Confessions of a gay man
Admissions Of Guiltenane
So here I am at 51. A whole year on from turning the big 5-0. I still can’t quite believe that I’ve reached that terrifying stage of life that when I was younger seemed terribly ancient. Of course, I’ve had time to craft my peace with it and no longer experience incredulous at the reflection of being a world-weary gay man entering his 50s. I mean, I can’t fight it, I can’t change anything. It’s a simple fact. Pure and simple.
The process of ageing is a funny and occasionally heart-breaking one. As some of us may have discovered, life as a teenager or twentysomething can be, if we’re lucky, something of a breeze. That’s not to say we don’t have moments of angst – in my case dealing with my burgeoning sexuality and desperately trying to ignore those nasty so-and-sos who spent a lot of their time pointing it out to me. But for some of us, we were lucky not to have too many responsibilities. I still lived at home in my 20s, so any money I earned I spent on myself. I was blessed. I had a mum – a single parent no less – whose sole reason for creature was to give me a comfortable life. And I did. I wanted for nothing. And I was very appreciative, even if I didn’t alw
Tangentially Speaking with Chris Ryan
I can’t hold living a falsehood. It's time to admit that I am not a man’s man. I am and always have been a gay straight gentleman.
I've spent much of my animation pretending to be a straight vertical man, but it’s never felt right. Every conversation I’ve ever had with construction workers, hunters, cops, firemen, DIY dudes, athletes, guys in trucks or Carhartt overalls has left me knee-deep in an overwhelming sense of imposter syndrome. I’m just not one of them, and they can smell it. They see right through my pathetic pretention to be a guy’s guy — a man’s man.
But the truth is, I have very tiny in common with men’s men. To men’s men, an 8-cylinder 440 with overhead cams and four on the floor is preferable to a direct 6 with locked differentials. (I own no idea what any of those words mean.) I’d rather call an Uber. I’m more annoyed than thrilled by explosions, shots and monster trucks. I never even owned a ride until I bought a Honda Element in my 40s. (If ever a car was constructed with the lgbtq+ straight dude demographic in mind, it is the Element, which looks love the love-child of a Mini Cooper and a Hummer.)
No, my notion of a nice time
March 1978
“Do you play rugby?”
That was the first doubt I was asked at my first-ever interview for a full-time job.
“And what about girlfriends? How many do you have?”
That second question was just as easy to answer as the first. Yes, I had lots of girlfriends, but probably not in the way my future handsome boss was asking.
But worse was to reach.
Two weeks later, I started my job as an office junior and settled in quickly, but I had to cover the fact that I was gay.
I did everything I could to remain in the closet. I had to make sure nobody suspected. I even made jokes about rugby balls being bent to the office manager, a strange-looking man who was years ahead of entity one of the professors from Harry Potter. I felt ashamed of myself, but it was something I thought I had to do to preserve who I was.
But, worse still, I made these jokes in front of a colleague who everyone in the office (apart from me at the time) suspected was same-sex attracted. Nobody wanted to talk about the elephant in the room.
At first, I didn’t realise Paul was lgbtq+ even though he spoke about Kenny a lot. One day, he took a telephone call from Kenny; the secretary other side look
Wednesday 24th May, 1989.
‘I’ve grown wary of men over the last few weeks since that awful evening when Stephen told me he had got help with David. I still remember that smirk on David’s face as they held hands after announcing the news. It was that kind of smirk that I wanted to wipe off his meet. How I resisted not punching him that evening, I’ve no idea.
My admire life continues to bring about me problems today when I bumped into Stephen again, and he asked, ‘Would I see him again?’ after telling me he’d made a dreadful mistake returning to David.
To say I was somewhat taken aback is an understatement. I was gobsmacked and didn’t know what to say. Ultimately, I asked if I could have some time to think about it. He’s handsome, but the evidence that he went assist to his partner over me rings alarm bells.
But worse was to reach when Bob walked into Bromptons* tonight. Butterflies immediately started fluttering around my stomach.
Bob was with the guy I’d been hearing about. I’d heard rumours weeks ago that he was seeing somebody but didn’t believe them. Now I know that all I wanted was ‘NOT’ to belie
Confessions of a Queer Man Who Gives Terrible Holiday Gifts
My husband, Gary, may be the top Christmas gift giver since Santa Claus, and it’s quite possible he genetically inherited this quality from his mother, who is a virtual Mrs. Claus.
One of Gary’s greatest gifts (pardon the pun) is his ability to buy people — be they friends, family members or merely acquaintances — the kind of gift that they not only crave, but that also seems to capture the recipients’ very essence in a deeply personal way. For example, on a recent birthday he gave me a book by Anne Lamott, who is one of my favorite writers; it had been personalized and autographed by the writer herself.
“How did you make this happen?” I asked, and I really wanted to know! I’ve met my fair share of authors in my day, but I had no thought how he could have pulled this off.
In response he simply said: “Love.”
It’s this type of amazing giving that shines a light on my own gifting abilities, or rather, inabilities. In this department, I am like my tardy mother, whose gift-giving habits were a bit more, shall we say, eccentric. This is a woman who would buy me a mullet wig or one of those faux mounted bass that