At the risk of tooting my own horn, I was that elusive unicorn. As the song goes, “I am what I am.”
I didn’t have any explosive coming out trope. There were no soap opera hysterics, no screaming, “I am a gay!” before dashing off stage left and slamming the door so hard that the ceramic figurines vibrated perilously towards the edges of the shelves.
No. I simply was.
After my bullying stepfather put me in hospital when I was eleven, I decided there was no point worrying about what might happen. So long as I could cope with the consequences, I could deal with it. “What’s the worst that can happen?” became my mantra.
I had my first experience with a girl when I was thirteen. She was sixteen. My first experience with a boy came when I was fourteen, and he was the same age. This was the era of Section 28. It was considered naughty anyway, but it was illegal too.
I already knew, more or less, that girls weren’t my thing. I’d known since developing a crush on my very hairy and bearded prep school teacher when I was seven or eight. I liked girls. I simply didn’t share my mates’ obsession with women’s tits, arses and legs.
My school friends had pictures of pretty pop stars on their walls: Samantha Fox, Mel & Kim and Kim Wilde. I could sort of understand Kim Wilde. In interviews, she seemed normal, like a school friend or a tomboy who could easily look glamorous after a makeover montage. Wouldn’t you have guessed it? She’s a gardener now. Great voice, though.
But I’ve become diverted.
I had Boy George, Michael J Fox and Duran Duran on my walls. I was a Duran Duran fan, but I also loved the look of Spandau Ballet. The lead singer, Tony Hadley, did nothing for me, but there was something very alluring about Martin and Gary Kemp. They were all cheekbones and accessible strut.
I soon realised which lane I was in. I dabbled in carnal relations with women until I was twenty two, but not because I pursued them. They were friends, girl pals with whom I shared a connection, and one thing led to another. They all knew which lane I was in. We had a moment, acted on it and drifted apart with a gentle nod of thanks for the time we’d shared.
I would never have described myself as bisexual. Nowadays, everyone loves a label, and LGBTQ+ seems to acquire another letter every so often. That’s fine. I’m not criticising. I know what lane I’m in, and appreciate sometimes you need to go through one lane to get to another. As the saying goes, “You do you, babe.”
If I were choosing a label, it would be gay. I’ve got the whistle and even became a Pride party boy for a season, ending up on a float at Edinburgh Pride and enjoying a weekend romance with a Highland farmer called Bruce. He wore a kilt for the entire weekend (well most of it). At the time, it hadn’t really occurred to me that kilts could be worn as everyday clothing.
But anyway, I’ve become diverted again.
Although I was out and comfortable in my own skin, I didn’t really date. I only began dating properly in my thirties. From the age of thirteen until then, I had romances, but I always knew they had a finite lifespan. I suppose I’d never had a mentor or a couple who could serve as role models.
EastEnders caused a national uproar with its first, somewhat chaste, gay kiss. It took place between the middle class yuppie Colin and his slightly younger, working class cheeky chappie, Barry. I watched. I was interested, although probably more in Colin and his lifestyle, the nice house, the car and the career, than in acquiring a ‘Barry’.
Had Colin embarked upon a romance with Dirty Den, however, I would have been very interested indeed. There was something about Den that caused me to go a little unnecessary.
At the time, my mother’s marriage imploded after I exposed my stepfather for the bully he was. I became determined never to find myself trapped in a situation like hers. I knew who and what I was, and I felt neither upset nor conflicted about it.
Everybody knew. Or, so I thought.
My mother, back when we were talking (I haven’t seen her since 2014) and still had a relationship, acted surprised when I introduced her to my first proper long term boyfriend at the age of thirty four.
By then, I had already been seeing him for a year.
The twenty years between thirteen and my thirties were a time of evolution. I set myself up like the little pig who built his house of bricks. I wanted sturdy foundations.
I didn’t think I could share financial goals with someone else. I was perceptive enough to know that I was flighty. I could change direction without warning when it came to my career, my life or where I called home. Looking after my own needs was difficult enough. Having to accommodate someone else felt like too much baggage.
By the time I began considering settling down with someone, I had changed careers four times and lived in four countries across three continents. My plate was full, and adding another mound on top simply wasn’t going to happen.
I still had romances and shared moments with other guys, but they were always finite. If I was somewhere for a weekend or a week, that was the length of the fling. If I had a work contract lasting four months, that became the end date. There were no promises and no commitments.
Did I miss romantic opportunities that might have become something more? Possibly. At the time, however, I was itching to propel myself forward.
I had a romance with a gallery owner and art curator, which probably cemented my love of art. He was really into me, and I liked him, but his life was messy.
To the outside world, he looked successful. He had a PhD, taught at the University of Auckland and was well respected. He toured art exhibitions across the country and was highly regarded for his work. He had all the trappings of success, but his home life was messy and his finances were even messier.
I had already lived through messy. I wanted to do things on my own solid terms. Dealing with somebody else’s problems felt like a very large red flag.
It was why, building my foundation was important for me before I started dating. But then that’s where the problems started. Rather than following the pattern that had so easily drawn me in to the path of oncoming men and suitors. I changed the process, and that had interesting results.
I’ll cover that in my next Substack. Tune in for more.
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