My Big Fat Gay Life (2 page)

Deciding I didn’t need to shave for work today, I hooked my bluetooth headset over my ear as I dressed. Speaking aloud for the headset, I said “Phone Ruth”

“Give me details on this guy!” I gushed with exaggerated excitement after Ruth had answered her phone.

“Oh my Gosh!” she gushed in return. “His name’s Brent and he’s a teller at my bank. He’s so hot! I think you’ll really like him.”

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Twenty-five,” she answered, making me cringe. “I know it’s young, but he’s so mature for his age!”

I’m not an ageist, and I’m not looking for a man in a certain restrictive age range, however I’ve found over the years that people younger than me tend to be too immature. The problem with this is that, as I get older, all the good men have already been snapped up.

After Ruth supplied all the details I needed for the blind date, I placed Cujo’s actual collar and leash on him and took him for a walk, then left my apartment for the thirty-minute walk to work.

* * *

With parents who are both psychiatrists, it was inevitable that I would land in the same profession. I’d tried to rebel in my early 20’s, and struck out on my own as an artist. I love to create grand art installations, and even managed to sell a few pieces. Most of my creations, however, are dotted around my apartment, with a few at Patricia and Donovan’s home, and a few at Justin’s. Eventually I caved in to Patricia’s constant sniping and went to university for my qualifications in psychiatry as a backup career option. The backup career, however, became the primary career, and my artistic aspirations have become a casualty of the war between my parents and myself.

I reconciled this change in career within myself as a different art form. Psychiatry is an art - which I‘m good at - that helps far more people than a piece of abstract sculpture does. After receiving my qualifications I joined the family practice, however the people I was helping did not leave me feeling satisfied with my career.

Six months ago I left the family practice and took a very low paying position at the Rainbow’s End gay outreach centre in Manchester. I’d lost my tolerance for the pampered paying clients I dealt with in private practice, and decided to use my skills to help people that actually need real help.

Don’t get the wrong idea: the wealthy pampered wives and the neurotic gay men I usually dealt with in private practice had legitimate concerns and problems, however I’m not the person to help them through their issues. When I reached the point of wanting to elbow them in the head instead of patiently listening to them, I knew it was time for a change.

Kleptomania is a real disease, so my intolerance for the pampered wives who are suffering from kleptomania is inexcusable. However, there are only a set number of times you can advise someone to try and seek attention in more positive and constructive ways before you snap. The same applies to the concerns of aging gay men who believe they’re losing their looks and are worried they have to rely solely on their personality and money to attract the hottest, youngest guys. Fortunately, I didn’t have a lot of repeat business with gay men: they tend to think my approach of ‘it should have always been just about your personality’ is just too extreme.

My clients at Rainbow’s End are mostly gay youths who’ve had trouble coming out to their families. Some have actually come out, received bad reactions, and been kicked out of the family home; others are too scared to come out and left the family home voluntarily. In either case, the end result is the same: they end up on the streets, homeless, addicted to drugs, and selling their bodies.

My focus in the counselling sessions is always the same - try to re-unite the family unit and help all concerned through a very difficult process. This usually involves individual counselling sessions with the youth, the youth’s parents, and other family members. Once I feel all the individuals are ready, I start family counselling with all members of the family present at the same time. At Rainbow’s End we have a good success rate, with most youths returning to an accepting and loving home.

Quentin, my friend and supervisor, knocked on my doorframe. “Morning,” he said after I looked up from my notes. “Can you please do an in-take session? I have an appointment and can’t handle this one.”

“Sure”, I replied. I found the prospect a bit daunting, as I’d never handled an in-take before. I normally take over the clients once they’d been vetted and established in the halfway house dorms. “What time?” I asked Quentin.

“Now,” Quentin answered, standing aside to reveal a pale youth standing behind him. He motioned for the youth to enter my office. “Frank, this is Sebastian. He’ll take good care of you.”

Quentin shut my office door and left Frank standing just inside my office. I motioned for Frank to have a seat, and came out from behind my desk to take the seat opposite him.

‘Frank’ was obviously here against his will. To receive assistance from Rainbow’s End, new clients are required to attend an in-take session. ‘Frank’ obviously felt uncomfortable supplying his real name, and his aggressive, defensive body language spoke volumes, as did his arms - which were lined with track marks - and his pathetically skinny physique.

“Hi Frank, my name is Sebastian Parker, but you can call me Seb. Why are you here?’ I asked him, assuming a voice remarkably like Donovan’s counselling voice.

“The receptionist said I had to,” he replied gruffly, trying to sink into the couch whilst staring out the window.

“No, I mean why did you come to Rainbow’s End in the first place?”

“Dunno.”

“Are you just after money, or do you want some long term assistance?” I enquired.

“Dunno.”

“Well let me tell you a little about the assistance we offer. We have a halfway house to help you get back on your feet, and we offer extensive individual and family counselling to help you reconcile the conflicting aspects of your life. Do you think you’d like to participate in any of those programs?”

“I guess it’d be nice to sleep in a bed,” Frank said, looking directly at me for the first time.

“We have very strict rules at the halfway house. The main one is absolutely no drugs. Do you think you can abide by that?”

Frank squirmed in his seat and wrapped his arms around himself. He was distracted and obviously already in the early stages of withdrawal. “I’d like to try,” he said softly.

* * *

Lunch with Kento was always an entertaining experience for me, whether he intended it to be that way or not. Kento is my best gay friend, and probably the only one I have. We had a quick fling when we first met - all those years ago - but it quickly became apparent that we just weren’t compatible on a relationship level. However, we clicked as friends and have maintained a good friendship for many years. We have our fights and reconciliations, but it’s a testament to our friendship that we always patch things up eventually.

Kento is a typical muscle mary, with bulging gym muscles and no real fitness, strength, or stamina. He claims that he likes to work out to keep ‘healthy’, and I always accept that gracefully, with a nod of my head, despite the fact that he obviously just likes to look good. We all suffer from self-delusion occasionally, and despite his tendency to think he’s perfect and his constant attempts to change everyone to be just like him, he has a good heart and likes to help people.

We met at a sushi bar, and he squealed when he saw me walk in.

“Over here!” he screamed as he stood up and waved. I waved and smiled in return, then steeled myself for the next few minutes. I learned many years ago that it’s far easier to just let Kento work through his brief period of self-absorption at the start of every lunch, rather than try and interrupt it.

“Oh my god!” he started without preamble. “I met the most amazing guy! He’s so hot and has an enormous cock...”

I nodded and smiled politely for a few minutes as he recounted the meeting and initial sex with his new man. Inevitably, the first few minutes of all our lunches were dedicated to talking either about his latest man, or how he was so glad that the previous one was gone because ‘how could he do that to me?’

Eventually he’d run through the gamut of his usual rants and we were able to settle down into a two-way conversation.

“How’s your mum doing these days?” I asked. Kento’s mother was undergoing a second course of chemotherapy for breast cancer.

“She’s in good spirits, but it’s too early to tell if the chemo’s working or not,” Kento said. “She’s a fighter and has a positive attitude, so she’ll be fine. The chemo knocks her around for a few days. How are Donovan and Patricia?”

“They’re fine,” I answered. “Patricia put my leather cockring on Cujo this morning, assuming it was a collar I suppose. I don’t know if I should point out her mistake to her or not.”

Kento laughed his big booming laugh, and we had a fun and enjoyable lunch. We’re very different people, but we enjoy each other’s company and complement each other well. He’s my gateway into the gay world, and I’m a refreshing change of pace for him from the scene queens he usually associates with.

* * *

As per Ruth’s instructions, I dressed myself in a close-fitting shirt that emphasised my chest, and tight jeans that showcased my arse and bulge. I always feel like mutton dressed as lamb when I dress this way, but since none of my blind dates have actually vomited at the sight of me, I have to take Ruth’s word for it that I look good. I walked into Cube at 8pm, punctual as always, and ordered a glass of white wine at the bar while I waited for Brent. He arrived twenty minutes late, as was the fashion with queens these days.

Dinner was a disaster. Brent introduced himself while staring at my bulge, and I was glad to be shown to our table so that we were seated with a table between us, forcing him to look me in the eye. Apparently my eyes have moved down to my pecs, though, as that’s where he decided to fix his attention throughout dinner.

Brent ordered tofu and salad, and tsk-tsk’ed my choice of steak with mashed potatoes and veges.

Brent said, “I have a BMW 700 series”, but I heard, “I’m a pretentious queen.”

“I don’t have a car,” I stated.

Brent said “I earn £80,000 a year,” but I heard, “I’m a pretentious queen.”

I nodded.

For dessert, Brent ordered the banoffee pie. I declined dessert, despite Brent applying some pressure for me to order something as well - presumably to assuage his own guilt. After I declined dessert more forcibly, the conversation turned to plans after dinner.

“Do you like poppers?” he asked?

“Sure,” I replied non-committally.

“Are you top or bottom? I asked Ruth but she didn’t know.”

“Yes…” I answered, somewhat vaguely.

“Err OK. Do you like it vanilla or a bit different?”

In reply to this I stood up, placed my share of the dinner bill on the table, thanked Brent very nicely for a lovely dinner, and left as briskly as I could without actually running.

* * *

After leaving Cube, I phoned Ruth and discovered that she and Justin were at the Misfits coffee shop. I arrived there shortly after and observed them for a minute through the front window. They were obviously in love, and were laughing at some joke. It always gives me a thrill to see Ruth out in public after so many years of suffering debilitating agoraphobia. I entered the coffee shop, and they looked up and smiled when they saw I’d arrived.

“That was a complete disaster,” I said to Ruth as I kissed her on the cheek.

“He wasn’t your type?” Justin asked as I kissed him on the forehead. He’d gotten used to my public displays of affection many years ago, and no longer felt the slightest bit uncomfortable when I kissed him.

“Nope. He seemed to be ashamed of the truth, and it felt like every word out of his mouth was a lie. How does a bank teller earn £80,000 a year and afford a BMW 700 series? I’m sure there’s a nice guy in there somewhere, but I don’t have the time or energy to devote to assuring him that I’d be fine dating the real him, and not some fancy version of him that he’s invented. How long can a relationship last when it’s built on lies? What would’ve happened if I’d wanted to go for a drive in his fancy car?”

Realising I was ranting, I stopped and smiled. “Sorry,” I said. “I just want a nice, genuine guy who’s happy with himself and his life.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Ruth said. “If I’d known he had issues about being a lowly bank teller, I never would’ve set you up with him. I thought he’d at least be good for a shag, though!”

“I had my shag for the month last night. His name was Bruce. He was a bit weird, but nice enough.”

Justin laughed at the memory of having to help me get rid of Bruce. Then he grabbed Ruth’s hands in his and said to her, “Should we tell him?”

Ruth beamed and nodded enthusiastically.

“We’re pregnant!” Justin exclaimed.

“Stupid woman!” I muttered to myself as I started to clean Sebastian’s apartment. Why do mothers have this urge to continue looking after their young, even after they’ve left the nest?

I’d discovered that it was easier to clean his apartment in the mornings when he’s out playing squash with Justin: that way I didn’t have to do the thorough job I would have felt obliged to do if he were here watching me. I also didn’t have to put up with his constant complaints that I don’t have to clean up after him, as he’s capable of cleaning up after himself. Truth be told, he was more than capable. Apart from some dusting, some dirty dishes, and the occasional load of laundry there was rarely anything of significance for me to do.