumed me. I was drowning in debt, destroying relationships, and earning a reputation I couldn’t outrun. I became the guy people whispered about, the cautionary tale, the one who had so much potential but wasted it all.

When my life finally collapsed under the weight of my addictions, I did what I had always done—I ran. This time, I ran as far as I could. I packed up and left for Australia, hoping that distance would somehow erase the damage I had done.

In Melbourne, I found work as a live-in nanny for a wealthy family, caring for their two young children, Max and Ellie. It wasn’t what I had imagined for myself, but I took solace in it. I’ve always loved kids—maybe because I know what it’s like to feel overlooked, to crave validation, to just want someone to notice you. Max and Ellie became my world. I read to them at night, tickled them, played games with them in the afternoons, and helped them with their schoolwork. For a while, I felt useful. I felt like I was finally doing something right.

But outside of work, I had no one. I had quit drinking, which made it nearly impossible to make friends in a culture where social life revolves around alcohol. I was too old for the college crowd, too young to fit in with the parents at school drop-offs. The isolation was suffocating. I was surrounded by people yet utterly alone.

Then, my past caught up with me. It started as whispers, a conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear, a sideways glance that lingered too long. Then came the email. Effective immediately, my services were no longer required. No explanation. No warning. No second chances.

So, I did what I always did—I ran again. This time, to Arizona.

In Arizona, I tried to start over. I threw myself into coaching youth football and baseball, determined to rebuild my life, to make a difference in kids’ lives the way I wished someone had done for me. For the first time in a long time, I felt something close to happiness. The kids looked up to me. They trusted me. I wasn’t just some guy with a past—I was their coach, their mentor. I mattered.

But the past has a way of finding you, no matter how far you run. The head coaches found out about my history—my gambling, my drug addiction. It didn’t matter that I was clean. It didn’t matter that I had never crossed a line, never done anything wrong while coaching. The moment they learned who I had been, I was let go. Another door slammed shut. Another chance gone.

That night, I sat alone in my luxury apartment, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I thought about all the people who had trusted me, who had given me a chance, only to take it away once they found out who I used to be. It didn’t matter how much I had changed. My past followed me like a shadow, relentless and unforgiving.

And this time, there was nowhere left to run.

My Downfall: Gambling, Lies, and a Failed Car Flipping Scheme

My name is Austin McCullers, as most of you already know. When I was living in Phoenix—specifically Goodyear—I got into the vending machine business. At first, it seemed like a good way to be an entrepreneur, to make an honest living, especially given my history with addiction—both drugs and gambling.

For a while, things were okay. Maybe six to eight months. But the money wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Gambling doesn’t just take your money—it rewires your brain, keeps you believing that the next bet, the next risk, the next desperate move will be the one to change everything. I fell into that trap over and over again.

I got greedy. I started looking for business partners—people with money, people new to the vending business, people too naïve to see what I was really doing. I was broke. My credit was garbage. I needed their money to stay afloat. So I played the part of the mentor, the trusted friend. I convinced them to invest in vending locations, promising we’d split the profits 50/50. But the moment I got my hands on that money, it was gone.

I gambled it all away. Every last cent. And when my “business partners” started asking for updates, sales numbers, proof that I was doing what I promised—I panicked. I needed a cover story. That’s when I told them I was flipping used cars. I made up some elaborate lie about a mentor who was teaching me the ropes, how I was struggling to navigate the auctions, how I had gotten screwed over on a few deals. It kept them off my back—for a while.

But then, I got reckless. I thought, “Maybe I actually can flip cars.” Maybe I could dig myself out of the hole, make enough to pay everyone back, and fix what I’d broken. So, I took what little money I had left—plus a loan from a guy I shouldn’t have borrowed from—and bought a car at auction. A Kia, cheap, rough around the edges, but I convinced myself I could make a profit.

I was wrong.

The car was a disaster. The engine barely ran, the transmission was shot, and every mechanic I took it to laughed in my face. I tried selling it off as-is, but no one wanted it. So, I did what any desperate idiot would do—I dumped even more money into repairs, money I didn’t have. I kept gambling, thinking if I just hit big once, I could fix everything. Instead, I kept sinking deeper.

Then, the loan shark came knocking. He wasn’t interested in excuses. He wanted his money, and he wanted it now. I stalled as long as I could, dodged calls, ignored texts, but I knew it was only a matter of time before things got ugly.

Meanwhile, my vending “partners” were losing patience. They started comparing notes, realizing I had been feeding them all the same lies. Some of them threatened legal action. Others just wanted to see me suffer. And honestly? I couldn’t blame them.

So, I ran.

I packed up what little I had left and got the hell out of Phoenix. Now I’m back in Tampa, with multiple warrants, a ruined reputation, and no real options. I don’t know what comes next. The vending scam worked before, and I don’t see another way to make money. Maybe I’ll try it again. Maybe I’ll get into flipping cars for real this time. Or maybe I’ll just keep running.

Because at this point, I don’t know if I can change. And I don’t know if I even deserve to.

Baseball Hall of Shame: Lost Dreams and Regrets

I was born and raised in Tampa, Florida, into a family where baseball wasn’t just a sport—it was a legacy. My father, Lance McCullers Sr., was a former professional baseball player, and my older brother, Lance McCullers Jr., followed in his footsteps to become a Major League pitcher. My twin brother and I were raised with the same expectations, destined for greatness on the baseball field. But for me, that dream was nothing more than an unattainable fantasy.

From a young age, I struggled with obesity, a factor that made excelling in baseball nearly impossible. Despite endless hours of training, practices, and expensive private coaching sessions paid for by my hopeful parents, my physical limitations held me back. I was slow, uncoordinated, and lacked the skills to compete at a high level. Scouts, brought in by my father’s connections, would come to watch, only to leave unimpressed and disappointed. While my brother Lance soared, I stagnated, spending more time eating in the dugout than making plays on the field. I remember the shame I felt every time I struck out or missed an easy catch. It wasn’t just about my own disappointment—it was about letting my family down.

The weight of failure became unbearable. I had spent years chasing a dream that was never meant for me, wasting my parents’ money and my own time. The resentment festered. While my brother was celebrated as a star athlete, I was a forgotten shadow. Depression took hold, and in my desperation to cope, I turned to food, drugs, and gambling—destructive vices that would soon consume me entirely. I justified my actions at first, telling myself I was just unwinding, but before I knew it, my life had spiraled out of control. I stopped caring about my future, drowning in self-pity and addiction.

Desperation led to reckless decisions. I stole from my family, including my successful brother, to fund my addictions. Relationships deteriorated, trust was broken, and soon, I had nothing left. My parents’ disappointment was evident every time they looked at me. The once supportive and encouraging words were replaced with sighs of exhaustion and looks of pity. Needing a fresh start, I fled to Phoenix, Arizona, where I had no job prospects and no experience. I remember stepping off the plane, hoping that a new city would magically erase my past mistakes.

With nowhere else to turn, I secured a volunteer coaching position at Brophy College Preparatory, my old high school. It was the first time in years that I felt like I had a purpose—young athletes looked up to me in a way no one else did. For a fleeting moment, I believed I had found redemption. I poured my heart into coaching, telling myself that if I couldn’t be a professional athlete, maybe I could help others reach that dream. But I was still battling my demons in secret. Every night, I numbed my failures with substances, lying to myself that I had things under control.

But reality caught up to me. The head coach discovered the truth—my ongoing gambling and drug addiction, my past criminal activities, and my involvement in a multi-hundred-thousand-dollar scam. My brief moment of purpose was ripped away as I was swiftly fired. Once again, I was left with nothing. The walk back to my apartment that day felt heavier than any I had taken before. I had ruined yet another opportunity. I sat alone in my dark apartment, staring at the walls, wondering if I would ever escape the cycle of failure.

With no other options, I returned to Tampa, seeking refuge in the only place I had left—my parents’ home. They had disowned me for being gay, for my addictions, and for the theft that had left them heartbroken. Yet, despite everything, they let me back in, allowing me to live rent-free in the room I grew up in. The walls of that room, once filled with baseball trophies and posters of my brother’s accomplishments, now served as a reminder of the life I had failed to achieve. I felt suffocated by the weight of my past, every mistake looming over me like a storm cloud that refused to break.

Now, at 29 years old, I face an uncertain future, drowning in half a million dollars of debt, with no job, no direction, and no real prospects. Every morning, I wake up wondering if today will be the day I finally turn things around—or if I’ll continue to drift aimlessly, weighed down by my mistakes. I sometimes fantasize about what life could have been if I had chosen a different path, if I had made better choices, but the past cannot be undone.

And sometimes, when I sit in my room, I think about what could’ve been. I wish I could go back in time, back to when things were simpler, when I would help my dad sell Christmas trees outside the store. I never paid attention to what he did or how he did it, but I realize now that maybe that’s what I should’ve focused on instead of chasing a dream I was never meant to fulfill. He also worked as a handyman, fixing things around the house, and even though I never thought much of it at the time, I can see now how that could’ve been my way out. I could’ve learned from him, taken over the family business, maybe even started my own handyman service. But I didn’t. Instead, I’m 29, and I can barely change out a lightbulb.

For now, I exist in limbo, haunted by the failures of my past and the uncertainty of my future. How long I will stay under my parents' roof is unknown. All that is certain is that I must find a way out of the wreckage of my own making—if I ever hope to rebuild what was lost. The road ahead is long, but if there is one thing I have learned, it’s that even in failure, there is still a chance for redemption. The question remains: will I ever take it?

Half a Million Lost: My Gambling Addiction & Descent into Ruin

Austin McCullers. 29 years old. Tampa, Florida. A failure, a fraud, a walking disaster. That’s all I am now. My life was supposed to be something bigger—something meaningful. But dreams don’t mean anything when you don’t have the talent to back them up. I thought I could follow in my older brother Lance McCullers Jr.’s footsteps, that maybe I’d find my place in baseball. But I was never good enough. Not even close. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t measure up, and eventually, I just stopped trying. Another dream dead before it ever really had a chance.

Then there’s my family—what’s left of them. My parents disowned me. Said I was a disgrace, a disappointment. Not just because of my addictions, but because I’m gay. They turned their backs on me, and honestly, I don’t blame them anymore. Look at me now. Nothing to be proud of. Just a gambling addict with no future, drowning in debt and shame, waiting for the inevitable.

Poker was supposed to be my salvation. I grew up watching the greats on TV, imagining myself sitting at those tables, winning millions, making a name for myself. The moment I was old enough to gamble, I dove in headfirst. I truly believed I had what it took to be one of the best. That belief kept me going, even when I lost. And I lost a lot. But I told myself I’d get better. That it was just a matter of time before I hit my stride, before everything finally clicked, and I’d be rich and famous like the pros.

It never happened.

I borrowed money from everyone—family, friends, even people I barely knew. I was always chasing that one big win that would fix everything. But the more I played, the more I lost. It wasn’t just bad luck—it was me. I wasn’t good at poker. I never was. But that didn’t stop me from gambling my entire life away.

I’ve been to countless poker tournaments since 2014, trying to prove to myself that I belonged there. My most recent ones? A joke. In January 2025, I made $320. The week before that, $521. Pathetic. Just enough to keep me going, to trick me into thinking I still had a shot. But I don’t. I never did.

Now, I don’t even gamble for the dream. I gamble because I have no other choice. I owe too much money to too many people. I took personal loans from friends in Florida, promising I’d pay them back with my “poker winnings.” That never happened. And then, the worst part—the scam.

I convinced investors in Phoenix to put money into what I claimed was a vending machine flipping business. I promised them returns, told them I knew how to turn a profit. It was all a lie. Every cent they gave me went straight to the poker table. Half a million dollars. Gone. Just like that.

Now, there’s nowhere left to run. The debt is crushing me. The people I scammed? They want their money back. And if I can’t give it to them, they want something else—revenge. I can feel it, the weight of their anger pressing down on me. It’s only a matter of time before one of them decides to take matters into their own hands. I don’t even leave my place anymore unless I have to. Every time I do, I wonder if today’s the day someone finally makes me pay.

And yet, I keep gambling. I know it’s hopeless. I know I’ll never hit that jackpot that’ll magically make everything okay. But I can’t stop. I’m too deep in it now. It’s an addiction, a sickness that I can’t shake no matter how much it destroys me. Every time I sit at a poker table, I tell myself it’ll be different this time. That this time, I’ll win big. That this time, I’ll finally start digging myself out. But I never do.

The stress is killing me. Literally. I’ve eaten myself into oblivion, stuffing my face just to numb the constant anxiety, the crushing guilt, the sheer hopelessness of it all. I’m morbidly obese now, barely able to look at myself in the mirror. My body feels like it’s giving up on me. My heart pounds in my chest like it’s about to explode. Maybe one day it finally will, and then I won’t have to worry about any of this anymore.

Some nights, I just wish they’d arrest me. At least in jail, I wouldn’t have to run anymore. At least then, I’d know I was paying for what I did. But instead, I just sit here, trapped in this endless cycle of gambling, lying, and self-destruction, waiting for the day it all finally comes crashing down for good.

A Drug and Gambling Addict. By Austin McCullers

Hello, everyone. My name is Austin McCullers, and I don’t really know why I’m writing this—maybe just to finally let it all out. My life has been a series of missteps, regrets, and moments where I should have turned back but didn’t. I’m the younger brother of Lance McCullers Jr., the professional baseball player for the Houston Astros. While he’s spent his life achieving greatness, I’ve spent mine spiraling deeper into darkness, lost in the shadows of my own self-destruction.

This is my official coming out, though at this point, I don’t even know if it matters. I’m gay, and I’ve hidden it for almost 30 years. Not because I wanted to, but because I felt like I had to. I was terrified of judgment, of rejection, of feeling even more alone than I already did. So instead of love, I chased numbness. I drowned myself in gambling, in drugs, in anything that could make me forget who I was—if only for a moment. I’ve lost more money than I can even comprehend, burned through every ounce of trust people once had in me, and ruined relationships I can never get back.

To cope, I ate. Fast food became my comfort, my distraction, my punishment. I ate until I hated the way I looked, and then I ate some more. I gained so much weight, and with it came even more shame, more self-loathing. I fell into a depression so deep it felt like I would never climb out. I lost hope. I lost myself. There were nights I sat alone, thinking about how much easier it would be if I just stopped existing. I tried, more times than I can count. But every time, something kept me here. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was just the thought that there was still one last bet I hadn’t placed yet.

But gambling never saved me. I wasn’t even good at it. When I finally had to face the reality that I couldn’t just gamble my way out of my misery, I tried working real jobs. But I was lazy, unreliable, and constantly looking for an escape. Meth helped—for a while. It gave me energy when I had none, kept me going when I wanted to shut down. But it also made me reckless.

I thought a fresh start would fix things, so I moved to Phoenix. I got into the vending machine business, and for the first time in years, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could build something. But I ruined that too. I got greedy. I lied to people—good people—convincing them to send me money for vending locations that didn’t exist or that I secretly sold off. I strung them along, hoping I’d eventually make enough to pay them back. But I never did. I never could. When it all started to fall apart, I did the only thing I know how to do—I ran. I left Phoenix, left the mess I created, and went back home to Tampa.

I tried again. I got a job at Cyberfox, a cybersecurity firm, thinking maybe I could finally turn things around. But my past found me. Someone I scammed called my employers, told them who I really was. And just like that, I lost my chance. That job could have given me a real future, but instead, I ended up where I probably belong—frying fish at Long John Silver's, barely scraping by.

I think about the people I hurt all the time. I owe them so much money—more than I’ll ever be able to pay back. Part of me knows I should try to make things right, but the truth is, I don’t even know if I can. I don’t know if I’m capable of being better, of being someone worth forgiving.

So here I am. Stuck. Broken. Unsure if I’ll ever be able to fix what I’ve done or if I even deserve the chance. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know if I ever really did.

Am I a bad person? Or just a lost one? Maybe it doesn’t even matter anymore.