What’s the point? What is the fucking POINT?
This afternoon I get my glad rags on, I go out, meet Melanie in town to watch England’s first match in the World Cup, I have fun, so much fun that after it’s all over I decide to visit the gay scene, where I am determined to finally find a man I can be happy with. I’m fed up of celibacy, of being desperate and destitute. I’m not fucking old, I’m 27 years of age for fuck’s sake, yet most of the time I feel about 57, especially when I go to these clubs and look at people who seem so much more capable of having a good time than me. There are so many beautiful men in this world, yet for some reason I don’t feel entitled to a single one of them. I go to these places and I just stand on my own in a corner all night, because if I was to actually approach someone the possibility of being laughed at is too goddamn mortifying to contemplate. Whether I really would be laughed at is a matter for debate, but in my head it practically seems like a certainty. In my head after all these years I am still ugly, skinny, spotty, bespectacled, lanky and completely unlovable. You needn’t bother telling me otherwise because it won’t change my mind.
I spent about five hours in Heaven nightclub tonight, just as I have thousands of times before, and there was one guy there who for a short while might have been interested. I came across him at least five times on the dancefloor, and I caught him looking at me in a more than casual way. Could I do anything about it? No, of course not. As always, the other person is expected to do all the work because I’m too much of a wimp to make a move. I had five opportunities to turn things around for myself tonight, and I missed every one of them. The man in question was just some normal looking person in a club; I thought he looked like quite a nice guy, actually. He seemed shy and unaffected on the dancefloor. Far more desirable than the muscle mary clones in love with their own reflections. Because I had five opportunities with someone who might actually have been good for me, and for the millionth time came home alone at the end of the might, my heart is severely broken right now. I don’t think it can take much more of this. How can someone I’ve never even spoken to break my heart? you might be thinking. Well, this is me we’re talking about. I’m an alcoholic sex and love addict. In spite of how well things have been going for me in the rest of my life, with the career promotions and the increased income, there’s still this one thing that can bring me right down.
The problem with the gay scene, as I’ve written plenty of times in the past, is that we’re all so fucking terrified of each other. Most of us go out in packs for protection; the guy tonight had his sniggering friends around him all night, which really didn’t help matters. So many of us will spend the night dancing just with straight female friends, scaring off any potential male lovers. It’s so disappointing, being blocked and shunned by attractive men because they’re too busy pretending to have fun with their fag hags. They must all feel so miserable and alone. Sue me if you think I’m talking bollocks – I know I’m speaking the truth. Gay men are so damaged as a group, we can’t bear to feel or experience anything real so we do one of two things: either stand alone in a corner all night, utterly abandoned, or pretend to couple up with the token girlfriend who’s only there as protection.
It used to make me so angry, now it just makes me a bit sad. The person I’m really angry with tonight is not that guy who I came close to approaching five times – I’m furious with myself, for letting this happen again. I’ve spent years trying to figure out where I’ve been going wrong, and tonight it finally made sense. If I don’t want to go home alone then I HAVE to make the move. And I absolutely hate that. I don’t want to make a move on anyone, because the risk of rejection is ALWAYS there. I can’t take my mind of that risk for one second because, deep down, I will always believe that I am unattractive. It may be a shallow way of thinking, but it’s what I believe, and it’s ruining my life. I cannot express how serious this is becoming. I was practically in tears all the way home from the nightclub at 3 in the morning; when I crossed the Hungerford Bridge I felt like jumping into the Thames. This belief that I am ugly has eaten so much of my self esteem away over the years that I’m going to very dark places in my mind, places I haven’t been since I was a suicidal, anorexic teenager.
What the hell am I going to do about it? Am I going to keep hurting myself by going to nightclubs on my own, standing on the sidelines for hours on end and doing nothing? Am I going to make a decision not to go to these places any more, accept that I’m never going to be happy and stick to easy, convenient celibacy for the rest of my life? Or am I going to do something different: find someone I like and make an approach, regardless of how scared I am? For twenty-seven years I’ve drifted hopelessly between the first two. Every single man I’ve ever had relations with has chosen me – even the ones who think I chose them, it was really them who chose me – I’ve never made a real choice when it comes to my sex life. I’ve never, ever bitten the bullet and acted like a confident gay man who’s happy with himself. There’ll be people who, if they read this, will roll their eyes and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. There’ll be those who will reassure me that I am not ugly, as I’ve had plenty of guys find me attractive over the years. There’ll be a few who might feel confused, as to why I sound so miserable when the relationships we had seemed so great.
The truth is – and I really can’t be bothered to lie any more – that every relationship I’ve ever been in, no matter how good or healthy or nice, has not made me happy. My relationships have almost exclusively been with much older men, and I just can’t be in relationships like that any more. Sorry if that pisses some older male readers off – I’m not having a go at older men. What I’m saying is that for me, it’s not healthy any more. It’s a fetish, not a spiritual, loving lifestyle choice. The men that scare me the most in this world are young gay men. If recovery is about facing one’s fears then surely, this is where I should be looking. When I was at my lowest point tonight, as I crossed Hungerford Bridge staring at the cold waters of the Thames beneath me, there was a screaming loud voice in my head telling me I don’t deserve to be with anyone of my own age. Where the hell is that idea coming from? All I can say is that recently, it’s struck me that there are two parts to my sexuality. There’s the part that’s interested in older men, who have always been the safe option for me. Then there’s a new part, which funnily enough seems to grow in exact correlation with my gradually increasing confidence levels. It’s that part which likes men of my own age, men who I might have things in common with, men I might be spiritually and emotionally suited to.
The idea of ever approaching one is so mortifying it literally puts the fear of God into me every time I go out. Yet as time slips away from me I become increasingly aware that I don’t have much of a choice. I either start making it known what I really want in life, or I remain alone and disillusioned forever. It’s an extremely important, almost impossible choice to make. Face potential rejection, or eternal celibacy. How on earth do people ever get past that?