Tuesday 10 June 2008 Things which irritate me: being unsettled
Right, so by the time the next entry rolls around, I'll be on leave for 5 weeks with one semester of university under my belt. Not necessarily the best semester ever in the history of ever, mind, but done is done and that's what will count in the end. Cell biology just finished a few minutes ago, Cem on Friday and Physics on Monday, and then... holidays. Some of the other majors have a more spread-out schedule, like Ryan and his mates doing BCom are all still writing for another 11 days after I finish up the semester. This has its advantages with more time to cram subjects between exams, but I'll be glad to get mine done in a week so I can have longer me-time. Not exactly beach weather, being June in the southern hemisphere, but a recharge is a recharge.
Al has been a little scarce since The Incident last week. Not sure if he can tell from his phone that I did get that text after all or he's just grafting -- we all are, I suppose, exam time upon us and etc -- but he's been quieter than usual. Still no closer, then, to knowing whom he was sending the weenie picture to. Actually, I suppose I should probably not call it a weenie, all things considered... not going to say anything else which might incriminate me, but I'm sure you get my drift, eh? Eh? Either way, I think whoever is on the receiving end is going to know about it the next day, that's for damn sure. We're both pretty tall, around the same height, but apparently he got different genes to me in the erect schlong department, so... you know. It's a lottery of sorts, I guess, and I did not win the Powerball.
I hope I'm not the smallest in our group. Yes yes, size doesn't count, blah blah, it's what you do with it, yada yada, good riddance to anyone who would reject you for your cock size which you have no control over, etc etc. But I still really hope it's not average old me.
So I got made at the gym Thursday night by Trevor. What a fuck-up. We're on our way there and we're just shooting the shit. Same old same old. He's bitching about Cecilia, and work -- waiting tables isn't fun; been there, done that, will be doing it again soon enough -- and how the study-from-home programme is very easy to fall behind in without formal classes to keep you on track; the usual chit chat. We get to the gym and head to stash our crap in the locker room, and by now the chat had since progressed on to our high school days and one thing lead to another and he's waxing lyrical about past girlfriends. Seems he was not exactly a wall-flower -- lost his virginity at 14 to an older girl and pretty much didn't stop, and is now well into double figures of women he's had sex with at only 22. And by "well into double figures" I don't mean like 11, it's "I dunno, 30 at least, maybe more. No, wait, definitely more" in his words.
I mean, save some vag for the rest of us, Trevor, there's a good chap! A long-term relationship with Cecilia spanning four years now, and before her sex with 30 different people? Holy fuck. I can't even get bedroom eyes from the old codgers who occasionally cruise here at the gym anymore, and he's knobbed 30 people! Like what am I doing wrong? Am I just like a total uggo and not even slightly fuckable? 30 people, jeebers!
My central processor just brain-farted with that information -- 30 people, Christ on a bike -- and kinda gave itself a ctrl-alt-delete at that point, I was properly thrown. While it's restarting, I'm wondering whether I should be making up a number for safety's sake -- not going to pretend I have a hundred notches on my bedpost because like really who would believe that after meeting me, but perhaps just saying there is at least one will be less mortifying. Still, I'm midway through my reboot while I'm also wondering whether I should volunteer this information or wait for him to ask when he blindsides me, and maybe his weirdly modest behaviour up there suddenly makes sense, because he's asking if I've ever been with a girl or if I knew from a young age already and just started with guys.
Thank G_d we'd got out the locker room by then and were already at the Pec Deck because I'm sure that's not what the patrons in the gym in my bucolic and very conservative neck of the woods want to hear. I'm almost sure you could hear my butthole squeak as it clenched shut in terror when he said it. I'm not entirely sure what my face looked like in response -- shock, offence, disgust, or fear -- because he looked suddenly very wary for a split second before recovering -- "shit, sorry, man, I thought you were gay. My bad," and changed the subject, carrying on like nothing had happened.
Of course I didn't `fess up. So there it was, another golden opportunity which I spurned. I made absolutely sure to not check out any guys, and made even more sure to ogle every set of boobs which jiggled past after that, just to hammer my point home and doing fairly well at it, I thought -- although to be fair, I've thought this all along and clearly... well, from what he's said I suppose the evidence of my skills kinda speaks for itself here, doesn't it? -- while the whole time my heart pounded a war-march in my chest.
How does he know? I thought I passed pretty well given how I dress, talk, act and the media I consume and promote; I'm indistinguishable from Al and Gareth and Ben in that regard. So how the fuck does he know? And if he does, who else does?
This is awkward. On the plus side, because I am really good at immediately seeing all angles of a given situation, if I really don't pass and everyone secretly knows but nobody has had histrionics yet or run me out of town with flaming pitchforks... does that mean I have nothing to worry about when I own up to it? That's a silver lining I'll take any day of the week, and what happy days they will be.
But... the cold-hearted, evidence-driven and more rational part of me doesn't think that's the case, because if it is pretty obvious then why is nobody gently encouraging me to come out through random asides for me to read between the lines? I've wracked my brain, I honestly can't think of any time in recent years where anyone has said anything positive or at least completely neutral about it, like "you know what, I would be absolutely fine with it if one of us was gay" from the guys, or something similar from my parents. Don't get me wrong, nobody seems super-anti, but nobody is gently pretty pro about it, either, nor obviously realising they really kinda need to be.
Looking back on this now as I write the entry, I realise I didn't actually deny it when Trevor said it. I didn't say anything; my face seems to have done all the talking. So at least when I do come clean, if I do, I don't have to apologise for lying or anything. That's a very small plus, I guess.
But how the fuck does he know?
The session finishes, we get cleaned up -- still no view of anything he has; although now perhaps I understand why he lets nothing get seen -- and we head home, still chinning about nothing in particular. We get to his driveway, chat another minute or two, and then I say cheers and as I start to head back across the garden to our place he stops me.
"Hey Charley, I'm sorry about earlier. But you know, if you were a homo it really wouldn't bug me, hey, like nothing would change between us. We all have our own paths to follow, no judgements." There it is, exactly what I wanted to hear earlier. A bit of a surprise -- he strikes me as someone who will unironically tell you he's an Alpha male and I didn't think they were that progressive usually -- but there it was: acceptance; earnest, sincere, unforced, and with conditions perfectly ripe and just waiting for me to take up my role as the protagonist and recline on the padded cushion he's set up for me to step out of the closet onto.
So of course I did what any reasonable, logical guy my age would do: I laughed it off, with a smartarse remark about him getting his gaydar repaired and, with drums sounding in my head, watched a second golden opportunity float off on the stiff breeze, wasted and unused, for the second time in the last hour. I've read that the first step in coming out is coming out to yourself, and I'm wondering if maybe I haven't done that properly which is why I keep fucking out on the next step. I'm a little lost, a lot lost, and I don't really know where to find that bit of fortitude I need to move things along.
What if I don't get this right and I'm still paralysed with fear in twenty years' time, or more? At this point I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared about that, big time.
And still, most critically and infinitely more scary, how the fuck does he know?
-C