I ve experimented with a few over the years in the interests of journalistic research, you understand. For all my conscious intentions to remove myself from the objectification game, I still occasionally succumb to the lure of the phone; the possibility that the next delivery could be a deep dish.
Although exotic, it s a fast food menu; wholesome nourishment is not on offer. And yet, of course, the occasional human bean with a story to tell turns up, like a 24-carat nugget in a mountain of Fool s Gold.
His ad interested me because he described himself as bisexual, and he sounded down-to-Earth. I ve come to appreciate bisexuality more recently; primarily because if someone has had a relationship with a woman, there s a better chance that he might value emotions more. This of course is not a rule I would stake my life on, but hell, I ll see the positive in anything these days. It s spring.
We got chatting, and because we live in the same area, I suggested a pint in the evening, with no strings attached. He sounded nervous, and for a while I thought he was going to chicken out, but he rang later to confirm our date, and we met outside the local library.
He had described himself as someone who was neither Tom Cruise or Quasimodo; someone who would blend in with the crowd. I found that a strange thing for anyone to say, evidence of low self-esteem perhaps; but after spending an hour in his company I realised the extent to which my values are coloured by the image-conscious gay scene. He was not being self-deprecatory, he simply didn t set as much store on looks as on personality.
He liked himself, he said. Now, there s a concept. He reminded me of Timothy Spall, the actor in Mike Leigh s Secrets and Lies ; a decent, genial Englishman, unpretentious, kind and direct. And emotionally strong.
painfully shy
We found ourselves in one of the new chain of Irish pubs in Britain called O Neills. I watched it being renovated from scratch a few months ago. With a queasy feeling I saw the Players Please sign being painted on the wall outside, the artificially-dusted faux-antique stout bottles being placed on the window sills, the pine floors and wall panels being stained a smoky oak. The soundtrack is high-decibel ciilm, the toilets are fir agus mna. But if you examine the tables and stools, you discover that it s all premoulded MDF, with designer woodworm and cigarette burns. This is high-quality, mass-produced, franchised Irishness. They trace shamrocks in the Guinness. Authenticity mar dhea.
It was an apt venue to hear his story. Having decided to explore his sexuality, he visited a few gay pubs and clubs, with no joy. He describes himself as painfully shy. He found them full of pretentious, shallow young people, and couldn t connect with anyone.
So he decided he would pay a visit to a group he saw advertised in a newspaper; the Gay Professionals group. He figured that it would be as good a place as any to meet new people, preferably of his own age group. He rang them up, and was told that they happened to be meeting that night, and that they would leave his name at the door.
So Jim mustered up the courage to knock on the door of the club later that evening. He was let in. He got himself a drink, and sat down. There were plenty of men around, all in suits, and they were of all different ages. But he realised that no-one was talking. Halfway through his pint, a man came over to him, and handed him a business card. Jim looked at it, not understanding; it was an ordinary business card, with nothing written on it. He looked up, but before he could say a word, the man had turned on his heels and left the club.
Nonplussed, Jim finished his drink. Then someone else came over, and offered to buy him another. He accepted, and was pleased; this was going to be his first proper conversation with another gay man. The stranger returned with a pint for him, and then to Jim s astonishment, he proffered his business card. Again, before Jim could say anything, he did exactly the same as the first man; he turned and walked out the door of the club.
active guy
Bewildered, Jim sat there for a while, trying to figure out what had just happened. He decided to get out of there. But before he did, someone came over to him. Why did you do that? he was asked.
Did what? said Jim. I didn t do anything.
Exactly, was the reply. Why didn t you follow them out?
It turned out that Jim hadn t read the rules of the club, which were spelt out on a blackboard near the door. Apparently, if someone offered you their business card, it was an invitation to have sex. If they handed it to you face up, it was a signal that they would meet you outside and take you home; if it was face down, you were to follow them into the club s backroom. The person who proffers the card is the active guy, if you accept a card, then you are agreeing to get fucked.
Jim fled. One of the men was still waiting for him outside. Jim explained that he hadn t known about the rules, and apologised for messing him about. He asked him if he could give him a call, seeing as he had given him his card. The guy agreed.
So, the next day, Jim rang him. He told Jim that he was free that lunchtime; that Jim was to get himself ready to get fucked at 1.15. Jim hung up the phone.
As he was telling me this story (and he told it well, revealing a wonderful sense of humour), I was glad to be in the company of someone who was seeing the gay scene for the first time, and reacting with such vigorous incredulity at the coldness and absurdity of it all. I felt immediately less of a maverick.
He can laugh about it now, and probably will dine out on the story for the rest of his life; but it was not lost on me that I was probably the first person in his life he could tell. What is sad is that he s been put off going to any other groups now.
My insistence that not all groups are like that one seemed somewhat forced. In Dublin in the 80s, I d know where to send him to make some new friends; in London in the 90s, madness is in the air.
chilling reason
This gay world has a culture which, wherever possible, conspires to dispose of all traces of personality. Stepford Wives is a reality. The chilling reason why the men of Stepford got rid of their wives and replaced them with brainless, beautiful, erotically supercharged automatons ( Because we can ) is the same reason why clubs like the Gay Professionals exist, with their preposterously contrived conventions designed to eliminate the need to utter even a word of greeting.
In some ways I m not the best person to give Jim advice, because I ve learnt to swim with the sharks; sometimes I m indistinguishable from them on a dark night. He spoke of losing his innocence; of becoming worldly-wise in a few short months in ways he could not have imagined in his previous life.
He has taken refuge in the phonelines to suss out what it s all about, at a safe distance. He s been shaken, disturbed, appalled, bewildered and bemused; and sometimes he s felt exhilarated by what he s heard.
The values of his previous suburban married English life have taken some serious knocks. He s determined not to lose them. But it s going to be tough.
Until he connected with me, he had not met one man who wanted to meet him, to have a chat, without expecting him to drop his trousers in the first minute. He s someone who knows that sex pales into insignificance compared to making love. He wants that for himself, in his new life.
I believe that it s possible; but I have no evidence to back it up.
It s an act of faith. n