My name is Stephen Sacks and I’m a complete faggot.
Oh, I know, I know, bluntness is discouraged these days and words like that reek of self-loathing but I’m not pussy footing around, tonight I aim for honesty.
I’ll tell you about a revelation I had last week which stoked the embers and relit my passion. I was at an outdoor pool party, held by my sister’s in-laws. A celebration over the fact they had stuck it out for fifty years.
So, there I was, meekly maundering by the barbecue when I became aware of somebody’s nephew, Johnny whatever, wafting by the swimming pool. And as that handsome youth, wearing nothing but tight trunks, beer in hand, talked to another Adonis, dear reader I felt the desire.
As strong as it was when I was fourteen, that age when lust is like a hit of pure cocaine.
Perhaps if you’re a straight male, (lucky you), you can recall your first experience with that reliable substitute for love: pornography. I remember Ian Forbes smuggling a Mayfair into school and we, acne ridden lads gathered around to stare at pages of stark women cupping their mammeries and spreading their fundamentals. The other boys drooled but I was proudly indifferent, after all these johnnies were reduced to crawling on all fours and grunting ape like at the merest hint of T and A which in my opinion was tragically undignified. But alas scarcely a week later when I was killing time in a friend’s house, we snuck into his older brother’s bedroom and my pal lifted up the mattress to show me the secret shame. A magazine.
His brother, I was told was a homo, this beefcake publication being Exhibit A in evidence, but good Moses, when I saw those musclemen with long cocks that put stallions to shame, my own modest package sprung alive and I shook like I had palsy.
Was that ever a wake up! I was queer, gay, a silly little sodomite. I was as lustful and stupid as my fellow boys. I just didn’t sniff the ankles of the feminine crowd.
But coward that I was, besides reading the occasion Men’s Health magazine, I failed to act upon these impulses, I was a celibate out of shame, and encountering Galloping Johnny by the pool that day brought home how much I had missed out on.
Years of a wasted youth, memories never made, adventures never taken, all because I refused to play the game called life. Had I met him twenty years ago and not been the balding fatty that I am, I might have had the courage to chat.
But I didn’t. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a man or woman look at me with devoted eyes and tell me that they love me. I’ve never known what romance feels like.
It’s not fun being queer, not fun at all.
