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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.

Arthur Chappell