Forced Bi Joi

Forced Bi Joi
If your boyfriend ever tells you that he thinks he’s gay, don’t offer to help him find a guy to experimentally make out with. It’s a losing battle.
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I have grown up believing that while moments in our life may not define us, they certainly do give meaning to the lives we lead. So today, I am going to share with you the story of how I turned my very first boyfriend gay.
Okay, so maybe that isn’t exactly how it happened. I have no doubt that I came long after any self-doubt he might have had about his sexuality, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel as though I played a part in it.
Our relationship blossomed my junior year of high school after an accidental introduction via a mutual friend. It took all of two weeks before our shared smiley face texts were replaced with crooked hearts and an endless number of X’s and O’s. After that, for months — on and off — we shared lovey dovey chit chat, mindless adolescent Facebook hacking (note: don’t ever share personal passwords with anyone — EVER) and gag-worthy stories of one another with less-than-amused friends. We finally met in person for the first time at my junior semi-formal and I still remember every waking moment — it had been the greatest night of my life.
As a first time relationship often does, it made the world a blur of rose-coloured bliss in my eyes. I felt alive, wanted, untouchable. The chubby, short, teenage version of myself whose hair was an awkward length and whose boobs were the size of overgrown cantaloupes finally felt a sense of belonging with a guy who lived 30 minutes away by car and had the anatomical build of a sexy green bean. Life seemed perfect.
But after a couple of months, things got worse. Promises were being made and not kept. Our friends got sick of the lovebird mania. Parents tried to subtly intervene. Slowly but surely, my little slice of heaven was being reduced to a few crumbs of adolescent mediocrity. I was a wreck. But even all that paled in comparison to the tsunami of shock that was about to drown my crappy, little island of self-pity.
A few months and another break up later, a sporadic, yet fairly normal, text messaging conversation turned into one of the strangest phone calls I have ever had. My tall, sexy, master of many accents green bean boyfriend told me that he was gay.
My first thought was, “Gay? Like happy?” God, did I pray he meant happy. But deep down I knew he was trying to tell me he didn’t really love me anymore. In my mind, all I really heard was, “forever alone”.
Now, let me just offer you all a piece of advice right off the bat in case you ever find yourself in this situation (there are more of you, right…?). If your boyfriend ever tells you that he thinks he’s gay, don’t offer to help him find a guy to experimentally make out with. It’s a losing battle. It’s also sounds ridiculously embarrassing when you play it back in your head a billion times over.
The relationship ended then and there. Shortly after, it experienced a little turbulence post-lovebird stage and eventually led to a fatal crash which ended all contact until just recently. It turns out his best friend from high school ended up being my best friend from university so he’s been around a lot more lately. I’m sure that sounds a little odd to you all, and trust me, I’m still a little uncomfortable with it myself, but bear with me here because I’m going to share with you the very eye-opening lessons I’ve learned from all of this.
He wants to love you. He just can’t. The first thing my ex-boyfriend told me when we were back on relatively normal speaking terms was that he wished he liked girls. This made me realize that even though I wasn’t what he was looking for, it spoke nothing of who I was as a person.
Remember, you’re still an amazing person — you just don’t have the preferred appendages for the package deal.
Don’t try to ‘fix’ or ‘change’ him. It’s not fair to you, and it sure as hell isn’t fair to him. Would you want someone trying to sell you on the benefits of lovin’ lady lips? Probably not. Just let bygones be bygones and consider it a life lesson.
It’s okay to keep anything they might have given you, lent you or forgotten at your house. Don’t feel guilty, or let anyone else make you feel guilty, for wanting to keep something that reminds you of a happy memory you shared with them. My classic Winnie the Pooh teddy has given me many a midnight cuddle when I’ve needed him most.
It’s not the end of the world if he’s seen you naked. Don’t get me wrong, I still find it a little weird to engage in “he’s so hot” talks with a guy who has seen me in my skivvies but I’ve also come to terms with the fact that he’d sooner brag to his friends about the butt on that buff, blonde bartender with 5 o’clock shadow than my lady bits.
Don’t label yourself an experiment. God knows I resent being used as a guinea pig to test out someone’s sexuality, but I try to remind myself that he was no more aware of what was going on with himself than I was. It was all like sitting beside a stranger on a rollercoaster. We just both happened to be along for the ride together.
You are the best thing that will ever happen to him. EVER. You are the last stop between self-doubt and self-discovery. You are the person who tips the scales and frees a person’s soul from all the wondering and worry they’ve experienced. My ex-boyfriend has apologized for the many bumps in the road we encountered while on our journey, but he’s also thanked me for being there for him and offering to help when I could.
It’s important to remind yourself that regardless of what someone else may be going through, they’re the ones who are lost and not you. Don’t run away. They may not need you for a loving relationship and they sure as hell don’t need you to find them one, but they will definitely need you for support. No matter what your sexual orientation, always remember: be a friend.
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How I broke my husband with one simple dress
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IT IS 7.48pm. I am just about to leave the house for a night out with friends. I have checked I have a spare pair of tights in my handbag, ensured that the working remote is actually in the oldest child's hand - no more panicked, 10pm ''WE CANT FID [sic] THE CONTROLLS!!!'' texts for me - and now, the last thing that needs to be done is to bid my husband adieu.
I walk into his ''study'', where he is listening to a reggae compilation, while contemplating his new Fotheringay mug, which is full of tea. He has a happy look on his face.
''Have a great night,'' he says, taking his headphones off, and beaming. There is a pause. I kind of … stand at him a bit. Loom, maybe.
''I'm off out, now,'' I say, again, more purposefully. ''Off into London. To see people.''
''Make sure you've got your keys!'' he says, cheerfully. ''Have a great night. Send my love to … whichever bunch of arch, chain-smoking homosexuals you're on loan to tonight.''
There is another pause. I stare at him quite intently. He stares back, confused. Pete can tell there is some manner of urgent business left unattended here - but he does not know what. I can sense his heart rate accelerating, like a panicked lab rat on sighting a speculum. The rat does not know exactly what is going to happen next - but it knows it's going to be bad. ''Do you … want a lift to Finsbury Park?'' he asks, eventually.
''HOW DO YOU THINK I LOOK?'' I shout.
Pete is immediately contrite - ''Sorry!'' - but also back in charted territory again.
Twelve years ago, shortly before our wedding, I told him - with the kind of fearless honesty that lovers can afford - that I would only ever impose two rules on our marriage. First, that he must never, ever throw me a surprise birthday party in our front room again. And second, that every time I appear in front of him in a new outfit, he must say, without hesitation:
''You look so thin in that!'' Pete says - delighted to be back on firm ground. He puts his headphones back on. He clearly thinks all the business has been concluded.
''Phew. Have a great night out,'' he says - going back to staring at his Fotheringay mug, which depicts the whole band as 15th-century minstrels. ''I'll see you in the morning.''
Unfortunately for Pete, ''You look so thin in that'' is not the droids I am looking for in this particular conversation. The dress I am in is a bit of a new development, in terms of my ''fashion range''. It's a 1950s tea dress in shape - but in pattern, it's got an African-textile theme going on. I'm wearing it with zebra-skin sandals, and a snakeskin clutch-bag. Basically, I need to know if I look like Lady Ace Ventura: Pet Detective in it. I don't know if this ''lysergic safari'' thing is working.
Were I with any of my female friends or relations, they would have understood this instantly. My sister Weena, for instance, would have greeted me with, ''You're perverting the assumed prejudices of postwar chicks, with some kind of 'demented gay Ghanaian disco' vibe. It's Mad Men versus Brixton Market. You're essentially saying you're a liberal - but with big tits. Nice. Catch that bus with confidence.''
This is what women do - tell each other what story their outfits are projecting, by way of confirming that the wearer has got it right. The women who love you recite back to you the aspiration and impact of your ''look'' - hence a group of eight of us being able to greet our friend Hughes with, ''Post-divorce slutty secretary - but with unexpected neon rave-stilettos! You're a sexy lady who will not cling to one man tonight, but seek the communal ecstatic uprising of a room full of party-goers instead. In this Pizza Express we are having dinner in.''
Women speak the language of clothes. Everything we wear is a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter - or, sometimes, just an exclamation mark.
Unfortunately, however, Pete does not speak the language of clothes. My dress and zebra-sandals are essentially shouting at him in French. Unable to make out a word they are saying, he panics.
''It's a top-notch item,'' he says, staring at it. ''Unusual. It's, ah, amazing that 'they' keep coming up with innovative things - even in 2012. That's … got to be good news for the fashion industry!''
There is a small pause - then he starts laughing so hysterically at the desperation of what he has just said that he slides off his chair, headphones still in hand, and kneels on the floor, red-faced, and weeping.
He's still there when I leave. Which is a bit annoying, because I did actually want a lift to Finsbury Park. My zebra-skin sandals are chafing.
From Moranthology by Caitlin Moran. © Caitlin Moran 2012. Reprinted by permission of Random House Australia. All Rights Reserved. RRP: $29.95
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