Comin' out/comin' back

Brian wanted to know my coming out story. Every gay has one. Even if everybody knows the person in question is gay, there comes a time when that person has to say those immortal words, "I'm gay."

I have to be the exception. During my coming out period, I never once told anyone I was gay.

I'll start at the beginning. The very beginning.

One of my earliest memories of school is taking my Mum's lipstick to Show And Tell. How many straight boys do you know who would do that? Don't know what Show And Tell is, dear reader? Primary school. Monday mornings. Each child brings something to class and gets to talk about it for a short while. Tommy might bring his action man, Rachel might bring her doll and Johnny might bring his cowboy hat. I brought my Mother's lipstick.

It was a dusky pink colour. I loved it. I remember telling the other children in my class that I loved the smell and taste of it. My Mother would give me a kiss goodbye when she went out for the evening, the smell and taste would linger, making me feel warm inside. It made missing her not so tough.

I had such a strong association between that lipstick and my Mum. We were never apart when I was very young, largely due to my illness, but that's another story. School wasn't so traumatic because essentially, it wasn't a choice. I had to go. But Mum's rare evenings out were a choice. I'd get very upset when she went, especially if I was left alone with my Father. I was genuinely scared without her, but the taste of her lipstick on my mouth gave me the notion that she was coming back.

I must have taken a million things to Show And Tell, but I only remember the lipstick. I do remember, though, that I never once took a cowboy hat or an action man.

An even earlier memory is of my sisters dressing me up as a girl. I never objected. In fact, I quite liked it. I had the cancer wig, Lorraine's baby-doll nighty, Christine's patent leather shoes and either a hand-bag or a red toy dog. It had a zip on it's belly into which Lorraine would insert her night-wear on a daily basis.

My Mum would often have friends to the house for coffee, usually of a morning. If it was a Saturday, or, for some other reason, both my sisters were at home with me during the week, they would lead me down the stairs, in full drag, announce to the kitchen that Mary was here and into the kitchen I'd explode. The gathered women would applaud and greet Mary. It was fantastic. Sometimes, if we had notice of an impending arrival, I would hide in the larder, then burst out once said woman or women had arrived to a similar greeting.

Growing up, I loved all the old films that my Mother was into. If they were black and white and starred some Hollywood actress big in the 1930s or 40s, we watched them. We especially loved the weepies. Sometimes, Mum and I would do rôle play afterwards. I loved to be Ingrid Bergman. I thought she was fantastic.

Was it any surprise, then, that I turned out gay? It certainly was no surprise to me. I never pretended to be straight, I didn't tell anyone I was straight, I didn't take a girl-friend, I didn't play football or hang about with boys. Most of my friends were female. Fag hags, if you like.

Then, one Summer, must have been about 1985... Seven of my female friends came knocking at the door, asking if I wanted to come out. My brother-in-law, Pete, who was staying with us for the week with my sister, opened the door to them.

When I came back, I was bombarded with the most bizarre comments:

"You've got a lot of girlfriends!"

"You're a hit with the ladies."

"Which one do you fancy most?"

What was going on? Had I slipped into some parallel universe where I was some kind of straight ladies' man?

No, I hadn't.

Someone obviously thought I was straight. Who else might think this?

I was thirteen at the time and had some kind of boyfriend. His name was Lee. He certainly didn't think I was straight. No-one else at school thought I was straight, either.

I wasn't straight. But I also wasn't about to tell Pete that I was a raving poof. It was the first time in my life that I felt being gay was inferior to being straight. I have no idea why, but I did. I had no desire to tell anyone that I wasn't as good as them, so said nothing.

I might have had these feelings after an earlier conversation with my Mum, but didn't. I think I was ten or eleven years old at the time. My Mother was reading the newspaper. There was a very tragic picture of a man staring out at us. He looked very ill indeed. The first paragraph of the newspaper informed us of his death. I asked Mum why he'd died. She told me, "That's what happens to men who sleep with other men."

The man in question was Terrance Higgins.

Mum's revelation really meant nothing to me. At that age, even though I knew I was gay, I had no understanding of the concept of sex, heterosexual, homosexual or otherwise. Furthermore, sleeping with someone wasn't something I ever did. I'd only ever shared a bed with my Mother if I was sick or frightened. Phew. I wasn't going to die.

I never wondered why sharing a bed with another man might kill me, though. I suppose, as a child, my only thoughts and concerns were with myself. I'd never slept with another boy and saw no reason why I would do so in the future, so never considered the consequences.

The few years at senior school passed me by without much drama. I had a few boyfriends. I had sex for the first time. It was ok, nothing special, but I did it.

In 1986, my nephew, Spencer, was born. Mum and I went up to London to see my sister after she'd given birth. What a lovely baby! My sister's husband, Graham, took me to the shop in the hospital to buy a drink. Now, I had no idea this was coming and am astounded, even to this day. Right out of the blue, he looked me in the eye and said, "If Spencer grows up and turns out to be gay, it'll be fine. It's not a problem for me. When I was your age, if I'd told my Dad I was gay, he'd have thrown me out on the street."

Then he just looked at me, waiting for me to say something. I didn't. I was so taken aback, I had no idea what to say, what I should say or what I shouldn't say.

But I knew why he was saying it. I just wanted to give him a hug. But I couldn't do that, either.

I never had a problem with bullying at school. Sure, there were people who tried, but it really was water off of a duck's back. Incidentally, J K Rowling would be pleased with my use of clichés. But I digress... Senior school was boys only, well, it was, up until 1985, when we mixed. The girls' school which was next to us and my school joined forces in the battle for equality. Boys could cook, girls could do wood-work. It couldn't be more fabulous. A few gay boys and girls made themselves known to each other and we somehow stuck together. Strength in numbers.

I hope J K Rowling is reading this.

I left school and took a summer job in a cosmetics factory (how queer is that!?!?). I met my first proper boyfriend. A week later it was my birthday. The boyfriend, Ray, sent me a card.

It read:

Dear Roy

Happy birthday

With love from Ray

xxx

I thought nothing of it. However, my Mother did.

The evening of my birthday, I'm at Ray's house. The doorbell rings. It's my Mother, waving said card in the air, asking, "What's this?"

I couldn't believe she was asking me this question. I'd told her about Ray. I presumed she knew he was my boyfriend.

But that wasn't it.

She had no idea I was gay.

She cried, I cried, Ray cried. Mum and I went home.

Mum was very distant on the way back, about a thirty minute walk and hardly spoke at all. When we got in, she told me I wasn't to see Ray any more and, furthermore, if I went out after dark, she'd call the police.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. What had happened to the liberal, free spirited woman that was my Mother? Mum had had gay friends, worked with gay men - it was never a problem before.

I thought that there wasn't much I could do but obey her commands. The legal age of consent for gay men was twenty one in England and Wales at the time. I was only sixteen. I had visions of being sent to jail, Ray too. I didn't want that.

A couple of weeks went by. I was cracking up inside. Whether Mum could see this or not, I don't know, but she offered me this: "Why don't you ask Ray to come round?"

I had no idea what it was all about and didn't ask through fear that she'd change her mind.

Ray did come round, and , hey-ho, within a few weeks, things were just the way they were before. I went out of an evening. The police weren't called.

Ray and I didn't last. He was a control freak. I had to ask him permission to do everything. I wanted to go to Wales to visit my sister. He said I couldn't go. I went. I came back. He punched me. We split up.

Things were still never right between Mum and I. I had a few boyfriends after Ray. I brought them home with me and Mum was invariably rude to them. She was invariably rude to me.

It was time I left.

I'd been going to a gay youth group in Boscombe. One of the men there knew of a house in Southbourne, shared by some gay men. There was a room going, so I went to have a look. It seemed fine, the other people seemed fine. I took the room.

Mum didn't want me to leave. She cried and cried when I left. I remember seeing her, stood at the door, sobbing, as I drove off with my pal in his wee van with my few bits and pieces. I'd never felt so bad, so guilty in my whole life.

I think I was there for about six months. One of the guys there, Pushkin, seemed to have a thing for me. I was forever getting notes under my door, telling me how much he loved me. He'd leave a bottle of chanpagne at my door or send me flowers. I told him I didn't feel anything for him other than friendship. He didn't get the message. It was time to move on.

I was working at the Post Office in Anchor Road at the time. The two bedroom flat above the PO had just become vacant. I wanted it! Another guy from the gay house-share, Andy, said he wanted to leave as well. I told him about the flat aboue the PO, asked if he wanted to share with me. He jumped at the chance and we took the lease. We had a fortnight to organise it all, get our deposit together, give notice to our current land-lord and arrange the move.

Gosh.

The night before we were due to leave, Pushkin came to see me. He didn't want me to go. He got very upset. I didn't know what to say to make him feel better. I don't think there was anything I could have said, unless I was prepared to lie. I wasn't. Andy came in, drunk. Pushkin began begging me to stay again. Oh dear. Andy got very irate and started trashing the place.

Shit, shit, shit.

The police came, took him away. I never saw him again.

I moved the next day. With only my meagre wage, and not two, I had no idea how I was supposed to pay the rent on my flat and live. I'd have to take a second job. Which I did. I was an attendant at an amusement arcade.

I'd start work at the PO at 08:20 and work through until about 18:00. I'd usually not have time to eat anything before riding my motorbike into the caravan park where the amusement arcade was, somewhere in the wilds of Hampshire. I'd be there until about 01:00 or 02:00 and get home an hour later. Then, up again for my day job at 07:00. I was knackered!

I lived there for about a year. What made me leave? I was working in the PO one morning, just a normal morning. Until the armed robber came in. I don't really want to go into that just now, but, to cut a long story short, I couldn't stay in that flat any longer. I was frightened to death is it was. I mean, the place was haunted. Things moved, there were smells, noises. Just awful. As if that wasn't bad enough, I'd lie there at night thinking someone could be breaking in, take me hostage...

Mum told me to come back and stay with her for a while.

I gave notice on the flat and stayed with Mum.

We had a long chat one evening, and, I guess, that's when I really came out, when she accepted it. She said she was sorry for the way she'd treated me. I apologised for the way I'd treated her. She said she was my Mother and I was her son, she loved me no matter what, unconditionally. She loved me the way I was - but she just didn't know what to do when she knew, for sure, that I was gay. She was frightened.

I'd never been so happy.

It's never been a problem since and she behaves with me now, the way I always expected she would. My sexuality just isn't an issue. It's never really been an issue with me and, touch wood, never has been an issue with anyone else.

So that's how I came out. I still don't really see it as coming out as I've never been in. But there you have it.

Sorry it was so long winded. If you've made it to the end of this dull tale, dear reader, you deserve a medal!