Confession #2 – So sometimes I feel really gay

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I’ve always been an effeminate guy and having grown up in a very, very conservative society that has never been viewed kindly. Not that effeminate guys are treated with anything less than some form of ridicule throughout their schooling. I’d say on the whole, I developed an astonishingly thick skin to most haters I went to school with.

But somewhere along the way, being told over and over again that I’m ‘gay’, it really struck a chord with me. I was maybe 13 or 14 when a guy in my class called me that for the first time. Ever since then, it spread like wildfire. I have particularly fond memories of the ‘untouchable’ game that kids in school played whereby if they accidentally bumped into me, they’d be infected by my ‘gayness’. So every kid in my class and my year would go to great lengths to give me a wide berth at all times. I know, kids are great! (But there was a silver lining – I rarely got trampled over when the recess bell rang!)

In truth though, I was probably sixteen when I first started questioning my sexuality. My only real knowledge of what being ‘gay’ meant was through pop culture. The first time I ever felt that being ‘gay’ was okay and not a big deal was when I was watching Friends and Ross’ ex-wife Carol left him for another woman. The show gave us insights into the home life of a gay couple, and in those rare episodes, Carol and Susan’s home and family dynamic seemed eerily normal.

Then Glee happened.

I was seventeen and a Senior in high school when the first season of Glee came out. It was a phenomenon! Everyone was obsessed. As a theatre fanatic and drama club staple (yes, remember? Effeminate?), Glee was about as close to a TV orgasm as I was ever going to get. Or more specifically, Kurt Hummel signaled a change.

Pre-Glee, all I’d ever done was watch some gay porn quietly and stare awkwardly at what those incredibly good looking men were doing. I’ve always been fascinated by good looking men. My eye always travels to them, even if there was a supermodel beside them in her knickers. To be honest? I always felt intense shame and guilt after watching porn – gay or straight. But that’s another can of worms isn’t it? Let’s leave it aside for now.

Pre-Glee I was confused, ashamed and most of all, scared out of my mind. After Kurt Hummel appeared on my computer screen (because who seriously watches TV on TV anymore, anyway?), my worldview shifted. Kurt was every bit a flamboyant diva as I’d always been told would be derided by the world. Yet Kurt was proud. He wasn’t weak despite having some traditionally effeminate qualities that are often associated with being weak. He was a strong young man with a good head on his shoulders and dealing with all the complications and craziness that I was going through in my own life.

Post-Glee Season 1, I was no longer scared. And it was good timing to boot! I was officially at university – free from the shackles and confines of my mundane existence at home. Independent. I could officially go looking for a hot guy and see what the ‘gay scene’ was all about.

Turns out, enthusiasm can’t quite overshadow the overwhelming fear that an eighteen-year-old non-white kid faces when confronted with the ‘gay scene’ without a six pack. There was a lot of rejection.

Then, there was him. What was his name? I honestly don’t remember. What I do remember is that he was tall, had blue eyes, an Australian accent and a very impressive dick. Thus occurred my first gay experience.

Now thus far, I wasn’t a totally inexperienced fool. I had fooled around with two girls before and sort of enjoyed it. But this, this would be the mecca. This would help me find that piece of my sexuality that I never quite found with a woman.

So I sucked that dick with enthusiasm that was more forced than I care to admit.

Curiously, penis tastes like nothing. You know, like licking skin – there’s a velvety texture, but no actual flavour of any kind. I don’t know why that surprised me, but it did.

Here’s another thing I learnt – cum tastes fucking awful.

Anyhow, cute Australian guy had his pants up and was out the door before I could muster up so much as a ‘how was it’.

So I didn’t enjoy myself…so what? First times are always a bit messy, right? Right? Clearly, there’s something I’m missing.

For the next few years that I was at university, I went onto have intimate encounters with multiple men – four of whom were paid. Yeah, I paid for sex. While getting attention from the brawnier gay men was always challenging for me, I never quite exactly had a dearth of offers. I chose to pay for sex, because I thought that if I was in more control of the encounter, I’d like it more. That didn’t quite work out at all. During these encounters, I found myself fumbling, nervous, unsure and even more awkward than usual because now I wanted my money’s worth and yet, I really didn’t.

Not once have I enjoyed myself with another man. Not once. Through all my multiple encounters, I still remain a virgin – by choice. The thought of putting my dick in a guy’s arse or vice versa is icky to me.

In these years, I also had encounters with two women (neither paid for, I should add). One as a semi-serious date with whom things didn’t quite pan out as I’d anticipated they wouldn’t. The other as a random hookup. Both were exciting. Getting and maintaining an erection whilst with them was not hard (no pun intended). I didn’t have penetrative sex with either of them. But I could have had I wanted to. I didn’t feel ready though. Not with this maelstrom of complex and confusing emotions waging war inside of me.

Through all these experiences what I found definitively was only one thing: I enjoy, enjoy snogging women; men, not so much.

Yet if you asked me to name a female pornstar, it will take me a few seconds to get to maybe 5 or 6 at best. If you asked me to name a male pornstar, I could rattle off 10 names easily in a single breath. I’m obsessed with the male body and yet when I dream of marriage and sharing my life with someone, only a nice, girl-next-door comes to mind.

This led me to questioning something else altogether – am I into men or into being like them? I always hear that our society today is hypersexualised. I always just dismissed that. But what if there’s some truth to that.

I rarely go more than a day without porn. It’s true. I always choose to watch videos with handsome men and when I watch them, I deeply envy their bodies. Sometimes, I wish I was in the girl’s place, I do admit that, but most times, I just wish I had that body. Other times – and this happens quite often, I wish I was a female. I wish I had long hair and a pretty face and boobs.

Consequently, I googled transgender people and what it means to have Gender Identity Disorder. I’m quite certain I’m not transgender – I really love my dick – and while my body has never been something I’m particularly proud of, I do like it a fair amount.

And that has brought me to the end of this much-too-long drabble. A piece that involved vomiting my sexuality confusions and arriving at no answers whatsoever.

It’s been four years since that first magical season of Glee. Since then the show really has gone down the crapper as have my grand ideas of sexuality.

I don’t know what my sexuality is. But four years of fumbling and killing myself trying to understand it has allowed me to come to an eventuality – I. Don’t. Care. Anymore. I’m done with labels and experimentation. My sexuality is but a bud on the tree of my personality. It doesn’t define me but is simply one of those things that only adds more colour to my complications.

Gay. Straight. Girly. Effeminate. Manly. Confused. Whatever.

Some days, I’m gay, and other days, I’m not. You know what? That’s fine by me. Maybe, some things aren’t meant to be put in a box, labelled and figured out.

Confession #1 Need for Attention

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Thinking, meditating on the future, it scares me makes me feel dejected. My moods seem to ebb and flow in a continuous upward and downward flow. Sometimes, I feel like I’m perfectly satiated by my own presence. I go all day without talking to anyone and I’m so engrossed and distracted, I barely even notice. Then, on other days, like today, my being alone feels like loneliness.

I do need attention. I need a lot of attention. It scares me to admit just how much of an attention whore I am.

I was chatting with one of my best friends the other day, and out of the blue, I said that I’ve decided to put myself out there, to ‘meet someone’. So, I took my friend’s advice and created an OKCupid profile. Twas a very misguided move.

I didn’t go in with my eyes closed. In the face of fear, my instinctive response is research. That’s probably my law degree flaring alive and affecting my actions, but it is my primary mode of attack: Understand the enemy so that I’m prepared to tackle it by the horns. I read scores of articles on building an online dating profile. I even read the abysmal statistics for response rates and what men will inevitably have to go through, especially if the man in question is (a) not ripped and (b) not white. Ding ding ding – on both accounts.

I then poured hours into my profile – thinking about it, crafting it, doing my best to blend honesty with everything I’d read and absorbed. Most of all – I refused to get my hopes my up. I told myself over and over again that after all my efforts, chances are that nobody’s going to respond to me anyway.

Then when nobody responded – I was crushed anyway.

My self-doubt issues came to the front with this online dating profile. I read girls’ profiles, I spent time writing good introductory messages, even saw them visiting my profile – and then heard nothing.

I don’t blame the women though. I get where they’re coming from. Online dating is a meat market. They get bombarded endlessly with male attention on these websites. They do have the luxury to be picky. And I totally get that my charm, whatever it may be, is certainly not something that can be gleaned through an online profile, or worse, terrible pictures of me. Online dating is a very physical process and your looks, as much as I criticise superficiality, are extremely important. I’m guilty of going for the better looking women. I did try to set my sights low though. I made it a point to avoid the beautiful girls with divine, model-esque physiques and angelic faces because I know where I stand on the totem pole and I want to be pragmatic.

I only messaged girls that seemed ordinary looking, maybe even not that. I read the profiles of every single girl I approached. Thoroughly. I never sent a single ‘hi’ or ‘hey’ and made sure to fill up my messages with details of our potential commonalities and shared interests within 50-80 words.

I got one response. I know – that alone is cause for a major celebration! I even chatted with this girl. She was lovely and very fetching. But my heart wasn’t in it. And I know why: Because I lied.

I told her how I’ve been doing something so exciting and fulfilling during my gap year. I hinted at how intelligent and well-travelled I am. I spoke of it with such enthusiasm, I nearly believed it myself. Why wouldn’t, I? It’s the same falsities I’ve been feeding my friends from uni.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve done nothing during my gap year. I went on a diet and lost weight. Developed a stronger interest in cinema and pop culture because I’ve had so much free time. I know waaaay too much about Youtube and Youtube celebrities. But that’s not the kind of stuff that I can tell people!

I’ve spent years cultivating an image of myself being holier-than-thou, intelligent, ambitious, focused, what have you. I’m petrified that if people find out just how burnt out I am, they’ll…well, I guess think lesser of me.

You know? Just writing that out in those words, it makes it sound so trivial and idiotic. I – who has claimed his entire life that he was least bothered by people’s opinions of him – is petrified of having that very same image spoiled. It’s…humanising and humbling to remind myself that I am just as flawed and miserable and capable of mistakes and vices as every other person out there. I’m not better. I’m likely worse.

So that’s my first confession. I love attention and I’ll spin any yarn necessary to get it.

I’m going to work on appreciating who I am and being proud of my accomplishments for what they are. Nothing more.

I deleted my online dating profile.

I am unattractive. And it’s okay.

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It’s simply the truth of the matter.

I mean, my mum thinks I’m handsome and my sister thinks I can be cute “in the right light”, but that’s really about it. For a long time, I believed them. There was a time in my late teens, where I genuinely thought that despite being overweight, having tiny eyes and terrible body odour, people could still find me attractive for ‘me’. Well, ‘me’ was someone I too didn’t like. So why would they? My family is my family. They’re stuck with me and are obligated to love me. But the world isn’t.

Having started to make my first wobbly steps in the ‘real world’, I’ve found that overwhelmingly, people don’t mince words. They don’t placate and ‘protect your feelings’. Hell, most of the time, people won’t even look twice at you. Everybody has their own lives and their own problems. Much as I feel like I’m the centre of the universe, so does everyone else.

So I decided to turn my life around. I can do this! I dieted, worked out, bought ample deodorant and cared about what other people thought. For a while, it worked. I lost a lot of weight and felt good about myself. My friends and family responded positively to my changes. People I knew smiled more when they saw me. I became a much happier, and definitely healthier, person.

And yet, I’m unattractive. My looks? They themselves are average at best now. I’m over 6-feet tall with a broad build and I can fit into a size 34 pair of jeans and look decent. What makes me unattractive is my personality and mannerisms. Women find me to be effeminate. I’m not offended by this at all. How can I be offended by the truth?

I am effeminate. I don’t want to dominate anyone. I talk with my hands. I love to read romance novels. Any sporting event puts me to sleep. I’ve watched every episode of Glee and Sex and the City and loved it. By all traditional male standards, I am, what many of my peers called me in high school: a pansy, ‘gay’, girly, etc. I’m the guy who perpetually gets ‘friendzoned’. Women look at me and think I’m fun! I’m so funny! I’m ‘the honorary gay best friend’!

To put it simply, women don’t find me attractive.

So…What’s the purpose of this? Am I just going to go on ranting about women? How does this lead me to accepting that I’m unattractive and being ‘okay’ with it? Why the hell am I even writing about it for nobody to read?

The answer is so far from profound, it’s galling. I don’t talk about this with anyone. What I’ve written above, in such a frank, lackadaisical manner, is one of my deepest insecurities. It’s one of those things that has kept me up at night. A scar that I’ve carried with me my whole life. Something that I can’t talk about to anyone because it’s so humiliating to admit.

This pain and insecurity brought me to doing what I do about every problem I’ve faced: I made a mental list and gave in to my thoughts.

I’ve tried so hard to blame the world for my problems. Pop culture taught me new-age drivel all through my adolescence of ‘being true to yourself’ and ‘loving you for you – flaws and all’. My parents for giving me false hope to inflate my ego. My friends for never telling me the truth. My teacher for telling me that all women eventually love men who are good at school.

Notice something about the list of complaints above? Yes, yes, that’s right. It’s the glaring irrationality of it all that amuses me too!

I’m lazy, I do have a real problem of being self-absorbed and narcissistic, I lie endlessly and I want the world to accept me ‘flaws and all’. I am deeply flawed and I don’t try hard enough to work on my issues. To put it bluntly: I’m not a catch.

The truth is that I’m not a good person. I’m not. I can try to justify how good of a person I am by my past deeds whilst trivialising the concurrent misdeeds, but in my heart, I know, I’m not a good person.

Women find me effeminate – that’s just the superficial. The core concern here is that I don’t find myself attractive. No one knows me better than me. And I don’t like me.

Why should I expect women to like me? Or men? Or anyone really?

I’m a liar. I lie all the time – to my family, to my employers, to my teachers, to myself. Little lies. Big lies. Intricate lies. Detailed lies. I lie so often and with such gusto that sometimes I completely forget that they are lies. I lie about everything.

I am an unattractive person. Today, I’ve become okay with it because that’s who I am.

I made this blog to speak my truth. So I could admit to all the shameful things I’ve done in my life – all the horrible things I’ve said and done to people.

I pray that with my reality out on the internet, I’ll think twice about continuing my pattern.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, I won’t be an unattractive person anymore.

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