Imagine dying. I do. A lot. This morning I spent nearly an hour gawking straight head, absolutely lost in the thought of dying and what happens after it. I was thinking about what lies beyond this mortal coil and where do we go?
Is there a heaven and a hell? Or is the afterlife one densely populated Argos queue full of last minute Christmas shoppers and people that don’t understand how their phones work? What’s the fantasy and what’s reality? I kept panicking that I was confusing the two so much that I would wind up waving hello to members of the Eastenders cast each time I saw them on TV. Anyway, whatever the afterlife may be, I started wondering what I’d say to God, or Gods/Goddesses, or Divine Creator, or maybe The Great & Majestic Sky Wizard, possibly Cher, just whoever is in charge up there.
I haven’t been stabbed in the eyes recently, but I’ve got a fair idea how it might feel thanks to the last few year’s events. I have this idea in my head that the afterlife would have a lengthy waiting period, or it would be for the likes of me because I seesaw between being a good and bad person frequently.
I’d sit there anxiously sucking and clenching my lips until my mouth started to resemble a cat’s arse, watching as an indifferent-and-overworked secretary (probably Katie Hopkins) tapped her nails over a keyboard. Every so often she’d say, ‘It won’t be long,’ before attempting to shoot me a welcoming smile, which I imagine would be like watching a horse climb a ladder. It wouldn’t be natural. I mean, it’s Katie Hopkin, a women that’s so pig-headed she probably has a curly tail on the back of her skull.
To pass the time and stop me looking at the decor, which I suspect would be a pornographic manga sketchs of Geri Halliwell circa 2008, I’d opt to fill out a feedback form. I’d write.
Dear God RE: My Stupid Gay Life.
Right, this is it then? This is the ‘fabulous’ gay life? OK, who do I speak to about making a complaint? Because I bought into something under false pretences! This isn’t gay life as it was advertised. Nope, not even close. Gay life is about as fun has letting Theresa May intermittently stub out cigarettes on your head for no good reason. It’s about as joyful as listening to white people rap.
What happened to the glittering and gloriously glamorous gay life that late 90’s & early 00’s TV promised me? Why don’t I whizz around the streets in a flashy sports car? What about my high-flying career? Why aren’t my drawers brimming with designer underwear? What happened to that unaffordable-yet-strikingly-stylish wardrobe bursting with specially tailored suits handcrafted by love? Do you see ANY of that here?
Also, those social skills gay men were stereotyped to have, I don’t have any of those! I dare you to watch any of my interactions with people without squirming yourself half to death with embarrassment-by-proxy. I’m SO socially inept. If you slide me between two strangers at a party I’ll rock awkwardly and silent on my heels, or blurt out a stone-cold conversation killer like ‘oh, that’s a nice colour on you painted your wall.’ Unless I’m four gin and tonics deep I glide through the social whirl with all the elegance of a hippo in high heels.
And another thing: ‘One of the benefits of being gay is that you can have as much sex as you want.’ Well that turned out to be a gross over exaggeration, didn’t it? I’m like a leper, I can’t even give ‘it’ away! Even if I could I probably wouldn’t, everyone is riddled. It’s like sticking your dick on top of a grenade and hoping it doesn’t go off; one-night stands are a game of Russian roulette with your sexual health. You can’t swing a cat without hitting someone with HPV.
Look, look, look. I know it’s not your fault. I’m loathed to be one of those customers that blames the manufacturer simply because he didn’t use the product right; but seriously, can you see where I’m coming from? Gay life is meant to be fun; wild nights out, love affairs. Crazy parties, tiny dogs, sexual gratification on tap. Fancy homes shared with a gorgeous, driven husband. I have none of this. Where’s my envy-inspiring life? My loving husband? Where’s my fun?
I hate that word, ‘fun.’ Life is meant to be fun. When does that start? Fun for me seems to be an excuse people employ to behave like absolute ass-hats, right before they suck the little ‘fun’ out my evening. ‘I’m just having fun, why should I feel guilty?’ because you’re behaving like a throbbing cock, that’s why.
To be honest, I used to use that word a lot too. I guess a lot of other gay men do. I’d use it to justify a crippling hangover at work, ‘at least I had fun last night.’ I was always just ‘having fun’ when I logged into Grindr and Tinder, just to have my ego stroked (normally via a string of seedy comments.) I’d use it to brush off the guilt I felt after drunkenly sexting a friend. Those hazy hungover mornings when I’d wake up in a stranger’s bed with my contacts glued to my eyes, I’d have ‘fun’ trying to figure out who that smudged outline next to me was. I wouldn’t have the next day though when I woke up alone; even if there was someone next to me I was still alone. He was just a body to me, and I am forgettable to him.
How is any of that fun? I mean, would a manual have killed you? And don’t say the bible, I don’t ship that transparent stupidity. I’ve spent what must amount to weeks lurching around hungover, wasting my one day off inside the confines of my room wishing a plane would crash through the window and into me. Back to work tomorrow; back to the mediocre grind. No fancy career for me – no matter how many people tell me how talented and smart I am.
Instead I get to suffer through another tedious day bursting with unfulfilled potential, letting co-workers see my sexuality as a novelty because I don’t have the energy to school them. ‘Oh, my god. My daughter works with a gay guy too and you’d totally get along. I’m going to set you up!’ No, Helen. It’s alright, you really don’t have to do. No. You really don’t have to set me up with someone you and I both haven’t ever met just because you think we’ll get on as we’re both gay – it doesn’t like that. Also, Helen, whilst I’ve got you. You know every time you or a member of your office clique say the word ‘gay’ then in one synchronised wave whirl your chairs around to see if I react? Yeah, carry on. I don’t care.
Basically, Jesus, Cher, Sky Person, whoever, I am disappointed with life. Like, seriously. I’ll trade in my rainbow badge for a mundane heterosexual life and three kids to two different women. Right now. I swear I’ll do it. I’m tired of the gayness. I just feel every day I am doing something else to further humiliate myself.
Do you know that yesterday I totally forgot that my iPhone and laptop are synced, so everything I Google on my phone automatically comes up on recent searches on my laptop? It’s convenient in the sense that everything is linked, yeah. But it’s inconvenient when a friend goes to use it and sees ‘Twink pounded by daddy’ in my top three recent searches, sandwiched between ‘Just Eat discount codes’ and ‘Riverdale spoilers.’ Then I get nervous trying to explain away not only the watching of gay porn, but the category I get off to – as if I’m meant to feel this guilty about wanking over something 80% of other gay men do. As if I’m meant to feel guilty about being gay.
Do you also care to comment on the dwindling possibility of finding romance? I am so single that I literally make no effort to change the name of bookmarked porn sites. I am so single that yesterday a black van pulled up beside me, and I considered getting in it. I am so single, and so lonely, that I seriously consider taking my own life at least once a week just to see if someone would notice. The thought of having to grow old, and thus irrelevant to the younger gays, seizes me with terror. I don’t want to be old, average and alone. I don’t want to my life without someone by my side, desperately trying to recapture even modicum of my younger life. I don’t want to make a fool of myself trying.
So, if you could kindly reply and perhaps offer an explanation as to why every day feels as though I’m being smashed in the face by cosmic irony that would be greatly appreciated. Or perhaps show me how to stop the toxic trends in my behaviour.
PS Your secretory is a bigot.