Dying secrets

A 2010 portrait of Erik Jensen by Cullen

An uncommonly insightful piece about an Australian artist.  About trying to be a "real man", even though you are gay or bi, and how much damage that does to you.

"Handsome" was Adam's greatest term of affection. Paintings were never beautiful, certainly not pretty: they were handsome. He coined the term "hetero-camp" to describe what he liked about the glamour of a bullfight: the traje de luces, the suit of lights. In Barcelona on an artist residency, he had watched six bullfights a day and produced almost no work.

Violence and sex for him were always intertwined. At art school, his aesthetic was forged from the danger of both. He dressed like a skinhead and described as "savage" his relationship with campus feminists. He boasted that he had been a member of the ultra-right National Front and part of a gang that had kicked to death a gay man. "I hung around with the skinheads because I liked the skinheads. I wasn't necessarily a Nazi, but I have always been interested in the existence of the extreme right," he said. "It's just so handsome. I used to love to go and see bands that would attract that crowd."

He claimed to have played trumpet briefly and poorly with the punk band Feedtime, and with another called Lubricated Goat. This was, so far as I could tell, untrue. "I used to love clothes, really nice skinhead clothes," he said. "I could never get hassled by anyone. Nice shoes. Skinny braces, f...ing white ones. Of course, I got called a poof when I studied art. But not regularly."

There is nothing dramatic about Adam's black eye. He fell on the back stairs, shifting pot plants in the rain. But the swelling makes it difficult to cry. The tears pool in the purpled flesh and the bruises make painful his attempts to wipe them away. "You probably know I'm on the border of bisexual," Adam says through the crying. "I think you can smell me a mile away."

We are sitting in the front room of his house. The lights are off. A newly acquired bearskin lies in front of us, the head still attached. An enormous fish trap has arrived since I was last here. His court case for weapons possession ended only a few weeks earlier.

"I prefer the company of men," Adam offers, "as a lot of writers and artists have said." He pushes through the tears, fending off emotion as if giving some urgent instructions. "My father said that the best advice his father gave him was, 'Kevin, be careful: women are queer cattle.' " Adam had used a similar line when we first met: "As my granddaddy said, 'If it's got tits, wheels or fur, you're f...ed.' "

Adam stops trying to wipe away the tears. He cries openly and his speech becomes unvarnished. But he looks away to make his points. I have rarely seen him so uncomfortable. Publicly, he has only ever been straight. "I haven't been openly gay or bi before, but I prefer men because women are f...ing stupid," he says. "Holding men is nice. We people are great specimens. I suppose I should quote Shakespeare: 'What a piece of work is a man.' "

I ask adam why he has hidden from his sexuality, but he doesn't have an answer. I suspect it is because, at heart, he wants badly to be a country boy, to be some copy of his father: charming, funny, good with women. Instead, he has created for himself a character of violent machismo that would have been destroyed by his affection for men.

Suddenly, it is all there: the showers, the nudity, the elegiac emails, the lingering touches, the fantasies about taking hotel rooms together, the pretence of this book with which he has convinced me to stay at his house. I think back to something Adam said early in our interviews: "You're the only man for me." Sitting opposite him, I finally twig: Adam is in love with me.

Read the whole article here.

Bisexuality is not a choice

How Many American Men are Gay?

An interesting stab at a number.

The author of the New York Times piece comes up with roughly 5% (Note that he assumes that there are gays and then there are straights and nothing in between): 

There are three sources that can give us estimates of the openly gay population broken down by state: the census, which asks about same-sex households; Gallup, which has fairly large-sample surveys for every state; and Facebook, which asks members what gender they are interested in. While these data sources all measure different degrees of openness, one result is strikingly similar: All three suggest that the openly gay population is dramatically higher in more tolerant states, defined using an estimate by Nate Silver of support for same-sex marriage. On Facebook, for example, about 1 percent of men in Mississippi who list a gender preference say that they are interested in men; in California, more than 3 percent do.

Are there really so many fewer gay men living in less tolerant states? There is no evidence that gay men would be less likely to be born in these states. Have many of them moved to more tolerant areas? Some have, but Facebook data show that mobility can explain only a small fraction of the difference in the totally out population. I searched gay and straight men by state of birth and state of current residence. (This information is available only for a subset of Facebook users.) Some gay men do move out of less tolerant states, but this effect is small. I estimate that the openly gay population would be about 0.1 percentage points higher in the least tolerant states if everyone stayed in place.

The percent of male high school students who identify themselves as gay on Facebook is also much lower in less tolerant areas. Because high school students are less mobile than adults, this suggests that a gay exodus from these areas is not a large factor.

We can approach the question of whether intolerant areas actually have fewer gay men another way, too, by estimating the percent of searches for pornography that are looking for depictions of gay men. These would include searches for such terms as “gay porn” or “Rocket Tube,” a popular gay pornographic site. I used anonymous, aggregate data from Google. The advantage of this data source, of course, is that most men are making these searches in private. (Women search, too, but in much smaller numbers.)

While tolerant states have a slightly higher percentage of these searches, roughly 5 percent of pornographic searches are looking for depictions of gay men in all states. This again suggests that there are just about as many gay men in less tolerant states as there are anywhere else.

Read more here.   

And this graphic is very telling.

Sad truths

What others think of us would be of little moment did it not, when known, so deeply tinge what we think of ourselves, -- George Santayana

Love, Lust and Twinks

When I was in the traps, donkey’s years ago, I had never heard of the word "twink".  We had “sexy”, and “handsome” and “attractive”, but (such was my innocence or at least ignorance) I knew nothing about bears or leather or daddies or cubs or lycra or twinks.  Nothing about all the different tribes of gay.  Not that I didn’t find, say, blokes in leather jackets on big bikes hot, or a dancer in lycra sexy.  I just didn’t know about the details of the subcultures involved.  I thought in my inexperience that gay was gay.  When I eventually encountered the word “twink”, I had to look it up.  Wikipedia’s definition is  "a gay slang term describing a young or young-looking gay man with a slender, ectomorph build, little or no body hair, and no facial hair" (1)   I knew at once what was being described, because I once was one.

Some people seem to think the word distasteful, judgmental or patronising.  I’m sorry if you are offended by my using it.  Yet I believe we are too precious about the use of some words.  Today I saw a tweet saying that to be called cute is an insult.  Being Twitter, there wasn’t enough room for the grumbler to say why it was offensive.  I mean, honestly, I wish I was cute.  Cute would do me very nicely, thank you.  Far better, frankly, than its antonym, ugly.

OK, then.  Well, not long ago, I was lunching at a favourite vegetarian resto. The waiter who served us (“Simon”) was simply dazzling, and the perfect example of a twink.  I lusted after every inch of him.  This cute stunning bloke was about 20, slim and hairless, and poured into his skin-tight jeans.  He was … gorgeous, sexy, beaut. Utterly desirable.  I wanted to do him right then, to caress the adorable curves of his bum, to slide slowly into him and feel his pleasure as I did.  And to do it all again in half an hour.

This unseemly lust reminded me of “John”, who used to work in another of my favourite veggie restos.   John was also a twink:  slim, slightly muscled, five o’clock shadow on his chin, beaut jacaranda eyes and thick curly black hair.  He wore skin-tight stretch jeans and t-shirts which revealed his flawless waist and belly-button.  Once he served us wearing a pair of shiny white lycra tights sprinkled with multi-coloured polka dots.  I confess to not being altogether fully attentive to my dinner companions, as he passed within a foot or two, his groin at face height.  Some might have dismissed him because he was a little queeny, but I found him incomparably sexy, in truth sexier because of his androgyny.  Cute, hot, beautiful, slim, delicious, fuckable.  And brave too: dressed like that, to wander the streets at night, even Brunswick Street—that’s brave.  But then it has always seemed to me that swishy queens are particularly valiant: to be who they are, and to flaunt their sexuality and gender dysphoria in the face of a deeply hostile world, takes great courage.

The third example is an incongruous one.  But it made me think (who was it who said curiosity is the sign that your brain is still working? Mine still is, I think, even as the rest of me wears out.)  It was the waitress at our staff Christmas dinner.  Slim, short-cut raven-black hair, perfect sky-blue eyes, boyish enough to be extraordinarily attractive to this mostly gay bloke.  She looked like a female version of Elijah Wood, who played Frodo in the Lord of the Rings.  Lovely.  Desirable, perfect, sexy, fuckable.  Which made me wonder how much of my attraction to the two twinks was because of their androgyny.  Because my attraction to her certainly was.  More of that in a minute.

With neither of these exquisite young men nor this gorgeous woman did I wish to be friends.   An embarrassing confession.  Like so many straight men who are very happy to fuck young women but not have a deep friendship with them (2).  I was profoundly attracted to them, but to their bodies, not to their minds.  Not to them as people. And for someone who claims to so value character and intelligence and personality, that was a revealing and rather unpleasant insight.  It was embarrassing and shaming to me to realise that even at this age, my hormonal fires burn strongly enough to make me not as nice a person as I would like to be.

Let me not exaggerate, and let me say at once, were we to have a relationship (which we wouldn’t because I am faithful to my lady), I would try to be kind and attentive and generous.  I would listen to their problems; take them clubbing (shudder) or whatever it might be that they wanted to do with me; admire their person and the clothes they wore; encourage and support and console; endure des ennuis with fortitude and (I trust) a sense of humour; and so on.  And when the relationship inevitably ended, I would kiss them and send them on their way, my heart mostly untouched, and theirs too, I hope.  More than fuck buddies, but less than lovers.

I feel I have to say this, because there are some men—macho, heterosexual men, so called “real men”—who think it’s OK to treat women like pieces of meat, as this recent case exemplifies (3).  And there are some gay men who are no different, except that it’s men they objectify.  Their partner isn’t a person.  It’s just a living plastic blow-up doll.

These cuties of both genders weren’t quite that for me, but they came uncomfortably close, I fear.  Too close.  An eye-opening insight.

So far so good (are you still with me, or have you pronounced an anathema against me and signed off in disgust?)

Now, also quite recently, I had to have dealings with “Darrell”.  Darrell was in charge of doing the concreting in the extension we’ve done to our house.  Darrell is not a twink.  Darrell is an ocker (4), working-class, bogan (5) Ozzie, with a slight tummy, a developing second chin, dust on his Blundstone boots, and shorts which were so loose they were about to fall off.  Dusty shorts.  Worn shorts.  Incredibly fucking sexy shorts.  Unselfconscious: no careful display of his package or his pectorals; no attempt to make himself attractive or desirable.  Because he didn’t need to.  He was quite secure in himself, in his normality and his maleness.  I was the insecure one.  I found myself in half in love with Darrell.  In love?  Quelle blague!

This is where I had another humiliating insight.  I didn’t lust after him as I lusted after the three cuties.  I didn’t really lust after him at all.  What I wanted was for him to care about me, to accept me, to cuddle me, to be my friend.  Even though I knew we would have nothing to talk about (“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Would he even know that that was Shakespeare, and written to a man?) and absolutely nothing in common.  Despite knowing this, I wanted his mind, not his body.  Well, not exactly his mind.  His affection, his friendship, his love, his protection, his acceptance.  I wanted him to love me.  It’s true that some part of me was prepared to have sex with him to make him my friend, not because I wanted it but because it was coin I could offer.  A friend once said to me that like a woman with men, I offered sex to men to get them to like me.  I don’t know whether women do that, but his observation struck a chord.  How sad is that, that I try and buy love with my body?  Not least because we all know, of course, that this doesn’t work with straight men.  My rational brain told me not to be a fool, that what I have with my lady and my family is really good and keeps me happy and sane.  That didn’t stop a very primitive chunk of me wanting Darrell’s approval, love, and friendship, and being prepared to fuck to get them.

I was ready to give my heart to Darrell.  Because of a deep manly voice, a pair of dusty shorts, worn Blundstones and an ocker accent.  Darrell didn’t have a perfect body.  Or a slim muscular bum.  He was not beautiful.  He was just a bloke.  A straight bloke.  An ordinary bloke.  A normal bloke.  But he pushed all my buttons.

And here’s a weird thing:  while I was talking to Darrell, after he’d unbent a little, he started to flirt with me.  Quite unconsciously.  In fact, when he became aware of it, he stopped.  In other words, he responded to my … my what? My flirtation?  My attraction?  My longing to be loved by a man like him?  Was I emitting particles which he reacted to?  Setting aside my age and opposite of cuteness, was I the equivalent of a twink to Darrell?

It reminds me of Annie Proulx talking about how she came to write Brokeback Mountain.  She saw an old cowboy in a bar looking with longing at the younger blokes.  Am I as transparent to strangers?  How humiliating!  That my rather pathetic need to be loved should be so obvious even to a straight man.  Being bullied and lonely at school has made some primeval element of my psyche respond to strong “manly” men, the kind who used to beat me up, the kind who so comprehensively rejected me at school.  And would—and do—reject me now.  At the same time, my intellect and my heart make me oppose the type of oppressive manliness they represent and epitomise, where tenderness is unmanly, and caring is a sign of weakness.

How complicated and muddled we are.  Who would have thought that the small boy and teenager bullied mercilessly at school would have grown up to lust after the acceptance and affection of the clones of his tormenters?  How …. bizarre.  How sad.  I thought I understood myself, but what I didn’t realise is how both extremes of my interactions with men are unbalanced.  At one end, lust.  At the other, a sort of grubby and unfulfillable hero-worship.

No wonder I can’t get close to men, straight, gay or whatever.  Because the balanced centre, which combines love with lust; the sacred with the profane (6); soul and body, eludes me.   To most men, I come across as needy and too eager to please.  And they will sense, even if they are not consciously aware of it, the particles I emit, as Darrell did, as Annie Proulx saw with that old cowboy in the bar in Wyoming, and despise me for it.

I am more glad than ever that I have my lady: clever, witty, honourable, sexy.   Who does know where “shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” comes from.  Who thinks my gender dysphoria makes me a better not a worse man, and loves me because of it.

A real man

You know, my whole life has been defined by being gay-shaded, by the judgements and hatred of others. As a small boy, a young teen, a young man, a middle-aged man, and now, I have called been "queer", "a homo", " a moffie", "camp", "queeny", "effeminate", "girly", "perverted", "unnatural".  I have been despised and beaten up.  I have been ignored and excluded.  When I came out to straight friends, I suddenly and mysteriously got the cold shoulder.  How bizarre!  All the other things they liked about me weren't enough to tip the scales when they discovered I was gay.  I became persona non grata.  An untermensch.  A nothing.

I have never been good enough for the straights,  Judged always.  Never mind about the rest of me: whether I was kind or not; generous or not; honest; decent; loving; intelligent or stupid; well-read or ignorant.  None of those things mattered.  Only my gayness mattered.  Only that I wasn't "a real man", I wasn't "manly".  Let's judge people by just one of their characteristics, shall we?  Because all the other things don't count, right?  I am what I am.  I was fucking born this way, OK?

I have come to realise that my allergies, my joint aches and pains, my overeating and overdrinking, my depressions, even how much money I have now -- these have all been heavily influenced and driven by others' rancid and judgemental perceptions of me.  I am so fucking BORED with it.  Jesus tap-dancing Christ, why can't I just be me, without all this fucking baggage? My illness, my body, my mind, my soul. Driven to the state I am now in, with dodgy health, depression, poor finances.  By these pieces of dogshit.  By judgemental, obscurantist, narrow-minded, hate-filled bigots.  "Hate the sin not the sinner."  Yeah, right.  "Judge not lest ye be judged."  Oh, but we do it with love.  So that's all right, then.

And their fellow travellers.  As in a racially stratified society, where the less black consider themselves better than the ebony, and the whites look down on all, so bisexual men and straight-acting men, and the macho pretend-straights and those able to "pass" look down on people like me.  They're not "swish".  They're real men. Isn't that nice?  And when they despise us, it's only natural and to be expected.   Of course it is.  Because the "natural order" is that real men and real women are the only worthwhile humans beings around, and even though they take it up the bum, they act straight.  So it's OK.  They're not really gay, are they?  

I know I'm angry.  And bitter.  And resentful.  Tough.  The only healthy way to react to subtle and overt negative cues and discrimination from society and their unquestioned values which make me worthless and a nothing, is to fight back; to expose the ChrisTaliban and their loathsome lies; to call out gay friends who are uncomfortable with queeny men and manly women; to remind people that it's the whole person which matters.  And to tell myself every day:  I'm worthwhile; I'm lovable; I'm good; I'm a real person.  Even if I shall never be a real man.  

Footy, Chapter 21

 I won’t go to a bar again. Will made this promise to himself every few months. The most recent occasion had been just six weeks before, after his previous visit to the The Peel. Every time he picked up a bloke, he would feel guilty the next day. He knew his inability to keep away showed how weak he was, what a pathetic failure. No matter how much he enjoyed the sex, he had no easy way to deal with the toxic mix of guilt and desire he experienced.

Yet when he had caught sight of Sean, he had immediately forgotten his doubts. He had guessed from the stiff way Sean was standing that he had never been in a gay pub before. The mixture of toughness and vulnerability in Sean’s face intrigued him. The draw wasn’t just physical, though there was no denying that Sean was handsome, slim and muscular.

Will had a weakness for rough trade. Perhaps it was because he felt that what he did was unworthy, that he wasn't a real man. Real men didn't have sex with other men. Real men were heterosexual. But if you weren't a real man, you could compensate by being tough, by showing a macho front to the world. He never felt that he himself did it convincingly. It always felt to him that he was playing a game, that it was some kind of façade, that he was a fake and a fraud, and that everybody knew it or would discover it one day.

He knew that others probably played these rôles too. But with them, the illusion seemed more convincing. Sean looked like a real man. Tough. Manly. Together. Self-sufficient. To Will it seemed that if he could persuade such a paragon to love him, he would enjoy a vicarious sense of manliness, of validation and self-worth. When a masculine man was screwing him, Will could pretend that he was loved, and that his partner’s masculinity validated his own. Taking a dick deep inside him made him feel manlier, more real. He was far too intelligent not to see the irony in this—but it made no difference to how he behaved. It merely made him despise himself the more thoroughly.

He had almost given up with Sean right after he’d started talking to him. Sean had seemed distant and hostile. Even though this was part of the fantasy, part of what turned him on, Sean had seemed so antagonistic that Will had wondered why the other man was even in a gay pub. For a moment, a cold wash of fear had made his hair stand on end. Was Sean the kind of man who would let himself be picked up only to beat you up later? But when Will had looked into Sean’s eyes, he had seen a need and a vulnerability mirroring his own, and his fears had faded. He had sensed at once Sean's attraction to him, an attraction he seemed to feel despite himself. Sean’s latent aggression became a thrilling spice enhancing their rapport. The sexual thirst and restrained belligerence in Sean made him overwhelmingly desirable.

The surprise came only later, after Sean had fucked him and had gotten up to leave, wordlessly, his face sullen. Bitter at yet another heartless encounter, angry at Sean and sickened by his own needs, Will had rebuked him, and had been startled and touched by Sean's response.

Read the rest of the chapter here.

Majorca Flats -- 206

 “But now that you know that, you can do something about it.” Esmé was all sweet reason.

Luigi's smile was small and very sad. “We always knew. And it doesn't help.”

“What about us then, Lou?” asked Keith, looking unhappy. “I mean, I knaow … OK, we're not the only blokes around but … Oh fuck it!”

“I dunno. I don't want to … I don't want to promise stuff.”

“Who's fuckin' talkin' about promises?” Keith was furious, but trying to hide it. “I thought we had somethin' good, ya knaow?” His accent was escaping him again as he became upset.

“I've got to go,” said Luigi and stood up and without a backward glance, walked out through the back door (the door to the street was locked because the café was closed)

“What the fuck?” ejaculated Keith. He looked at Jason and Esmé. “What did I do?”

Jason sighed. “He has a thing about straight guys. Ever since Cody. Maybe before.”

“Stright? Me? Bugger me sideways with a wet banana!”

“Cody?” asked Esmé.

Jason explained. Then he added, “He's filled with self-hatred. He … I dunno … he's almost needs the beating up, the beastliness of the straight guys who hate him but are so attracted to him.”

Keith was staring at Jason in wonderment. “Clever clogs, aren't ya? See inta people's hearts, huh?” He pronounced 'see' 'say', his emotion was so deep.

Jason was deeply embarrassed. He muttered something.

Keith smiled suddenly. “It's OK. It's just that if you say into Lou like that you'll say inta may too. That's embarrasin'.”

Jason put his hand on Keith's.

“I suppose you know all about me, too?” asked Esmé, only half joking.

[Update: I like to give credit for all the art work I use, whenever I know where it's from.  I read the signature on this drawing as Crisio, and couldn't find a website for him/her.  But on closer inspection it's Cris '10 -- blame my eyesight! -- and I've found the website.  You can see more great gay-shaded pics from this artist here.]

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Episodes 1 to 460 (without pictures, 10 episodes per chapter)

Tom of Finland

One of the strands of gay is hypermasculinity: big blokes in leather or uniform, with cropped hair and buff to the power 3 bodies.  Tom of Finland was the artist who made his and our  fantasies of those sorts of guy real, in fact who defined our images of the leather stud, the soldier, the sailor, the manly queer.   I confess to enjoying his drawings and cartoons, even though I know they are quite unrealistic, and that in fact this very hypermasculinity is probably a product of internalised homophobia  ("we're not homos -- look how manly we are!")  But at least the hypermasculine don't retreat into self pity.  They work out instead.  And buy leather.

I'll be posting a series of Tom of Finland's images.  I like this one especially.  Just look at the look in this guy's eyes!  I can't work out what he's thinking with any certainty, but I know that if a guy looked like that at me, I should be both apprehensive and incredibly turned on.

Majorca Flats -- 86

Keith coloured crimson. He looked away. He mumbled something.

Jason just went on looking at him.

Keith looked up from the table and met Jason's eyes. “It's all very well for you. You're a stunningly handsome, incredibly sexy man. Blue eyes, blond hair, sportsman's body, straight-acting. You can probably get anyone you want.”

It was Jason's turn to colour. “C'mon!” he muttered, turning away.

“Well, you are. Jeez, Jase, just admit it!”

Jason turned to Keith and stared directly into his eyes. “Keith, you are a handsome, sexy, lovely bloke. Look at you now!” And he touched Keith's chin with his finger then turned his head to one side and then the other. “You're handsome, you scrub up nice – don't think I didn't notice – and you have a kind heart. You have lovely eyes.”

“But you don't want me.”

“I don't want anybody.” He paused for many heartbeats. Then he said “Keith, my dear, you are not a nothing. Being gay doesn't make you worthless whatever the bigots say.”

[From GayTwoGether]

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Majorca Flats Episodes 1 to 10

Majorca Flats Episodes 11 to 20

Majorca Flats Episodes 21 to 30

Majorca Flats Episodes 31 to 40 

Majorca Flats Episodes 41 to 40 

Majorca Flats Episodes 51 to 60 

Majorca Flats Episodes 61 to 70

Majorca Flats Episodes 71 to 80 

Majorca Flats -- 47

The next evening he went again to that café-bar.

He nursed several coffees and then a few glasses of wine, but Cody never showed.

He went home, black with despair and sadness and loneliness.

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Majorca Flats -- 43

Jason had been different, though. Maybe it was the English public-school thing, all those straight boys confined to single-sex dormitories. They ended up experimenting with each other and . . . . Holy fuck, what did he know? Only that Jason had been kind and gentle. And he had been – there was no doubt about that! – turned on. Luigi smiled a little. He was far from taking his attractiveness for granted. He knew that many men saw him as beautiful, but his own uncertainties and insecurities made him aware also that he wasn't a real man like the men he so lusted after, like the men he longed to love and to have love him. He might be beautiful outside but inside he felt disgusting: a failure, a traitor to the race of male-kind, a marginal nothing. He knew – of course he knew – that this was just his own internalised homophobia speaking, but it didn't help. Deep down he was convinced not only that he was ugly – and no mirror could persuade him otherwise – and, worse, unlovable.

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Majorca Flats -- 42

Luigi leant against the wall of the tiny hallway of his flat. He sighed. Why did he do this? He knew that having sex with straight blokes always left him feeling bitter and bereft. He knew – yet still he went back for more. His weakness disgusted him. What was the point of trying to connect to straight guys? The pattern had repeated itself again and again. He'd find it easy to get a straight guy to have sex with him. But they always walked away afterwards. Once or twice, they'd been hostile immediately after sex, and had left without speaking. Once he'd been beaten up. He'd been off work for a week. He'd told everybody at work that he'd fallen down the stairs at his block of flats. For a while after that he'd been careful. But as the fear wore off and the need to connect grew, he'd gone back to picking up strangers, the straighter the better. He was too intelligent not to see that this was destructive behaviour and that his dislike for other queeny guys was just another aspect of his own self-loathing, but when his emotions took control he couldn't stop himself. And afterwards he'd do just what he was doing now: he'd beat himself up, castigate his own folly and short-sightedness, and generally feel depressed and a skinny failure.

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Episodes 1-500

Majorca Flats -- 36

“Wasn't that paedophilia? I mean, a guy of his age having sex with a young lightie like you?”

“I never thought of it like that,” answered Jason. “I wasn't so young. The age of consent in England is sixteen. And I was seventeen. He was only a year or so older than me. His dad bought him a car when he passed his driving licence when he turned eighteen. He would take me to pubs and I'd pretend to be old enough to drink.”

“What's happened to him?”

“He's married. Works in the City somewhere. I saw him at an old boys' day and he'd lost all his looks. He was pudgy and had bags under his eyes. There was nothing there for either of us.”

Luigi sighed. “I never had anyone. I suppose, I was too gay for most of the guys at school. My first guy was a pick up I made at a pub. I pretended I was eighteen. He screwed me. It was . . . ” he hesitated, “ it was good to feel loved for a bit. At school everybody used to . . . . well, it wasn't so good.”

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It gets better

If you've been bullied and tormented at school, the scars never really go away, but it does get better.  Don't despair, don't give up.

This great post from the gay author Rick Reed discusses his experiences.

And this Youtube post from Dan Savage and his husband shows you again that you'll survive.  You'll more than survive -- you'll flourish. 



Once you leave high school, you escape the bullies and arseholes.  Oh, they're still around.  But they lose their power over you.

I still find it hard to go into a room full of strange men.  I still bear the scars of being remorselessly and continually bullied for years.  I survived.  You will too.

(The pic's from GayTwoGether)

More Gay Suicides

I know a guy who, because he had an easy time with growing up gay, maintains that prejudice against gays, especially gay teens, is over.

Alas not. Hunter's latest blog post details some more gay teen suicides and the lily-livered and shameful response of the education authorities, following up on my previous post about this topic.

I suffered misery at school. I was an outsider, I was gay (though I didn't know it), I was effeminate. I was beaten up nearly every day. The scars still remain, physical and mental. I am partially blind in one eye as a result of bullying. I am still afraid to go into a room of strange men. I never go to a bar by myself, for example. I used to try everything I could not to go to school. For me my days at school were very far from the happiest days of my life.

It's shameful that lonely unhappy people can find no one to turn to, that their teachers, fellow pupils, and even the churches do not help. Love one another as I have loved you. Yeah, right.

[The painting comes from Joe Clarke's blog]

Flamers

A little while ago I read a remarkable blog post, from a blog which shall remain nameless. In it, the blogger described how he'd been approached by a effeminate (but very muscular) guy. This guy suffered from a -- shock! horror! -- lisp. Repelled, our intrepid blogger assaulted the "queen" and then vomited. There followed a diatribe against feminine guys.

A psychiatrist or psychologist would surely find the whole episode remarkably revealing. To me, it indicates a very strong internalised homophobia. Ah, many will reply, but what if you don't find effeminate men sexy? Well, what of it? If it had been a straight guy responding to a gay one in this way, the conclusions would have been obvious. It would have been seen as a gay hate crime. And let me make it quite clear: I'm not saying that you have to have it off with someone you find unappealing just to be politically correct. Some blokes prefer busty brunettes, others brunets with muscly pecs. Each to his own. But to hit the other guy and then vomit? C'mon! Whatever happened to Sorry, I have a headache?

So why do I call it a kind of (internalised) homophobia? Because what is going on here is a comparable to what happens in race-obsessed societies. In apartheid South Africa, the "whites" were the most desired, the "blacks" the least. The "coloureds" (mixed-race South Africans, who ironically spoke Afrikaans*, the language of the dominant "white" minority) were considered superior to the "blacks" but inferior to the "whites", and the "whiter" your skin was the higher your social standing. Manufacturers of (dangerous and ineffective) skin-whitening pastes and hair-straightening liquids did a roaring trade. Self-hatred brought on by the perverted values of society.

But how is this relevant to the spectrum of gays from queens through to clones? The most acceptable gays (to gays and straights) are those who can "pass". They're "masculine" and "straight-acting". When last did you see an ad in the hook-up section of the personals columns for a "gay-acting" partner?

It's not for nothing that one of the biggest story themes on Nifty is about straight guys turning gay. There are all sorts of reasons why this trope is so powerful to us, and I'll talk about them in a later post, but one of them clearly is that a despised and discriminated-against sexual alternative is embraced by the "real man" (gays, by definition, cannot be "real men"). A straight man turning gay validates us. And the machoer, the straighter, the more masculine the other man is before he turns to the dark side, the better. Hell's teeth, even in my own writing, I use these archetypal stories. In Footy, a straight man falls for his gay best friend.

The least acceptable gays are the "femmes", the "queens", the "gay-acting", the "flamers". When straight society talks disdainfully about "homos", this is mostly what they mean. Effeminate men are despised by most straights and gays. And it's worth asking why. 'Just because' is not an answer. Consider how many gays wish that drag queens would keep away from the gay parades. "They perpetuate stereotypes" is the politest comment I've heard. Why is it more acceptable for a woman to do "manly things" than for a man to do feminine things? Why is it OK for women to wear pants but not for men to wear dresses? Why is being a macho sportsman (even if from time to time you have a mutual blow job with your teammates) acceptable but being a male ballet dancer not?

Think of all the gay icons. Gays are turned on by construction workers and tradies, marines (but not, curiously to the same extent by other kinds of soldiers), cowboys, firefighters, bikies and the leather-clad, policemen, and of course, sportsmen. One can understand the attraction in each case, especially for sportsmen, who must be fit, healthy and muscular just to follow their calling. But so much of the attraction is for a kind of off-hand, totally self-confident, unthinking maleness. Men who don't gel their hair, who don't wear designer label undies, who sprawl in a masculine way in front of the TV to watch the game, who emerge filthy from under a car they've just fixed (competence is a very male virtue), who don't wear deodorant or aftershave. Real men. The kind of men we want to be. So, since we are homos not straights, we indulge in the equivalent of skin-lightening creams and hair straighteners. Even the term "clone" is horribly revealing.

The irony is that I myself am not immune to the attraction of these archetypes. And that I had to spend a lot of time and thought to getting over my own internalised homophobia which made me despise myself because I wasn't real man enough, and made me deeply uncomfortable with flamers. But the first step to coming to terms with this is to recognise it for what it is.

I'm sure I'll get heaps of emails and comments, saying stuff like "but that's just what I like/dislike, it's not homophobia." Fair enough. But the question is: why do we have these likes and dislikes? Our personal values don't happen in a vacuum. They are affected, coloured, driven by societal values. We must understand, because if we end up disliking ourselves because we don't conform to some outdated sexist stereotype than we will just get hurt. Effeminate gay men are us, too. Flamers have feelings. Until they/we are whole-heartedly accepted, gay liberation will not be complete.

[This is the third of a linked series of posts. The previous two are Darl and Homophobia and Behaviour Modification. These articles I wrote for Wilde Oats also consider some of the issues I touch on here: The End of Gay and Gay, Then and Now.]

The Village People, making fun of the stereotypes.

*the first book written in Afrikaans was written in Arabic script to convert the "Malay" (Indonesian) Muslim slaves in Cape Town in the early 19th century. Ironic that their creole of Dutch became the language of the apartheid regime. Now there's self-hatred for you! And apartheid is pronounced apart+hate. Easy to remember.

Internalised Homophobia

I have a friend, called ____. To keep things easy, let's call him Edmond, the name of a guy I had a huge crush on in my first couple of years at high school (tall, sandy hair, blue eyes, a fanatical cricketer.)

Edmond is in a long-term relationship with a guy we'll call Steve. They love each other very deeply. Both had girlfriends before they realised that they were gay. Edmond lived with his girlfriend for 6 years before he started dating guys. Edmond was in the armed forces and had to endure the hypocrisy of the "don't ask; don't tell" military policy. Edmond is a classic southern gentleman, courtly, honourable, decent and brave. He has a lovely sense of humour, and is very likable. Both blokes were afraid to come out to their parents. Edmond's parents resolved the problem by putting the two men in the double bed when they came back from uni for a home visit, making it plain they knew. Edmond was very moved at their acceptance.

Steve was not so lucky. His parents are hostile to Edmond, blaming him for turning their son homosexual. Why is it that gay men aren't turned straight by good sex with women, if it's so easy to turn a straight man gay by a few fucks? It's because, doofuses, being gay or straight isn't about the sex. It's not about hot tight butts and erect penises or juicy pussies. It's about love. Now it is entirely possible that you may love someone enough that you partly set aside your primary sexuality and embrace the alternative, as I have done with my wife, as another guy I know (who is otherwise straight) did with his husband. But it's not because of the sex. Oh, when you love someone, the sex is special. Sharing your bodies and your pleasure is wonderful. But it's wonderful because of the love. Despite all the stories on Nifty about straight men turning gay because of one great fuck with a guy after the big game, it doesn't happen like that.

Maybe these guys were really bisexual. Bisexuality is extremely common. I argue this point (and others) in The End of Gay in more detail. I will quote just one statistic from Kinsey's research:

25 per cent of the male population has more than incidental homosexual experience or reactions (i.e. rates 2-6) for at least three years between the ages of 16 and 55. In terms of averages, one male out of approximately every four has had or will have such a distinct and continued homosexual experience. But most of them still end up married -- to women. Only 4% of the male population is exclusively homosexual.

So Edmond didn't "turn Steve gay". And maybe both of them are really bisexual. But they love each other, not women. Isn't that what matters? Really and truly? Love one another as I have loved you.

I'm rambling. The point is that Edmond, when Steve's parents turned hostile, became deeply depressed. Their homophobia brought back all his memories of the times when he doubted the morality of being gay, when he was filled with self-loathing and depression, when he wrestled with his Southern Baptist upbringing to reconcile the way he was with the way he thought he was supposed to be.

All of us who suffered from the implicit and explicit homophobia of our cultures and homes when we were growing up, still struggle with internalised homophobia. I do; and yet my first time with a man was absolutely, utterly right. I have a fairly well-honed sense of right and wrong. I can tell you that I know loving someone of the same gender as you is not evil. On the contrary, love is good, whatever the gender of your partner. (It's heartless casual sex that's morally dubious, but I won't go into that now)

All I could do was reassure Edmond that he was a top bloke, that I loved and admired him, and that he was a wonderful and worthwhile human being. Whatever Steve's parents say, whatever the batty religious right say. But it's hard persuading him.

One day the churches will be as embarrassed by their position on gayness as they now are about their support for slavery and the oppression of women in the past.

(BTW, the pic comes from A Day In Hand, a group which encourages men and women to hold another man's or woman's hand one day a year. Nice idea.)

Surfing

I used to love surfing. There's something unique and special about being on a board slicing through the glassy underside of a breaking wave. My first board was an eleven footer. These days they're shorter. I remember my first 7 foot board, bought for me second hand by my friends for my 21st birthday. I'm still in touch with two of them, one alas is dead and I've lost touch with the other.

I loved surfing for the sport, for the fresh smell of the sea, for the freedom, for the perfection of cool water on a hot day. Really. OK, I was also in love with -- let's call him Josh -- who was a extraordinarily beautiful bloke. Josh was a surfer too, intelligent, loved poetry and dope, and himself. All that self-directed admiration left little love over for me.

I don't surf any more. We live too far from the sea, and anyways, the water here's so cold you have to wear a wetsuit and that's just not the same as doing it in your fantastic baggies (alias boardshorts.) Here are two pics of very different surfies, one in fantastic baggies, the other in swim briefs (Aussiebums, I'd say). Of course, the surfies were another reason to go surfing. With all the paddling, surfing naturally gives you huge shoulders and arms and pectorals -- as you can see in these photos. You don't need to do weights work if you surf, and somehow the bodies created by surfing look better than those scuplted by weights.

I never admitted my attraction to surfers to myself. Ah, the poison of the closet.