I Used to Say My Mother Was Shirley Bassey (20 page)

Didn't sex used to be a much simpler thing? You weren't supposed to have sex in case you got pregnant and then the rules were: you got married, got pregnant, then never wanted to have sex again. There is a poem by a bespectacled guy called Philip Larkin that says something like ‘Sexual intercourse began in 1963 . . . between the end of the
Chatterley
ban and Beatles' first LP'. If you look at his picture then you can see why he was having trouble with the ladies, but, in any case, if he is to be believed, the whole sexualization of our society didn't even begin until the Beatles released their first album and kick-started the whole thing. That's a pretty impressive claim for the original boy band.

Then again some people say that the whole ‘no sex before marriage' thing was invented by Christianity, which suggests that before that everyone was at it like rabbits as soon as they knew their times tables. If they even had times tables back then. The only thing I'm certain of is they definitely didn't have T-shirts with the words ‘Porn Star' on them. See what I mean? Confusing.

Then there is the question of which side of the fence you fall on. Or to put it another way, who do you fall on? When I was growing up you were either normal or queer. With lesbians slotting into the gay category and bisexuals being, well, picky, picky, picky. These days there are an array of confusing new terms. OK? Get ready. Here we go . . .

Metrosexuality, which is presumably bumpy sex for exhibitionists on the Underground. Polysexuality, which, I guess, is sex at a second-rate university. Androgyny, which must be sex with a robot. Hopefully, a robot more like Kryten from
Red Dwarf
than a Dalek whose only mission, as we all know, is to exterminate. Then there's ‘asexuality'! Even I had to look that one up. Is it like having a headache? Every night of the week? All your life? . . . By choice?! At least that's according to the online ‘urban dictionary' that I use for all my vocabulary needs. I recommend it if you really want to be street-wise . . . and have no friends.

For example, the Grammy and Brit award-winning and very talented singer Adele released a song called ‘Chasing Pavements'. I had no idea what she was talking about. Was I not hip enough to know this new slang term? Look it up in said ‘urban dictionary' if you want to find out. Just make sure your mum is not in the room when you do it.

When it comes to sexuality, I believe you simply don't get a choice about whether you're gay or straight – sorry crazy fundamentalists of any religious order, but you just don't. Maybe you guys should just all get together and have a good old fundamentalist gay-bashing tea party. You could create a new state of hate right next to the attractive tourist destinations of Syria and Saudi Arabia: you could call it Homophobia. You could bill it to Thomas Cook as the destination of choice for sun, sea and NO SEX.

The argument of nature versus nurture just doesn't carry any weight when you're born one of seven kids. We were all treated exactly the same, born and raised in a semi-Christian household. ‘God didn't make Adam and Steve, he made Adam and Eve!' Yeah, I've heard that one and, just for the record, he didn't make Adam and Eve either. Or for that matter AIDS, cholera, cancer, war and famine. If there is a God he's got the ‘Back in 5 minutes' sign up and he's having a cigarette round the back of the universe.

This attitude is why today we have to fight for rights and equality. But sometimes it can be a bit confusing. There are the LGB rights – that's Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual rights. Yes, my brothers and sisters and those still making up their minds! Fight for your rights to express yourself. Wear heels at Gay Pride while trailing a dirty feather boa, clutching a can of strong lager, and screeching ‘I am what I am'. But now you have LGBTIQ rights. That's Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Transgender-Intersexed-Questioning rights. Wow! That's a mouthful. Now I'm down with the transgender and intersexed rights but ‘Questioning'? Really? I'm not even sure what that is. Aren't we all questioning? Come on, make up your minds already! Surely, there are now more than enough options for you to choose from.

After all these years of separating everyone out into lots of different kinds of categories, when you actually go out clubbing on the gay scene it's more diverse than ever, with straight boys and girls in attendance too. The only problem is trying to figure out who to hit on. It's times like these that I feel for the ‘Questioners' who must just spend the whole evening wondering, Where am I? Who am I? Beer or wine? Do I fancy that person? Do I even like Kylie Minogue?

This is not the way it has always been, I can tell you. Gay clubs of old were not the welcoming places that they are now. The bouncers used to stop you at the door and enquire: Are you gay? Are you sure? Let me see your shoes. Doc Martins? OK. I loved going straight clubbing for years; even though they had dodgy-looking blokes on the door and fights outside, they were actually less intimidating than gay clubs. The thought of going into a gay club filled me with dread so it's not surprising that I put it off until I was in my twenties.

I decided to go to the Astoria, which was one of the biggest and most famous venues in London. It was fantastic and most major pop stars, like Boy George and Duran Duran, would play there all the time. The London Astoria used to be on Charing Cross Road until it was demolished in 2009 to make way for the Olympics Cross Rail project. They barely gave any notice at all and so there wasn't any time to launch a campaign to save this bastion of London's clubbing culture. That was a crime and helped to see Charing Cross Road go from being one of the hottest streets of the nineties, filled with a weird mixture of prostitutes, petty drug dealers, world-leading theatres and artisan bookshops, into the soulless avenue of despair it seems to have now become. Just like they cleaned up Broadway in New York. Shame on them.

That first time I will never forget; it was an experience. I didn't go straight in. I walked around the block seven or eight times, head down in case anyone recognized me, until I worked up the courage to join the queue. Even the queue was a sight to see. There were lot of Mods dressed in tight-fitting tailored suits and Rocker types with T-shirts and jeans full of holes (and faces full of holes). Of course there were six-foot drag queens in scary amounts of makeup, but they were the ones on the door taking your money. I crossed the threshold and there was no going back. Well, not without losing my ten quid entrance fee.

The main dance arena catered to the tight T-shirt brigade who liked to chew the inside of their faces. For quite a few years I wondered why everyone had the same glazed expression while they danced. Call me naive but I genuinely thought they were in a trance. Back then people weren't just shouting out ‘Acid!' and sporting a smiley face sticker or whistle – they were clearly ‘on it' in another direction. There must have been three thousand people there that night. The music was thumping and vibrating throughout my whole body. Through the blinding light show, I could see a bewildering mixture of people. There were black guys, white guys, old and young, fat and fit. Slowly my stomach unknotted itself because here I was in a room filled with like-minded people, gay people, just simply having fun. Nevertheless, I got a drink and stood in a dark corner for at least two hours.

I was alone, but I was fascinated by what I was seeing. Guys kissing, girls holding hands, guys in drag. I was paranoid that I would be spotted in there by someone and be outed to my friends and family. It didn't even occur to me to question the reason why anyone I knew would be there in the first place. I didn't know any gay people. I thought. I got another drink from the bar and a portly gentleman of about forty-five approached me. My first impression was, Oh dear. You could be my dad. But obviously not; he was a white chap. He asked quite politely, ‘Would you like a drink?' It seemed very generous as I had just bought one. But at least he was someone to talk to. We were chatting away and then out of the blue he said, ‘I really fancy black boys.' I was taken aback. So in his eyes I was a ‘black boy'. He didn't even know me. So I said, ‘So do I.' End of conversation – he walked away.

I decided to explore the rest of the club and found an upstairs bar. Across the floor, I spotted a Latino-looking guy who was a similar age and build to me. I was smitten, but I didn't know what to do. I thought maybe I'd go for the tactic I'd just learned and offer to buy him a drink (with no mention of his race). I went up to him and said, ‘Do you want a beer?' He nodded. Wow! The next thing you know we were having a conversation of sorts. It was difficult trying to have a conversation with the loud thumping music all around us. We were screaming at the top of our lungs and I couldn't understand a word. I thought he might be foreign.

After a bit of ‘Pardon?' 'Excuse me?' he motioned to the barman for a pen and began writing me little notes on the back of a beer mat. Good thinking, I thought. It made sense.

‘Hi. I'm Ethan!' he wrote.

‘I'm Stephen. Where are you from?'

‘I'm Canadian.' After a lot of toing and froing, I was relieved when he eventually wrote back to me: ‘Do you want to get out of here?' A nod and we were out on the street.

I said, ‘Phew. It was a bit loud in there.'

He opened his mouth and said something that I didn't understand at all. I was puzzled. My face must have changed instantly. He looked totally crestfallen and pointed to his ear where a hearing aid nestled unobtrusively. So. He was deaf. Obviously profoundly deaf. No wonder our conversation inside had been so difficult. I quickly reordered my thoughts. His disability was no reason to fob him off and I also remembered that he was totally fit.

He kissed me then and there and grabbed my hand to lead me away from the club. I followed, not really sure of what was going to happen next. He led me not far away to another gay bar in the heart of Soho called Signal, long since closed for the night. He produced a set of keys. Whatever else this guy was he was obviously well connected.

I followed him up three flights of stairs to a really plush apartment. Wow! What a result! I thought I'd landed on my feet. He could read my lips perfectly and although he spoke like someone who had been deaf from birth I could understand what he was saying. Pretty much. Even so it was definitely me who was dominating the conversation. Eventually, he held his finger to my lips to shut me up and things started heating up. Just when it was going past the point of no return, a strange person emerged angrily from a side room and stomped up to us. I was utterly shocked and more than a little bit embarrassed.

His hands were blazing in a flurry of sign language as he shrieked aloud for my benefit, ‘I didn't say you could have friends here!' With not a look in my direction. ‘And it's not all right! There are no parties here! Get him out!' He hadn't acknowledged me at all and poor Ethan, a grown man, looked utterly gutted and embarrassed, as if he'd come head to head with an extremely angry version of Joan Collins in her ‘Alexis' phase. It was in fact as if Joan herself had burst in on the scene to have a full-on cat fight with arch rival ‘Krystle Carrington' ready to pounce on her and start grappling with her curls and shoulder pads. Joan spun on her heels having thoroughly ruined everything and without much else to say (he was deaf) Ethan sadly took my hand again but this time he led me to the door.

As Ethan was walking ahead of me, I decided to at least manage a brief shout of ‘You haven't got to be such a cunt about it! Dickless motherfucker!' as loud as I could, confident that Ethan wouldn't have heard me. Ethan led me back downstairs, but halfway down he turned to me smiling and let me know that he'd ‘heard' what I said. I don't understand sign language but I understood exactly what he was trying to say as he pointed to his ear, then to his lips, and then, as if he was scooping the ‘fuck you' out of his mouth with an expansive gesture, he did the two finger sign to the ceiling – to his housemate. He put both of his hands to his ears and then to the walls and started to shake them as if with the vibration of the curse I'd shouted before smiling at me again.

We both burst out laughing, me in my normal way, but his laugh was different. For starters it was much louder than mine and it was totally . . . wild? It was the laugh of someone who'd never heard themselves laughing and so he was completely unembarrassed by the involuntary reaction of laughter. I'm sure that if he lived to be a hundred he'd never hold his hand up to his mouth or try to stifle a giggle or guffaw no matter the circumstances. That natural laugh was so real. To be honest, we didn't get to have sex, but we kissed again there in the stairwell. Maybe it wasn't the most romantic of places but, for starters, it suited me fine.

Afterwards, we just said goodbye and I went back onto the densely populated streets of Soho with all its loudness and flashing multicoloured lights. It was completely disorientating for me. It was like I had been deaf myself and could now hear the cacophony of life all around me. I had one of those cheesy grins on my face that you see on people every now and again. The kind that says I'm really happy. If I think about it I can't even remember the name of the first guy I eventually got down and dirty with but I remember Ethan, the first guy I kissed.

W
ITH THE ADVENT OF
Facebook, MySpace and Twitter, not only has communication shrunk, but the whole world seems to have got smaller. Now, speaking with people has been reduced to a set of annoying anagrams. LOL – ‘laugh out loud'. ROFLAST – ‘Rolling on the floor laughing and still typing' (to me it sounds like a nasty bacterial infection as well). Or annoying emoticons like:

;*$ – I've just been punched in the nose.

<3 – What does this one even mean? That I want to kiss you with my massive pucker? That I've got enormous tits? Or an integer that is less than the third prime number? (In the end I got my C in maths A level – back when Cs were hard to get!)