Ramblings: Lie to Me

It seems to me that the world is full of false perceptions. I often sit on the bus and see people walking around in skinny jeans who clearly think that their bottom is a lot smaller than it is. They don’t appear to notice that the denim is strained to breaking point and that they look bulbous in all the wrong places. The same goes for the milky blue-white flesh of an unwisely exposed upper arm or the sportswear on a man who’s likely to pass out running for a bus.

I see people wearing thin canvas shoes in the snow and I think they must have a mistaken belief that it looks amazing. It actually looks foolhardy and like they haven’t got the money for something warm and sturdy. I once worked with a woman who seemed to not know that there was a back to her head. The front of her hair was teased upwards and immaculately coiffed and styled but the back was always a shoddy mess of bed rumpled locks. I see plenty of people who just need a kindly soul to tell them where they’re going wrong. I think this rule also applies to men who call themselves “straight-acting” on gay dating sites or who claim to be XXL in the genital area. That’s my experience anyway.

I have skewed perceptions that are perhaps, even odder. My first is that I often think that people are older than me. I can’t seem to get it into my brain that I’m aging and am no longer under 30. I look at people and think of them as middle aged and mature and then have a start as I realise that they’re probably the same age as me or younger. Luckily, I know my limitations and am not inclined towards the Whitney dressed as Britney school of fashion. I know that I’d look like a fool ramming myself into teenage fashions and I steer clear of jeggings at all costs.

My second belief is that I’m shorter than I actually am. I believe that lots of people are taller than me. It’s fine if they’re standing next to me. I’m not so stupid that I can’t see what’s in front of me. It’s more to do with memory. In spite of being six foot tall I remember events as featuring a much shorter me. It doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to calculate that I maybe have a tiny little inferiority complex.

My final skewed perception is one that I share with my people who put themselves out there on reality television. I believe that I can sing like a young Aretha Franklin. Regardless of the fact that people run screaming if I begin to warble and even I can hear the flat drone coming from my mouth, I know deep down that I have the voice of an angel. Perhaps I just need a lesson. It only needs to be a short lesson. Five minutes of coaching, maybe, and you’d be amazed at what I could do.  I’d pack them in at the 02 Arena.

Don’t panic though. I’ll restrict my crooning to the privacy of my own home for now. Your ears are safe.

Ramblings: A Relaxing Journey

I’ve never been very good at relaxation. Lavender makes me edgy, deep breathing makes me hyperventilate and massages make me want to run screaming. I’m not good on beaches or at lying in the sun (too beachy and too hot and sweaty). The only way I really relax is watching a film in the cinema, a play in the theatre or reading at home. Well, there is another way but that involves alcohol or prescription drugs and I’ve learnt over the years that neither of these are my friends any more.

Even day dreaming is hard for me. I’ve just returned from a weekend over at Paul’s house and was travelling back on the bus earlier. Dreary looking snow-bound scenes were bombarding my senses. There’s only so much snow that can look interesting: probably about 5 seconds of it. It’s especially uninteresting in March when it should be getting more Spring-like. I didn’t feel like listening to music or Radio 4 so decided to day dream.

I shut my eyes and tried to relax, managing to get comfortable in the coach seat. I decided to think about a nice warm Italian village, maybe Paul and I wandering round in a narrow sun baked street, nodding amiably to the beautiful people as they walked by and smiled approvingly at our fine attire. The problem is that my mind is full of snow. I’ve seen nothing but snow for 3 days now. I can’t get the snow out of my head.

Attempt two: Paul and I are walking round an Alpine village. The friendly locals nod, smiling, at our stylish tweed coats and we head into a warm cafe. The issue here is that in reality I’m on a bus. It feels like a bus. It moves like a bus. I can’t get beyond this.

Attempt three: I’m on a coach travelling through the Alps on my way to meet Paul. Bollocks. I’m suddenly thinking about skiers. I hate the thought of skiing and all those hearty types. They’d be on the bloody bus with me and would be riling me with their sporty talk and their après-ski fondue and schnapps plans. They’d all be sporting those nasty outdoor padded things. I can’t do this.

Attempt four: I’m on a coach travelling to the Alps to meet Paul and its 1934. The people of 1934 are thoroughly decent, well dressed and keep themselves to themselves. Oh. Hang on: do I really mean 1934? I like the Art Deco elegance but I also like the 50s chic, maybe a bit more. It would be nice to be ferrying a poodle or two on my lap. Poodles were quite hard to come by in the 30’s I think. I like the 40s too and the razor sharp New Look fashions but do I want to be travelling across war torn Europe. Won’t I end up involved in a spy ring or getting assassinated? Also, when were anti-depressants invented? I’d be nowhere without those. How about Valium? I may need it on the holiday if I get too tense about all those mountains and on reflection I don’t think it was invented till the 60s. I’ve never tried Barbiturates but they might do at a push for an extreme stress reaction. I’m pretty sure they were invented then as they were taken a lot in “Valley of the Dolls”. Hold on: when was that book set? I NEED GOOGLE, NOW.

I opened my eyes and scrutinised my fellow passengers instead. That’s always a pleasure. There’s a Polish couple. One man is much older: father and son or lovers? The younger one is balding though so maybe he’s older than he looks and has had work done. A man with a hospital wristband on: He’s either forgotten to take it off, has escaped or is wearing it permanently because he fell in love with a young nurse during an in-patient stay. What about the woman in the hat and big sunglasses: my guess is hung over, secret affair or she’s a celebrity.

You see, my problem is that I have way too much imagination peppered with a heavy dose of pedantry and a sprinkle of pragmatism. I’ll stick to reading for relaxation.

Ramblings: London Bound

I've been totally remiss this year in my blogging after last year's consistent postings. I'm falling back on the old excuse, my dodgy neck. It's still dodgy.

In other non-dodgy neck related news: I'm now much more excited about the impending move to London and start my new job there the first week in June. Cue frantic flat hunting early April onwards. I'm hoping to move down at the end of May with Paul following on at the end of June once he finishes University.

Exciting times. I'm coping with the thought of moving and am confident I can get through the logistical side of this. I'll keep you posted as to any nervous interludes and my success at flat hunting.

Ramblings: The Hirsuit of Happiness

I’m fairly effete and always have been, so the sight of me with a full beard by age 13 was quite an absurd one for all to see. This outward sign of my testosterone fuelled teens seemed like a paradox as I merrily whistled along to Madonna and made up new Shirley Bassey show routines in my head. I always felt that my early puberty was a complete curse and the bane of my life. I wanted to grow up glamorous and fey with a sculpted set of smooth abs, not be a virtual werewolf by 20.

 By the age of 15 I had legs that looked like they’d been carpeted, a fetching golden-red beard and a chest wig worthy of a 1970s porn star. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it had matched. Instead I had blond hair, dark brown chest chair and a ginger beard.

 I was terrible at shaving, always gouging chunks from my face and turning up at sixth form college covered in plasters and dabbing delicately at my face with blood stained tissues like a Victorian hysteric. Often I’d give up on the whole idea, adopting the ideology that if I continually ignored the hair sprouting from every quarter, then it might go away.

 It didn’t go away. I had to choose: depilation and regular shaving or find another way to carry the look off. As I wasn’t prepared to plait my back hair or adopt a Floella Benjamin beaded look, then painful, irritating hair removal was the only option.

 I’ve endured loss of skin through depilatory creams, nicks and rashes, waxing burns and sprains and strains from contorting myself round to reach the tricky bits. A long term partner preferred the hairless look so I spent hours each month painfully erasing every trace of hair growth on my chest and shoulders.

 I experienced an epiphany in recent years as I realised that at my advanced age (let’s just say I’m over 35) I can choose what I like. My preference on a man is for body hair as long as it’s not beyond the pale. I don’t expect any man to present me with a Mexican style handlebar moustache in his trousers. That’s just absurd. I actually find well tended body hair quite attractive.

So, I accept my body for what it is now and that’s that it’s hairy. It comes that way. If I’ve got the time, I trim and prune. Otherwise, I don’t actually care. Now, ear hair and my straggly eyebrows: that’s a whole different matter. That may take another 40 years to come to terms with.

 

Ramblings: Ch-ch-ch-changes

Apologies for a four week absence from here. I don’t have a sick note or a letter from my mother/solicitor or psychiatrist. Time just seems to slip away. Only yesterday I saw Paul’s neighbours who were celebrating the one year birthday of their son. I had it in my head that it was only about 3 months since he was born and thought he was just an incredibly large newborn. I do lose track somewhat.

Life has suddenly become exciting/scary/challenging/terrifying. I’ve got a new job, plans to move away from the city where I’ve lived my whole life and plans to move in with Paul. Yes: I’ve got a job in the big smoky bustling metropolis known as London.

It’s all a case of threats versus opportunities and making my head work the right way and not like a giant distorting mirror. It has the tendency to do that and my brain can work in ever decreasing spirals where ‘objects may appear larger in the rear view mirror than they actually are.’

Back in 2001, I left my abusive partner of 12 years and was hideously afraid of life without him. In reality, life without him turned out to be great and the major challenge was escaping him with my sanity intact. Back in 2009, I was terrified of living alone. Newly single after a 7 year relationship and having always lurched from relationship to relationship and never lived alone, apart from a brief period of a few months in a small rented flat, I was in an exquisite state of high panic verging on hysteria.

I trembled and sweated my way through house viewings, mortgage arrangements and insurance quotations. In the end my exhilaration at the thought of having my own house after all those years living in tandem won out and I was swept along with fever pitch excitement towards a new goal. I’m not saying I didn’t have the odd wobble or sit on the floor and cry after the removal men refused to carry my wardrobe upstairs (of course I did) but I survived the experience (and called on a helpful friend with a screwdriver who dismantled and reassembled the wardrobe as I dried my tantrum tears and chain smoked.)

If I think back carefully, I was terrified when I qualified as a nurse and took my first job, thinking I was a dangerous imposter who knew nothing and would surely wreak havoc. My levels of havoc wreaked remain pretty low 17 years down the line. I was terrified moving from general medicine to work on an oncology ward, terrified taking my first charge nurse job and terrified upon changing my job to a nurse specialist role. If I think back carefully, I remember always telling new starters that their fear was good. I would never have wanted a newly qualified nurse who wasn’t afraid. I wanted one with a healthy apprehension who knew his or her limitations. Maybe it’s OK to apply that to myself too for once.

I’ve had an amazing reaction to the fact that I’m finally leaving my home town after 41 years here. There’s been lots of support, a little bit of sadness (which is incredibly touching) and loads of encouragement. I’ve developed a strange panicky feeling over the weekend. On visiting Nottingham, I reflected how beautiful it looked and how I couldn’t bear to abandon the place. I thought about what a lovely Spring-like day it was today and how I ought to consider visiting the local nature reserve again soon. This thought was followed by a lurch of panic as I thought: “I’ll never see it again!”, forgetting that London is literally only 90 minutes away anyway.

Reassuringly, Paul is also having the same silly random musings and more reassuringly he also is incredibly keen to move, as am I. I’ve got four months, which will be an exciting and sad time as I prepare to rent out my house, rent somewhere in East London and start my new job (which sounds brilliant and is just the job I wanted, in a place I wanted it). The key for me is that the change is more exciting than sad. I can still keep in touch with people, there’s no restraining order banning me from the East Midlands and the possibilities ahead are thrilling.

In the end, I’m just trying to be rational and resorting to the old trick that helps me every time: talking about it, writing about it and making lots of lists. It works for me. After all, it’s a move I want, to a city I love and I’m finally moving in with a man who I really love after two years together. What’s not to like? I’m sure I can and will cope with the change. I’m just not 100% that London will be ready to cope with me.

Ramblings: Happy New Queer

I know that for some people, the end of each year brings on wistful regrets and sentimentality. They get quite depressed as they scrutinise the low points of the past year and the coming challenges of the next. Not so for me.

I used to really enjoy New Year’s Eve in my youth; seeing it as an opportunity to neck as much gin or vodka as possible in a short space of time and dance till I fell over. The licensing laws were limited and I quite liked the novelty of pubs opening late and being able to drink and dance till the early hours. It was a big night for the small gay scene in the provincial city where I lived. The bars would be heaving with people in elaborate drag outfits that had taken months to run up on a singer sewing machine. It was often a spectacular sight to behold.

Ageing and the advent of worsening hangovers knocked the shine off it for me. I don’t drink anymore and rarely go out on the gay scene but I’m equally happy to snuggle up alone with my partner and watch the Hootenanny or to see friends. I wouldn’t be at all gutted if I nodded off at eleven either though.

A few years back, I was newly single, still drinking and I was cajoled into going out on New Year’s Eve by a few gay friends. I wasn’t fully in the mood for revelry; feeling quite fragile from a recent break-up and lacking self confidence. A tiny part of me always retained some romantic optimism, though and this oppressed part would occasionally whisper to me through my cynical shell: “Maybe tonight is the night when you’ll meet a really nice man”.

The chances of me ever meeting a man in a local gay bar were feeling pretty slim. I already knew most of the regulars, was hurtling towards 40 and feeling out of place amongst the younger crowd and if anyone ever looked at me for longer than a mere lingering glance then I’d rush to the loo to check if I had developed some new deformity which was making them stare at me. I couldn’t imagine what else a man could be looking at me for. Even alcohol failed to embolden me. My infrequent attempts to chat up blokes always ended in disaster: one notable occasion was when I spoke to a nervous looking man sitting at the bar and he put down his half finished drink and fled. I’d only said: “Hi”.

I left the house determined to try to enjoy myself. There’s always that risk on these occasions when you’re told how to feel that you’ll somehow fall short. It’s hard to always be happy just because it’s a particular date. There’s usually a lot else going on in your life. Somehow, I did enjoy myself though and with relatively little alcohol was managing to laugh and dance badly. My friends were amusing and the atmosphere was good.

The unthinkable happened when a man began to look at me. He was tall, well built and extremely handsome. I checked my hair for dead animals and looked behind me to make sure there was no Calvin Klein model over my shoulder. Maybe he was cross eyed.

It turned out he wasn’t and we began to talk. Bizarrely, he was relatively sober, really sweet, better looking close up and seemed to really like me. More oddly, he was exactly one day older than me. He was also newly single, having fallen out with his long term partner over Christmas (It happens. Over-heated houses, too much time and nowhere to go: it’s a powder keg). One of my friends came over and whispered hurriedly to me: “Don’t worry about us. We’re all fine. You have important work to do here and we respect that.” He signed off with a wink and the thumbs up.

A few hours later, we were getting on better. I was impressed with his muscular abdomen and firm pectorals. He seemed to like my more willowy torso. We were making each other laugh and were eventually ensconced in a dark corner having a good grope and a snog. Of course it had to end. His mates were leaving and he needed a lift home. Unlike in the fairy tales; I wasn’t left with a slipper but with a mobile phone number and a vague sense that this might be something good.

Luckily I also had the sense to see it for what it probably was: a man who was on the rebound after a traumatic festive row. We exchanged texts for a couple of days or so until he was reconciled back with his ex. He was very sweet about it and I was a little disappointed but not gutted. Romantic disappointments can come thick and fast for the single gay man. You get, almost, used to them.

In reality, we probably had no more in common than the fact that we almost shared a birthday and both found him very attractive. A man who’s just left his partner the week before is never a good romantic bet. I appreciated it for what it was, which was a diverting evening and a boost to the confidence that an excessively attractive man could like me. My friends managed to knock that confidence down a little by creating it into a legend. “You won’t believe how fit the man that Chris pulled on New Year’s Eve was!” became a recurrent theme. The implication being that I’d punched well above my feeble weight.

The other saving grace was that in spite of being almost the same age as me by a matter of days, he was looking better on it. Who wants to spend the next few years with a boyfriend who makes you look older and more worn by comparison? Imagine the scenes which would have followed as people learnt we were born only days apart then tried to hide their shock with a blank expression.

Whatever you’re doing to end the year, enjoy it, even if it’s just sleeping through it. Sleep is a fine occupation.

Ramblings: The Case of the Ex

What is it about gay men and their exes? Heterosexuals seem to have it so much better sorted out: divorce him/avoid him/insult him. We, on the other hand, like to remain friends.

My first boyfriend talked incessantly about his great ex, Sean. Sean was apparently very funny, very stylish and a great person to be around. My teenage angst hooked on to this and I began to wince each time his name was mentioned. With every fond reference I’d begin to rot and fester inside a little bit more. That was until I met him: he certainly had a style, but not one you’d ever want to mimic and as for funny: read waspish and twisted. He was the person no one wanted to be around; the man who always accidentally forgot his wallet in a bar. We took an instant dislike to each other, strengthened on my part by the fact that within two hours he got drunk and hissed at me that I’d come to a sticky end. Apparently, clever queens like me always did.  I suddenly realised a vital fact: my partner had left him. It was obvious why.

My next long term partner also spoke in glowing terms about his ex. Andy was hyper intelligent and amazingly kind. He could have gone to Cambridge to study. Strangely he hadn’t been to Cambridge to study and worked in a shabby gift shop. The only thing wrong with Andy was that he’d walked out and left my partner after a string of infidelities and humiliations. I felt that the infidelities were a major sticking point and maybe a minor flaw in his perfect character. Having learnt little from my teenage years, I dreaded meeting him and expected a stunning male genius with a vampish way of breaking men’s hearts. I was shocked to meet a mousy man who was as mixed up and vulnerable as I was. We became friends, probably due to the fact that we both understood how difficult my ex was. He admitted years later that he was relieved that my unstable, hard drinking ex had become my problem and not his. Not so glad to have been of service.

My next long term partner had two exes on the scene: an estranged wife and an ex boyfriend. The wife was manageable. She resented him a little but was still fond of him and kept up a relationship through occasionally gritted teeth for the sake of the children (and the maintenance). I understood this kind of friendship with an ex. If it’s partly about money and mutual offspring then it makes sense. The boyfriend, Carl, was a whole other story, calling up at three am for lengthy conversations. He was an insomniac so apparently this was acceptable.

We met eventually; just the once. Naturally, I had the advantage. I knew lots about him. He was insecure about his weight and lack of class, had a dead end job and a few odd peccadilloes. I dressed thin, talked in clipped tones about my great job and had enough restraint not to mention his fetishes. In short, I was low and mean. He stopped calling late at night and upped his ante by sending my partner a suggestive text message offering sex. My partner deleted his number and with one overstep of the mark he was gone. Subtlety wins out most times.

My current partner has a lovely ex. She’s supportive, respectful and overseas. What more can you ask for? They’re the three perfect qualities. I met her for the first time last weekend and she was utterly charming.

So, my advice to you is: if being friends with your ex works for you then brilliant. If you can still share a bed or a tent, go away together for weekends, go clubbing, bond over shared memories and laugh over the heartache you both caused each other then that’s superb. Just stop and take the time to ask your new partner something though: what the hell is he thinking about going about with someone so involved with their ex? Maybe he needs to find someone new and forget about his ex and their ex.