As some of you know I am taken with gays. Not lesbians. Lesbians will wink at me and then run. Which is good. Because it saves me from running in the opposite direction. Yes, guys (not gays) there is one of your fantasies crushed.
The first gay, known to me, was a hairdresser. That’s what’s expected of gays. They dress hair. And they do. My boyfriend (living abroad) was dead jealous of Peter, the gay, gorgeous as they come (tall, slender, blond with lined eyelashes). In return Peter hated my boyfriend – in a sort of militant way one doesn’t normally associate with gays. Yes, Peter and I were good. I went down with a fever, close to death’s door, Christmas Eve 1978. Peter took care of me. Unselfish. Kind.
When we went to nightclubs our combined beauty bounced off each other. He was not so gay as not to pass as my boyfriend which saved me a lot of hassle.
Our appartments were next to each other. We shared a wall. With our respective beds on either side of it. Which meant that, in the middle of the night, he’d send me little knocks on the wall, Morse code. A bit like texting nowadays. Only louder. And more reassuring. Though his cat was pretty neurotic: As Burmese with cabin fever are. His boyfriend a fully leather clad complete with motorbike policeman. Thus I was initiated into a world I knew nothing about, still don’t. Then I moved country. I dearly hope Peter didn’t fall prey to the Eighties’ disease. He was such a sweet gentle man, a good friend.
As to GG. Well, I have been there, done that, enjoyed it immensely whilst it lasted for a delicious three years, didn’t get the fucking T shirt – and now I am a damaged case.
John, with his pig, his chickens, his dogs, came along just in time, slowly restoring my faith in gay manhood
As I have confirmed, over at John’s, the Angel thinks my gaydar non existent. True. What’s it to me what you do in the privacy of your own sheets. My longest standing friend, not known for mincing words, and in an attempt to cure me of GG, said the most foul he could come up with on homosexual men. As did my brother. Where did they learn all this stuff? Think toilets and Hampstead Heath and you’ll get the idea. Well, I love my brother and that macho of machoest friend of mine, so – in an act of self defence and as not to whip their friendships out of shape – I no longer mention GG. Not even to the Angel.
One of the funniest comments ever, on the subject of homosexuality, was when, last year, the Angel came home and, relating the happenings of the previous evening, remarked that one of the host’s friends was SO gay “even the girls found it a bit much”. Is that brilliant? Or is that brilliant? Let me know.