I’m not exclusively hetero or homo. I call myself bi, but I wouldn’t really. I hate the word, for a start. “Oh, I’m bi.” Or is it “Oh, I’m Bi”? Does it get itself a capital letter? Is it a proper noun, does it even need a proper noun? Do I want it to have a proper noun? I just hate it, all the implications it puts on you. Like the assumption you’re just greedy. People always say it and I know it’s a joke, but it pisses me off because jokes like that are so widespread they set the tone for how people perceive you. And surely by saying I’m greedy, meaning I have “intense or selfish desire for something”, means you want it too, but you can’t have it? I’ve tried pointing this out to my straight friends, it usually shuts them up.
I guess I normally would just go for a girl, but occasionally you see that kind of cute guy and I just can’t help myself. I’m much more interested. It’s illicit, forbidden fruit. Some boys are just really fuckable, I guess.
A lot of people say they don’t like feminine guys, they want the masculine hetero types. Normal guys. But I like the feminine types. The flaming homos, the queens, the Lady Gaga fans.
Another thing thing I hate is the assumption that you can’t be into both men and women, you’ve always got to be more into one. Girls always want you to be a gay best friend, guys actually seem to care a hell of a lot less. I never say bisexual, just bi. I have this fear that if I say the word bisexual, people will try and pigeon-hole my preference from the extent to which I lisp on “sexual”.
You can never really tell a girl you’re hitting on. They find it massively off-putting. It seems to have the same effect as “let’s just be friends”. I was watching a TV show at my friend’s house the other day – one of those model reality TV shows, like “London’s Next Top Anorexic Slut” or something. These two girls were talking about how one of them had hooked up with this guy finally that she really liked. It all seemed like normal, boring semi-scripted reality TV conversation until the other one said “I would never want to hook up with a bisexual guy, I’d always just have this visualisation of them sucking cock.” What a wonderfully enlightened twenty first century attitude you have there sweetheart!
That’s the shit I put up with if I tell a girl about my variety in sexual preference. It’s beginning to grind on me. The last two girls I was with, I could never tell them about it even though the conversation topic literally came up. I distinctly remember them describing bisexual guys as “weird” or some other adjective with negative connotations. So I never said anything.
Imagine that, not being able to open and honest with someone. No wonder neither of those worked out.
And if I don’t tell people, they never work it out. There’s no obvious sign hanging around my neck singling out my sexuality. I’m glad girls don’t notice, otherwise it’d put them off. And guys never realise, ergo I never get hit on. That’s my fault as well though If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from The Game, it takes two to tango and you’ve got to lead.
The Game has changed my life. It really has revolutionised the way I hit on girls, and the success I have with them. At the very basic level, it’s made me so much more sociable in just a few months.
The sociability is such that I was at this party tonight, I started a conversation with two random strangers, a guy and a girl. The girl was pretty, pretty. Eye-liner, fine features and good dress sense. You could tell she did art, but she wasn’t a complete art type, which was a shame. I like the crazy ones. The guy was skinny, cute and laughed easily. It seems silly to point out he was gay, no one uses the word cute to describe heterosexual men.
I was more interested in the girl. I’d been looking for a chance to try and talk to her properly since I’d borrowed some smoking paraphernalia off her earlier – I’d noticed how striking her eyes were over the heavy marijuana smoke. I hadn’t been able to start a conversation in the garden, this other guy was just dominating the whole scene, and the girl and her friends were all tucked away in a corner. A party full of guys and none of them are talking to the three cute girls in the corner on their own? Maybe there are more gay guys out there than I realise.
I’d been too constrained by shyness and awkward friends clamouring for my attention to really open that set. Too nervous too, there was a lot of people there and I didn’t want to be shot down in front of twenty odd acquaintances and friends. In a way, being yourself around a group of people you know is harder because there’s so many expectations and to a certain extent you care what they think. I need to stop giving a fuck what my friends think.
I was sitting outside, the thick smell of weed still hanging over the garden from the numerous joints passing around, locked in conversation with a soft spoken South African. We barely took a second look at a gargantuan twelve inch bundle of hashish being delicately passed around. He was telling me all about the beaches of Durban in a voice so low it would’ve been too quiet for a whisper. Something told me I needed to get away from this static drug-addled monotony and find somewhere else to go. I walk through the house, looking for a good conversation with someone I don’t know at all. I pass into the living room, to see the girl with the eyes and the cute boy. They don’t notice me. Numbly, I ask where the toilet is. I’ve been here at least a dozen times before.
Outside the toilet, I berate myself silently for fucking up a chance to open that set. I hear voices from the toilet. Not exactly hushed tones, but voices lowered to the level that implies casual and proud drug usage but behind closed doors. Wonderful. I have messed up two good chances to start a conversation with a pretty girl and now I can’t even take a piss.
I wonder back downstairs and mumble a joke about someone being in the toilet and slump onto an office chair opposite their sofas. Finally, I begin to talk. Just me for the first little while but they open up soon enough and then I’m telling the odd joke. We go out to the quiet front for a cigarette, but I’m out of papers. She says she’ll wait for me and puts out the cigarette she’s just lit, which I immediately note as a indicator of interest.
I go out back.
“Hey man, you got a rizla I can borrow?” A long pause ensues. I tap a beat of four on my thigh.
“You got a rizla mate?” Another pause ensues.
“Uhhh… yeah man, check the… the t-table.” I dutifully check. I have already checked before, but I don’t want him to feel I am presumptuous, so I make a show of looking quickly.
“None here man.”
“Any of you guys got a rizla I can borrow?” An even longer, aching pause ensues. The tension builds dramatically, like a black and white film. The smoke even gives us greyscale.
“What?” The charade repeats for a few minutes before someone volunteers and provides me with a silver king skin. I thank him, and promptly return to the front door. I rip it in half and roll a cigarette that I don’t even want to smoke, for the twentieth time tonight.
I notice the guy more now. He’s really cute. I am feeling that feeling I get about guys sometimes. He has soft skin, he’s skinny and has good hair. Often times, gay guys seem to have ugly faces. It’s a real sticking point for me. He doesn’t, though. He is handsome and I want to kiss him. He is fuckable.
At this point, I decide I want him more. My lift is leaving now. I note my bad luck. I can at least get a number or a kiss. Not to spoil the ending, but I get neither in the end.
Despite having decided my target, I am running game on the girl. Good quality game, better than I have in weeks. Given more time, I could’ve had her that night. What’s going on? I’m doing the exact opposite of what I want to do. She playfully disagrees with me about something, I laugh and tell her we wouldn’t get on. She laughs, showing a smile I like the look of. A dirty smile that shows off rows of perfectly white teeth set against a subdued lipstick and a tan skin tone.
This goes on for minutes, for some bizarre reason all my chatter is directed at the girl. I even turn my body away from the girl and towards the guy, but in a real life application of sod’s law, this only makes her more interested. Normally I try this, and people just think I’m rude.
I am warmed up now, I know I could make one of them tonight given enough time. I am excited, the blood is flowing in me.
Then my phone rings. My dad is at the pub up the road. Fuck, why the hell does my car have to be in the garage today? I hate the arbitrary nature of having to rely on someone else for lifts. The lack of control you have.
I leave, not asking either for their numbers or names. In the car, my dad regales me with stories about visiting South Africa in the midst of apartheid whilst the mist rises in the glow of suburban streets, like some crazy dream.