Forgive me if I ramble. I m in quite a state. For the first time in a long time, I woke up remembering a dream. It was quite vivid, and very sensual. In fact, it was a sex dream.
This is not the usual subject matter of my dreams. In the past, my psyche never needed to knock on my door and remind me about sex. But things being the way they are now, evidently it decided that those joints need oiling.
Last night my psyche enacted, in glorious Technicolour Sensurround, a live-action steamy sex romp. It was a pleasure to wake up to. But when I tried to focus in on who had been my dream partner, my bewilderment grew. He was old enough to be my father. He was thin and very pale-skinned, with freckles and greying ginger hair. He was small. He was circumcised. He was balding. He wore glasses.
He was Woody Allen.
What surprises me most about this is that I enjoyed it. He was very soft and earnest and persuasive. I won t bore you with the details, but he had a way of making me feel good inside.
Whatever about the bizarreness of the fact that it was Woody, it is also interesting to me in that he s one of the most publicly heterosexual men in the world. One couldn t imagine a more determinedly heterosexual body of work than his films. In his fictional, filmic New York, gay men rarely, if ever, feature. It seems to be beyond his consciousness. Or perhaps it s bubbling under, and all his fevered neuroses are simply the result of the fact that he s a closet case.
I don t believe that for one second, of course. Just thought I d see what it looked like in print.
the beauty myth
The most common fear, if there is one, among heterosexual men when the topic of homosexuality arises, is that some man might fancy them, might make a pass. It is probably true that what really frightens them is that they might enjoy it, that they might respond, and they d rather not go down that road.
Fair enough. But the fact is I don t find heterosexual men attractive. Once I know that they re only interested in women, something in me switches off, and I then find it very easy to be in their company, and vice versa.
I have said before how much I value my heterosexual male friends; it is probably because of this inner switch that it is possible for me to get so close. Now this is not a warning to those men to start watching their backs and prepare to be flirted with. But I m wondering why I m so well-trained in keeping my desires hidden, even from myself. Beauty, after all, is in the eye of the beholder. A beautiful man should, surely, be beautiful in my eyes irrespective of whether my appreciation is requited or not. Perhaps it s the mark of just how narcissistic I am that I won t waste my energy barking up the wrong tree. But what if it s not about self-preservation, but about shame? Caution seems to be a good motive; too often one can get burnt by falling for people who don t, or can t, love you back. But shame is another matter. If I m ashamed of finding a man beautiful, and I keep it secret, then what good is that? Why do I go to great lengths to prevent heterosexual men from finding out that I find them attractive? Why do I protect their feelings, instead of mine?
homosexual panic
Of course, the real fear then pops up, the one that is common among gay men. Heterosexual men have been known to get quite abusive when a man makes a pass at them. There is even the obnoxious legal terminology of homosexual panic which has been used as a defence by some men accused of murder. They have claimed that their fear of homosexuality, when faced with an allegedly unwanted sexual advance from a man, has caused them to lose control of their actions, and is grounds for mitigation, even acquittal, on the grounds of diminished responsibility or temporary insanity. It s tantamount to a licence to kill gay men under some circumstances. But that s nothing new. Remember Declan Flynn.
Ahem. My bitterness is showing.
Perhaps my shenanigans with Woody last night are simply a reminder that looks aren t the point, that the most surprising people can be highly sexual. As Les Dawson revealed on Desert Island Discs, recorded just before he died a few years ago, his way of courting was to laugh women into bed. It worked for him, he said.
I believe him. Did you hear the one about . . .? n