Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2023 14:40:14 +0200
From: Charley Reed <alongweekend@gmail.com>
Subject: Reed 'em and weep: 10 June 2008

Tuesday 10 June 2008
Things which irritate me: being unsettled

Right, so by the time the next entry rolls around, I'll be on leave for 5
weeks with one semester of university under my belt. Not necessarily the
best semester ever in the history of ever, mind, but done is done and
that's what will count in the end. Cell biology just finished a few minutes
ago, Cem on Friday and Physics on Monday, and then... holidays. Some of the
other majors have a more spread-out schedule, like Ryan and his mates doing
BCom are all still writing for another 11 days after I finish up the
semester. This has its advantages with more time to cram subjects between
exams, but I'll be glad to get mine done in a week so I can have longer
me-time. Not exactly beach weather, being June in the southern hemisphere,
but a recharge is a recharge.

Al has been a little scarce since The Incident last week. Not sure if he
can tell from his phone that I did get that text after all or he's just
grafting -- we all are, I suppose, exam time upon us and etc -- but he's
been quieter than usual. Still no closer, then, to knowing whom he was
sending the weenie picture to. Actually, I suppose I should probably not
call it a weenie, all things considered... not going to say anything else
which might incriminate me, but I'm sure you get my drift, eh? Eh? Either
way, I think whoever is on the receiving end is going to know about it the
next day, that's for damn sure. We're both pretty tall, around the same
height, but apparently he got different genes to me in the erect schlong
department, so... you know. It's a lottery of sorts, I guess, and I did not
win the Powerball.

I hope I'm not the smallest in our group. Yes yes, size doesn't count, blah
blah, it's what you do with it, yada yada, good riddance to anyone who
would reject you for your cock size which you have no control over, etc
etc. But I still really hope it's not average old me.

So I got made at the gym Thursday night by Trevor. What a fuck-up. We're on
our way there and we're just shooting the shit. Same old same old. He's
bitching about Cecilia, and work -- waiting tables isn't fun; been there,
done that, will be doing it again soon enough -- and how the
study-from-home programme is very easy to fall behind in without formal
classes to keep you on track; the usual chit chat. We get to the gym and
head to stash our crap in the locker room, and by now the chat had since
progressed on to our high school days and one thing lead to another and
he's waxing lyrical about past girlfriends. Seems he was not exactly a
wall-flower -- lost his virginity at 14 to an older girl and pretty much
didn't stop, and is now well into double figures of women he's had sex with
at only 22. And by "well into double figures" I don't mean like 11, it's "I
dunno, 30 at least, maybe more. No, wait, definitely more" in his words.

I mean, save some vag for the rest of us, Trevor, there's a good chap! A
long-term relationship with Cecilia spanning four years now, and before her
sex with 30 different people? Holy fuck. I can't even get bedroom eyes from
the old codgers who occasionally cruise here at the gym anymore, and he's
knobbed 30 people! Like what am I doing wrong? Am I just like a total uggo
and not even slightly fuckable? 30 people, jeebers!

My central processor just brain-farted with that information -- 30 people,
Christ on a bike -- and kinda gave itself a ctrl-alt-delete at that point,
I was properly thrown. While it's restarting, I'm wondering whether I
should be making up a number for safety's sake -- not going to pretend I
have a hundred notches on my bedpost because like really who would believe
that after meeting me, but perhaps just saying there is at least one will
be less mortifying. Still, I'm midway through my reboot while I'm also
wondering whether I should volunteer this information or wait for him to
ask when he blindsides me, and maybe his weirdly modest behaviour up there
suddenly makes sense, because he's asking if I've ever been with a girl or
if I knew from a young age already and just started with guys.

Thank G_d we'd got out the locker room by then and were already at the Pec
Deck because I'm sure that's not what the patrons in the gym in my bucolic
and very conservative neck of the woods want to hear. I'm almost sure you
could hear my butthole squeak as it clenched shut in terror when he said
it. I'm not entirely sure what my face looked like in response -- shock,
offence, disgust, or fear -- because he looked suddenly very wary for a
split second before recovering -- "shit, sorry, man, I thought you were
gay. My bad," and changed the subject, carrying on like nothing had
happened.

Of course I didn't `fess up. So there it was, another golden opportunity
which I spurned. I made absolutely sure to not check out any guys, and made
even more sure to ogle every set of boobs which jiggled past after that,
just to hammer my point home and doing fairly well at it, I thought --
although to be fair, I've thought this all along and clearly... well, from
what he's said I suppose the evidence of my skills kinda speaks for itself
here, doesn't it? -- while the whole time my heart pounded a war-march in
my chest.

How does he know? I thought I passed pretty well given how I dress, talk,
act and the media I consume and promote; I'm indistinguishable from Al and
Gareth and Ben in that regard. So how the fuck does he know? And if he
does, who else does?

This is awkward. On the plus side, because I am really good at immediately
seeing all angles of a given situation, if I really don't pass and everyone
secretly knows but nobody has had histrionics yet or run me out of town
with flaming pitchforks... does that mean I have nothing to worry about
when I own up to it? That's a silver lining I'll take any day of the week,
and what happy days they will be.

But... the cold-hearted, evidence-driven and more rational part of me
doesn't think that's the case, because if it is pretty obvious then why is
nobody gently encouraging me to come out through random asides for me to
read between the lines? I've wracked my brain, I honestly can't think of
any time in recent years where anyone has said anything positive or at
least completely neutral about it, like "you know what, I would be
absolutely fine with it if one of us was gay" from the guys, or something
similar from my parents. Don't get me wrong, nobody seems super-anti, but
nobody is gently pretty pro about it, either, nor obviously realising they
really kinda need to be.

Looking back on this now as I write the entry, I realise I didn't actually
deny it when Trevor said it. I didn't say anything; my face seems to have
done all the talking. So at least when I do come clean, if I do, I don't
have to apologise for lying or anything. That's a very small plus, I guess.

But how the fuck does he know?

The session finishes, we get cleaned up -- still no view of anything he
has; although now perhaps I understand why he lets nothing get seen -- and
we head home, still chinning about nothing in particular. We get to his
driveway, chat another minute or two, and then I say cheers and as I start
to head back across the garden to our place he stops me.

"Hey Charley, I'm sorry about earlier. But you know, if you were a homo it
really wouldn't bug me, hey, like nothing would change between us. We all
have our own paths to follow, no judgements." There it is, exactly what I
wanted to hear earlier. A bit of a surprise -- he strikes me as someone who
will unironically tell you he's an Alpha male and I didn't think they were
that progressive usually -- but there it was: acceptance; earnest, sincere,
unforced, and with conditions perfectly ripe and just waiting for me to
take up my role as the protagonist and recline on the padded cushion he's
set up for me to step out of the closet onto.

So of course I did what any reasonable, logical guy my age would do: I
laughed it off, with a smartarse remark about him getting his gaydar
repaired and, with drums sounding in my head, watched a second golden
opportunity float off on the stiff breeze, wasted and unused, for the
second time in the last hour. I've read that the first step in coming out
is coming out to yourself, and I'm wondering if maybe I haven't done that
properly which is why I keep fucking out on the next step. I'm a little
lost, a lot lost, and I don't really know where to find that bit of
fortitude I need to move things along.

What if I don't get this right and I'm still paralysed with fear in twenty
years' time, or more? At this point I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared
about that, big time.

And still, most critically and infinitely more scary, how the fuck does he
know?

-C