Just Be Straight With Me
TOM RASMUSEN wonders why all the eligible would-be gay guys are still back in Narnia and not in his arms.
Three weeks into term and we’ve had seven perfect dates and two mind-blowing nights.
Then, just when things couldn’t get better, it hit me: where is this going?
I seem to have a constant longing for definitions in my life – but the need to define my intimate relationships has not worked out for me. Not once have I received the reply that would satisfy me. It’s always something: “I’m in love with someone else – you wouldn’t know him,” or the really problematic ones: “I’ve only just come out – I’m confused,” “Being gay is against my religion” (this one was actually post-sex!). And so, yet again, I’m left flat on my face – with a craving for intravenous administration of chocolate and wine.
My little black book is defaced with scribbles like these – who needs men when you’ve got colour coded file dividers? I contemplate uncapping my favourite red marker and scrawling over the top: What the hell is wrong with all of you?
Why can’t you all just be straight with me?
All I’m looking for is that oiled-up Italian male model, who’s a whizz in the kitchen but can afford to take me out for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Actually, I’d be content with much less than this (though all you sexy Silvanos out there shouldn’t hesitate to pick up the phone – call me guys: 0775-SEXY-GAY).
Instead, The men I’ve dated in Cambridge carry enough issues to well surpass my excess baggage charge. Is it too much to ask for a good looking, gay guy my age who doesn’t have issues with his parents, or his church? Who doesn’t fear taking that one small step out of the closet and in to my bed in Queens’? Most of the guys I meet are so far back in the closet they’re mincing around in Narnia.
Part of me understands. For lots of young gay men, the university experience can be a tumultuous one. Reconciling ones’ term-time freedom with a life back at home that lags behind is difficult enough. Fashioning a new self-identity while your explorations throw up more and more questions about who you are is confusing. And once you’ve come to enjoy being ‘out’, coming to terms with the fact that one’s future will be less Posh and Becks and more Elton and David (minus the paisley two-pieces) is terribly daunting.
I’m looking for at least some stability, but can I really blame the rest of the LGBT crowd for offering less than that? It takes a lot to leave the security of the closet, and once you’re out of it, knowing what you want can be difficult.
I’ve taken up a new sport to ease the pain: gazing out of my window, at my lovely neighbour who I’ve called Mr. King in the college opposite. All the while I’m pining for him to make me his Mr. Queen. I feel that the hard practise I’ve put in should surely be enough to merit me some blues. Watching Mr. King isn’t just a pleasure – he’s very fit you know – but an education!
He seems to have perfectly mastered the art of singing along to someone else’s tune with his equally delectable male companion whose visits have become more frequent while their clothes have become fewer. It is clear that they are singing in perfect harmony.
So: new month, new rule. It can’t hurt to toss my old “where is this going” song sheet over my shoulder and join in lustily, mooing along with the Monday night Cow-choir. Just like Mr. King. Here goes…