AM I GAY?
I often wondered if I was gay
or not. I meditated on the possibility many a time. Many friends assumed that I
was a homosexual on the grounds that I rarely had much luck with women. That I
was and still am fat, balding and generally unkempt had much to do with
that. I had lots of friends and
acquaintances, but no really intimate relationships. The older I got, the more
people came to the conclusion that I was a lost cause. On a few rare occasions, each very precious
to me, there have been women in my life. It raises eyebrows and sends
shockwaves around, but once the lady has gone, people assume she must have been
a front, as if he dated her just to stop them from thinking I was a closet
homosexual.
Taking
a sympathetic side for homosexuals when someone becomes homophobic doesn’t help
me either. Speak up for gay rights as a heterosexual, and you immediately
become what you defend. That is why so many people find the subject utterly
taboo.
. Most
people my age have children already. I’ve even heard hateful murmurings that
the older bachelor on the block might be a secret pedophile or serial killer.
That kind of whispering hurts. That I wasn’t married by the time I was thirty
seemed proof enough of my gay nature to many. . A few people have even assumed
that I am gay just because I don’t like football. I would have thought a gay guy would appreciate the sight of hot,
aggressive burly men in shorts sweating their way round the footie pitch and
swapping shirts after a game, but apparently, not liking the game equals gay.
This definition has for some reason, fallen out of the dictionary.
I
started to wonder whether there might be truth in the rumours or not. I began
looking at men’s bodies as they passed me by. Builder’s bottoms just made me
nauseous. Biceps bloated by excessive exercise and steroids made men look more
like plastic toys than people. I borrowed a mail order clothing catalogue. I
turned to the men’s pages. Here were male models. These were men carefully
selected by experts, and chosen for being exceptionally photogenic and good
looking. They were the men women and gay men would drool over. I studied them
closely. I tried to conjure up masturbation fantasies involving them and
myself. I achieved nothing by the process of experimentation. Of course, I
came. If you apply friction to your dick long enough, you will ejaculate, but
it was an empty, mechanical process. I felt no arousal, no passion, and no
emotion, other than a mild sense of guilt at my abject failure to feel gay. I
turned to pages of men in swimwear. Again, I found no sense of appeal. If
anything, I actually began to find the male physique distasteful. I started to
wonder how a woman could possibly appreciate the masculine body.
Naked,
I looked at myself. My own penis is a reasonable size, but it looks frankly
stupid, dangling or raised between my legs. I have friends who say that a large
knob guarantees sex, but one can hardly just go up to women and drop one’s
trousers. The only women you meet that way are your arresting officers.
Generally, you have to gain a woman’s trust and affection before the penis gets
a piece of the action. But to some men, it still somehow controls the whole
courtship ritual.
I
do envy friends who appear have been born with over-active fanny magnets. I
have friends who can attract women with a smile, or a click of their fingers. I
have to work hard to get even a goodnight kiss. These men, I realized, looked
like they could model swimwear in the catalogues.
I
was no nearer to finding my own sexual identity. All I knew now was the ideal
male as depicted in commercialdom. I could look at a gay guy and tell whether a
woman would find him hot or not. I could see also why I didn’t strike most
ladies as an ideal catch too. The thing was, the catalogue women in the bikini
pictures could turn me on. Women in dresses, skirts, jeans and overcoats could
generate general arousal for me. I could fantasize about them with some spark
of excitement. Trouble is, that was about as far as it went. The fantasies were
not easy to picture as potentially coming true. The great women went out with
the great guys. Ugly bugs like me were left on the shelf. I am an evolutionary
cul-de-sac.
The
gay guy, who just saw me in a bar, took his chances on the last single male in
the place. He figured we must be kindred spirits. I told him what I have just
revealed here for you. He was shocked by my candid confession. Normally if
someone turned him away, it was from homophobia. He was a decent catch. I could
picture him in the catalogue, in Speedos. I just couldn’t picture him in me. I
told him as much. He wasn’t in the mood for failed hetero-small talk though. He
wanted action. He went away to get some. The single women in the bars don’t
notice me. The gay guys do. Perhaps there is a homophobic assumption in me, and
it is that gay guys are short sighted. The women know a crap date when they see
one. Gay Guys are more hopeful of making something work between them and me. It
isn’t going to happen. I actually almost wish it could.
Of
course, I could just go with the flow and actually have a gay encounter. I
could let a homosexual man have his way with me, and take me through the
physical feel of what he can do, but having read the literature, seen a few
films (top shelf variety), and thought it through, it just isn’t me, I wouldn’t
enjoy it, nor I expect would he. It’s harder for a guy to fake pleasure he
isn’t having than it might be for a woman. My discomfort would ruin two nights;
his and mine.
I
stick a porno film on at home to console myself with being Billy-No-Mates once
again. . A man is licking out a woman’s pussy. She is enjoying it sure enough,
but to me it looks like a horror movie. I can see what is in it for him, but
not for her. He, if anything, is merely a distraction. When he is on top, I
can’t see her so clearly. I just see his arse bobbing up and down, like a hairy
jelly. What is interesting however is
that he is not particularly attractive. He would never get a job modeling
swimwear. He is my kind of guy. That is to say, he is a guy just like me. On one level I like this film, in that it
creates a fantasy that I can relate to. There are beautiful women who will go
for the chumps of this world. I remember seeing them; the ladies with fat
greasy, smelly boyfriends, and a few good looking men with unappealing looking
girls. I am missing a trick somewhere. However, there are few such people to
study in the catalogues.
Same
film, fresh scene. Two women are making love. This I like. I wonder if I am a
lesbian. No, obviously not. I kid myself. It was a stupid, idiotic thought. The
scene appeals because it cuts out my sense of jealousy at the other fat balding
guy getting a good sex game when I am reduced to remote-anonymous-voyeurism. He
was probably acting anyway. That much semen flying around means they bought in
a bottle of mayo. You can’t ejaculate again by the twelfth take. I’m getting
cynical. I’m in a fox and grapes frame of mind. Aesop’s fox couldn’t get at the
grapes so he dismissed them as probably tasting sour. I can’t get much sex –
but I know it is something good, and worthy and real. The good-looking guys get sex as a matter of course. For me, it
is the Holy Grail. It will happen for me, and it will be a special experience.
I’m not Gay. I’m just not ready yet.
Give me time. Give me time.
Follow up article – HOMOPHOBIA
IN THE WORKPLACE
Arthur
Chappell
Arthur Chappell
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