Today I will be talking about one issue only which has been on my mind for a while and which has formed the crux of many arguments I have had with my friends.
I grew up with many boys – nine boys in total – because daddy had a few sons and took in every stray relative who needed a place to stay. Growing up was always noisy and androgen-filled. And then, as we hit puberty, I started going out with my plenty brothers and we began testing the waters of our raging heterosexual hormones. And all the while, I kept my budding awareness that I liked boys a secret, well and truly hidden by the strength of my mortification.
I eventually lost my virginity to our house help. Her name was Ogonna. I was about fifteen, she was twenty. I had seen a few porno movies in VCR (is that still around?) so I experimented with what I’d seen with her. The first attempt was a disaster, and I came in less than two minutes. *covers face*
Eventually we started having sex regularly after everyone went to sleep. And then, Mommy found out (Actually I was not the only one giving it to her; in a house of ten boys… Go figure), and she was sent home.
I went on to lose my second virginity (is that even a phrase?) to a guy when I was nineteen. The experience was electrical, like an explosion in my brain. And I haven’t looked back since.
All the while I spent growing up and hanging with my brothers, I had to play the role of a straight man. I drank things with them, smoked things with them, and we all had girlfriends (some of which we swapped amongst ourselves). And all this time, I was painfully aware that I was gay. I knew I loved men and I had crushes on my brothers’ friends. But I had to hide it. I did not hate women. But I did like them or pursue them either. I’d always been indifferent to them; if there was free pussy on the offing, I’d have some. But I would never go in pursuit of it. Till date, I have never had to ask a girl out, as somehow, there’s always a girl around – my brother’s girlfriend’s friends, classmates and recently colleagues. Women fascinated me. I loved the feeling of making a girl cum, while she writhed like a snake and moaned like a toad (lol). But they did not give me much pleasure.
On the other hand however, men drove me crazy.
I went into university, and of course, worked on desperately concealing my sexuality. I played the campus-boy-about-town to the hilt. I had girlfriends I had sex with on the regular. And even though I hooked up with guys, I simply never dated anyone. I mean, I needed to be able to quit homosexuality when I wanted to, right?
Deep down, I knew I was a lie. It was all a lie. But when you are at that age, you are often paranoid about people knowing you are gay. So I tried to do a good job of concealing who I was, and I became a terrible human being for it. (For all my efforts, I still failed at concealing my homosexuality… Story for another day)
I was twenty-five when I decided I was done with women. I felt like I was sleeping with girls to assure myself that I could ditch my homosexuality whenever I wanted, and so that people would not suspect me. I made sure women visited me often so that neighbors would not suspect me. But then, I was done. The charade was exhausting. I stopped dating women, I started curving those that came on to me, and I actively indulged my homosexuality. I began living on my terms and growing into my own. I crawled out of internalized homophobia and began to accept myself as a gay man. I started endeavouring to live happy. And life, for all intents and purposes, became great.
Why is Dennis Macaulay taking this exhaustive walk down memory lane? some of you may ask. Patience, please.
I was arguing with a few close pals of mine recently and they were telling me that my decision to stay single was very foolish and borne out of selfishness. I agreed with them that it was selfish. I added that if my life were a movie, I would certainly be the director. I would never ever outsource that. One of them then snarked at me, saying that I was bisexual sef, so he “doesn’t even see why I carry this gay matter for head, you been dey fuck pussy na.” I go way back with the person who said this, so he actually knows me very well. I wanted to argue with him that I wasn’t bisexual, but I kept mute and listened while they marshaled out reasons why I should get married. And slowly, my mind drifted away.
Recently I started developing interest in women again. Not a sexual interest; it was more like another wave of curiosity. I would look at women the way an art aficionado would look at a painting – with curious admiration and taking in details about them that other people did not see. I still managed to convince myself that it was not sexual attraction but curiosity, and that it does not affect whether I identify as gay because I am still a gay man.
Last Friday however, I had sex with a girl, nearly four years after vowing never to do so again. It was someone’s birthday and we went to a bar in a group. She came and joined us, and her perfume smelt like fresh lemons. We hit up a club afterwards, and when I wanted to leave, with the excuse that my estate gates are locked at midnight, this girl seized my keys and said, “Worst case, you crash at my place.” I relaxed and danced the night away with her. When we got to her place, I realized there was no couch to crash on; she lived in a self-contained room. So I joined her on the bed, and the rest is history.
So here are the issues I’ve been pondering on. I ask myself questions and I give myself reassurances. I wonder if I am a bisexual man. Then, I maintain that I am a gay man – the type who doesn’t hate women but doesn’t like them either (does that make sense to you?). I don’t have anything against bisexuals please, except that many of them can become condescending and claim not o understand why some gay men cannot sleep with women. Other than that, I don’t have issues with bisexuals. But when I wonder if I identify as bisexual, I remember that I like boys way too much. I like nyash, I like preek, and – oh, yes, I like Korede Bello too.
See you guys next week.