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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
When Ireland voted to let gay people get married, my stepdad hugged me and said, 'Your turn next, Ben! Get yourself a boyfriend. Make us proud.' So I decided to try. Ben is 17, gay, and happy most of the time. He's finished school and is on track to a great career – all that's missing is falling in love. Romantic but a little naïve, Ben meets Peter online. But the guy of his dreams is still in the closet, his pal Soda is suddenly more interested in nights in than nights out, and his old school bully seems determined to ruin his life. Then, on top of everything else, his best friend, Chelsea, goes AWOL – just when he needs her most. Everything is changing and Ben's not sure what to do. But change brings all kinds of possibilities. You just have to be ready to see them. Can Ben navigate the pitfalls of modern gay dating, with all its highly sexualised expectations, and be true to himself?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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This book is dedicated to
Colin Crummy, with fond
memories of our teenage selves
Contents
01.
The Big Date
When Ireland voted to let gay people get married, my stepdad hugged me and said, ‘Your turn next, Ben! Get yourself a boyfriend. Make us proud.’ So, I decided to try, because the time felt right. I was seventeen. I’d skipped Transition Year, flown through my Leaving Cert and was taking a year out to do work experience in the local primary school, before going on to do teacher training. And now, I was ready to start dating. I had a smartphone, I had some money and I wasn’t too ugly. What more did you need?
It was three weeks later, Friday night, and I’d started looking. I was walking home in the lashing rain, and I didn’t even care. I’d just been on the best date ever. The fact that we hadn’t even kissed, never mind slept together, only made it more romantic. The lampposts dripped with rain. Cars sped past. Dublin buses 8swayed gently from side to side. People scurried by with their collars turned up, under umbrellas, as the rain bounced off the pavement and splashed up their legs. I always keep my head shaved and my collar buttoned up, and even though my toes were squelching in my trainers, I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. I’d decided to walk home instead of getting the bus because, like the sappy heroine of some crappy old book you’re forced to read in English class, even the weather couldn’t get me down. Someone’s granny peered at me suspiciously, as if I must be mad to be smiling through the torrential downpour, but she hadn’t been out drinking with a sexy Northern Irish lad called Peter, so I forgave her.
Peter and I met online, as you do. Before I tried it, I had the idea that online dating was slutty, but what’s the alternative? Even though I love going out and dancing all night in gay bars, how many guys met their future husband when they were both dancing off their heads to Lady Gaga? Anyway, I guess online dating is only as slutty as the person doing it. Flashing your mickey all over the internet will probably get you noticed, but you’re not really advertising yourself as boyfriend material, are you?
I’d explained this theory to my best gay pal, Soda, one night in the pub. He thought I was nuts.
‘Girl,’ Soda said (he calls everyone girl, mickeys or not), ‘first 9of all, there’s no such thing as a slut. Slut is just a horrible word that men use to put women down. You’re either sexually liberated or practically a virgin, and you,’ he continued, picking up my bottle of beer and pausing long enough to suck on it suggestively, ‘are living a life of self-appointed celibacy. Seriously. How many boyfriends have you had, Ben?’
‘Um,’ I said.
‘Can’t hear you,’ Soda said, wiping my beer off his glossy lips.
‘None,’ I said. Was that normal? I’d been with a few guys, sure, but I’d been waiting for the right time to date seriously. People like Soda seemed born ready.
‘And I’ve had six, even though we’re practically the same age! I mean, what are you waiting for? A dowry? Come on, you’re seventeen already.’
‘But you’re a little bit older –’
‘Shush,’ Soda said, putting a nail-polished finger to my lips. ‘You’re legal. Get out there and get some action while you’re still horny enough to lower your standards. Just think, once you’re at college, you’ll be looking for a husband. By the time you graduate, you’ll be working on your career. Then you’ll be stuck in a dreary teaching job, and your only fun in life will be an unrequited crush on one of the dads. Next thing you know, you’ll be thirty. Gay death.’
I took a deep breath and tried to think of a polite way to 10explain that not everyone was horny all the time, and besides, thirty was a lifetime away.
‘But Soda, aren’t you almost –?’
‘Stop talking! I’m a perfectly respectable twenty-four years old, with years of wisdom and experience to pass on to the younger generation.’
‘Even though your Grindr profile says twenty-two?’ I said.
‘You have to update it manually,’ Soda said with dignity, ‘and I’ve been busy. Look, once you hit thirty, you’ll be sexually invisible for your remaining time on this planet. Fact of life. You might be cute, but it’s not going to last, so start looking now, before it’s too late. It’s different for me. I’m half Japanese, so I only age at half the rate of you poor white boys. Remember, no guy’ll marry you if you’re rubbish in bed, so put yourself out there, take some portraits without pants, and worry about the lovey-dovey stuff later.’
Sometimes, it wasn’t worth arguing with Soda.
‘So, I just have to pretend to be over eighteen and try to filter out the dirty old men?’
‘Exactly. You’ll take the photos for him, Chelsea, won’t you?’
Chelsea was my best friend, the same age as me but still at school. Luckily, Soda had taught us how to confidently walk into bars like we were eighteen already.
‘Suck my dick, Soda,’ Chelsea said. ‘Whose round is it?’11
‘Ladylike as ever. I learned all my drag moves from you, girl.’
‘Never mind sucking dick,’ I said gloomily, ‘I’d settle for a bag of chips and a snog on the way home.’ I heaved myself up to get another round in. It helps that I’ve been shaving since I was fifteen, and Soda’s cousin is good for fake IDs.
Well, back on the night of the big date, I didn’t get a bag of chips or a snog on the way home, but I did get to hang out for a couple of hours with the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. I’d never really thought men could be beautiful, but this one definitely was. I was nervous as hell because you never know if someone’s photos on their profile will match their face in real life, or whether Instagram filters have done all the hard work. There I was, sitting on my own, nervously texting Soda, saying how maybe I’d turned up too early, or got the wrong bar because all straight pubs kind of look the same, when Peter – the same Peter as his profile pics – appeared at my table, thrusting a big manly hand in my face.
I half stood up, nearly knocked over my beer, dropped my phone, half sat down, then thrust my hand out and grabbed his, shaking it in what I hoped was a masculine sort of way, and not like the sweaty, awkward mess I was turning into.
‘Ben?’
‘Hi, Peter. Yep. I’m always this clumsy. Sorry.’
‘Better get your phone.’ Peter winked at me as he shrugged 12off his leather jacket. ‘Your girlfriend will be wondering where you’ve got to.’
‘He’s not my – huh?’
It was one of those pubs full of locals, where the men and women sit in silence with the telly blaring. A dog yawned at the bar. Its owner tossed it half a bacon sandwich. Peter was tall and pale, with dark hair, a little bit of scruffy stubble, chiselled features and bright blue eyes. His voice had that north of the border twang, like he wanted to whisper something dirty in my ear.
We talked about ordinary stuff, like the estate I grew up in, how long he’d been in Dublin, his day job versus his career, the work experience I was doing now and my plans for college. When we left the bar – ‘I really want to see you again, yeah?’ – he punched my arm and smiled before he walked off, even though I wanted him to kiss me. I knew he wouldn’t, not outside a pub with an old man in a flat cap sucking on a smelly pipe, not while someone was murdering Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ at the amateur karaoke night, not when a gaggle of drunk women were laughing as one of their gang puked into the gutter. The whole time we were talking, the ugly look of the pub had melted away. It was only in small moments – when I saw the young Polish barman look us up and down with a bit of a sneer, or the way a smartly dressed woman smirked 13when she whispered something about us behind her hand to a friend, or when Peter leaned in to laugh at something and I wanted to take his face in my hands and kiss him on the lips – that I’d remembered how in lots of places, two boys still couldn’t kiss each other and not ask for trouble.
Still, he’d been clear about what he wanted – a discreet meet, to see if we liked each other. One pint, just to say hi. Two pints if we got on, but he’d have to go home after that even if we liked each other, because he had work in the morning, and besides, I don’t do anonymous, you know?
I did know, and I liked how we agreed about it. We’d had two pints, and that was a good sign. I watched Peter’s back disappear into the crowd of people waiting to cross at the traffic lights and broke into a grin. I could barely remember what we’d talked about, but I did remember the way his eyes lit up when he laughed, and how he ran his fingers through his hair when he was thinking about something, and the way his short-sleeved checked shirt bit into his biceps. I resisted the urge to text him straight away. That was the kind of thing irritating girls did on TV, and it always got them dumped before a potential romance blossomed. I wondered if it would be safe to text him the next day. I’d have to ask Soda. He’d been born with an innate knowledge of the Rules of Dating (and How to Wear Make-up).
14Walking home, I passed three girls shivering outside Centra, clutching fivers and tugging on their tiny skirts, trying to cover the bits between their knee-high boots and their underwear. They looked about fifteen, and were trying to persuade grown-ups to go inside and buy booze for them. The tallest was sucking on a cigarette, her eyes ringed with mascara like a raccoon. I looked older than I really was, so I kept my head down. They were too young for getting drunk outdoors on their own.
‘Will you buy us a pack of Smirnoff Ice, mister?’
‘You’ve got a piece of tobacco stuck in your braces,’ I said, and walked on.
‘Faggot!’ she shouted after me.
See, here’s the thing about the word faggot. First time someone calls you a faggot, you get upset because you feel like you did something wrong. After that, you learn to start hiding all the things about yourself that make you a faggot. And it’s only later, when you find out that your real friends don’t care how gay you are and that your family still loves you, that someone shouting ‘faggot’ at you in the street doesn’t hurt as much, and you can walk away with your head held high. It still stings, though, no matter how many times you hear it. I wondered if she’d seen me leave the pub with Peter, and what he would say if he knew that kids could tell I was gay.
‘I’m not really into, you know …’ he’d said in the pub, in a 15quiet voice. I’d leaned in closer, liking the way his stubble sort of framed his lips.
‘The gay scene.’
‘Oh, right. Cool.’
‘It’s all a bit …’
He’d waved his hand around, and I was reminded of Soda after three bottles of beer, but nodded anyway because I knew what he meant.
‘Camp?’
‘It’s not really me, that’s all.’
‘Fair enough.’ I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but his forearms were muscular and hairy, and my hand and my heart were already aching from his grasp, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Hey, what do you think’s going to happen on Game of Thrones?’
Halfway home, the first few drops of rain fell on my face, cold and sharp. I shook off the feeling of being annoyed with the girl outside Centra. I looked up at the sky, all cloudy and grey, and knew it was going to spill. I stuck my hands in my pockets and rearranged my hard-on so I could walk properly in my skinny jeans, but that just made me grin some more. The rain splished and splashed and then began to bucket, but I didn’t have a jacket, or a cap, or the money for a taxi, so I just kept on walking.
So there I was, on a bit of a beer buzz, horny and happy and 16wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped in Peter’s arms, his breath on my neck, his legs around mine as we tussled on the bed, that cheeky accent in my ear as he whispered –
Sploosh!
A car sped around the corner and drenched my legs even more than they already were. I didn’t care. I was nearly home. I picked up my pace, jogging through the shallow puddles on the pavement and kicking an old tin can, just because I could. It landed with a plop in a yellow plastic bucket that one of the kids on the estate had left outside.
Goal!
I felt invincible.
I stopped, yawned and stretched in the rain. I looked up at the sky and stuck my tongue out to catch some raindrops on it. Then I ran a hand over my scalp, shook the drops of water from my face and headed on to our house. I grew up in an estate on the northside of Dublin that everyone says is shit poor, but I like it. Yeah, so there’s the odd broken-down car on someone’s front lawn, and half our neighbours live on benefits, but so what? It’s pretty much live and let live around here.
When I got to the gate, our house was more or less the same as usual. The grass in the front garden needed a trim. One of the light bulbs had blown on the porch. The front door needed a lick of paint. One thing was different though.
17Someone had painted ‘GAYS OUT’ on our wall.
OK, so not everyone voted to let gay people get married. You still get the odd dickhead ruining it for everyone else. I knew which particular dickhead had done this, and I was going to kick his arse, but that could wait till tomorrow. I lingered on the doorstep, not ready to go inside just yet. A light came on in an upstairs window of the house next door. A familiar tousled head peeked out, a cigarette between its lips. Chelsea flipped on her lighter, which lit her face from below like a villain in a black and white movie. She’s a big girl, but you’d never call her butch. She might punch your lights out.
We’ve been best friends since my family moved here, nine years ago. We met on the day I moved in. Me and Chelsea had drawn our water pistols over the dividing line of our shared garden wall. We’d sized each other up, lowered our guns and spent the rest of the day bitching about all the things that eight-year-olds hate.
‘How was the big date?’ Chelsea asked from the windowsill, blowing a lungful of smoke through the rain, which was easing off now I’d made it home, already drenched.
‘Shouldn’t you be studying?’ I said.
‘I can’t be bothered,’ Chelsea said, taking another drag. ‘If I don’t know the cosine of pi squared by now, I never will. Anyway, I’ve got a couple of weeks left to cram.’
18‘Good luck with that. Were you waiting up for me?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. Smoking is my boyfriend. And I can’t help noticing you’re avoiding my question.’
It was true. Part of me wanted to hug the big date all to myself for a little bit longer. But I never kept anything from Chelsea, and she seemed more interested in my love life than the Leaving Cert. ‘It was brilliant.’
‘Oh yeah? Tell me everything.’
I had to take a deep breath because everything about Peter seemed amazing. Then the words came out all at once without me even having time to think.
‘His name is Peter, he’s nineteen and he’s dead nice. Northern Irish. Works in a phone shop, but he really wants to be a photographer, or do his own podcast, or something like that, as long as it’s in media. He’s got a cheeky smile and amazing arms and he made me laugh. I wanted to grab his face and kiss him right there in the pub.’
Chelsea stopped loving her cigarette real hard. ‘You didn’t kiss him?’
I hesitated, feeling awkward. ‘Well, no.’
‘Did he kiss you?’
‘He couldn’t, could he?’
‘And why not?’
‘We were in a straight pub.’19
I knew we were getting to the difficult part when Chelsea stubbed her cigarette out on the windowsill and flicked the butt all the way across the garden and over the wall. It bounced at my feet. The rain died off. I stood there all wet, the air smelling like freshly washed grass. Tiny beads of rain trickled down my face and neck.
‘Why,’ Chelsea asked, in a voice that could freeze your vodka martini at ten paces, ‘were you in a straight pub, exactly?’
I stuck my hands in my pockets. The ground looked really interesting all of a sudden. ‘Why shouldn’t two gay guys go to a straight bar?’ I sounded defensive, even to myself.
‘Eh, so you can actually wear the face off each other on a first date? You mightn’t get a smack in the mouth these days, but you’re still going to get some funny looks.’
I stubbed my toe into the ground, thinking that I’d have to stuff my trainers with newspaper and leave them on the radiator to dry before bed.
‘He’s not out,’ I mumbled.
‘Did I hear that correctly?’
‘He’s not out!’ I yelled.
‘Uh huh. Yeah. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ Chelsea said, which somehow sounded like a threat. She popped her head back inside and shut the window with a bang.
Girls are so moody. When they talk about guys you have to 20ask about her feelings and his feelings and what everyone else is going to think, and when you want to talk about two guys on a date, they don’t get it anyway. Sometimes, I feel sorry for straight lads.
Anyway, I told myself, fishing my door key out of my pocket, my hard-on for Peter still threatening to poke a hole in my jeans, why shouldn’t a fella stay in the closet if he wanted to? Life didn’t have to be all drag queens and glitter and vodka martinis. Maybe if you wanted a proper boyfriend, a real man to hold you, you had to steer clear of the scene – right?
I got the key in the door on the third attempt, which made me think about sex, and that made me giggle. I was probably more drunk than I realised. Oops. I wiped my feet on the mat, trying to be quiet, and knocked over the umbrella stand. I’d always thought umbrella stands were daft pieces of furniture, but now that I was soaking wet, crawling on my hands and knees to find the scattered umbrellas, I saw them in a whole new light. They suddenly seemed like the best idea in the world. I was just warming to the idea of being a grown-up, smugly carrying an umbrella while everyone else got wet, when my stepdad appeared on the landing, gripping a golf club.
I grinned up at him, trying my best to look sober.
‘Oh, hey. Thought you were burglars. How was the big date?’
‘Did Mum tell you?’ 21
‘Of course she told me. She said you were dead excited.’
I stood up and brushed my knees off, trying to be all dignified, but failing. ‘It was good, yeah.’
‘That’s my boy. Don’t let him know how much you like him. You have to play a bit hard to get. Don’t go jumping into –’
‘Nathan!’ Look, Nathan means well and everything, but I was saving all my embarrassing dating questions for Soda. And even then, I’d need a few more drinks.
‘I know, I know. I’ll shut up now. Night-night. Don’t forget to put the umbrellas back and turn the lights off, yeah?’
‘Nathan?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you see the graffiti outside?’
Nathan nodded. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, Ben. I got home too late to clean it off tonight, but I’ll do it first thing in the morning.’ Nathan relaxed his grip on the golf club. He never gets angry, but he does get disappointed. ‘Stupid little sods. If I knew who wrote that, I’d march right round to their house and ask their parents if they were proud of what their kids turned out like.’
Nathan’s family are Jamaican. After my mum and dad split up, she met Nathan, and then my little sister came along. When the divorce came through, Mum and Nathan got married, and we moved here to get away from reminders of Mum’s old life. 22We used to get some funny looks – white mum, black dad, one white son, one mixed-race daughter – but Mum always said we shouldn’t care what other people thought. Besides, Nathan is more of a dad to me than my real dad ever was. I still called him Nathan, though. I’ve never met his mum and dad – they’re still in Jamaica – but sometimes we talk to each other on Skype. My granny and granddad took a long time to get used to the idea that their daughter separated from my dad, had a mixed-race kid, got divorced and married a black man, but the more they got to know Nathan, the more they softened, little by little.
‘I’ll take care of it,’ I said.
Nathan nodded and went back to bed. He trusts me. We’re cool. I dried myself off, remembered to dry out my trainers too and put myself to bed. My room was cosy and warm after getting caught in the rain. Mum had put new bedsheets on, and the pillows were nice and fluffy. I lay back and reached for the tissues on my bedside table. I was settling in, thinking of Peter’s arms, legs, face, everything, when my phone buzzed.
One hand down my boxers and the other on my phone, I thought it might be Peter texting to say goodnight – but no. It was only Soda. Typical.
So? How was the big date?
I politely took my hand out of my boxers to reply.
I think he might be the one!
02.
Boys and Boxers
Next morning, I stormed over to Aaron McAnally’s house. It was an end-of-terrace house with a big garden near the bus stop. It looked like something out of an ad for sofas, or car insurance, or muesli. His parents were into home improvements, Mass and looking down their noses at everybody else. Aaron had been a year ahead of me at school. He used to steal my schoolbag and throw it onto the roof of the bike sheds, call me a ‘gay boy’ on the bus, or wait for me after school to shove me up against a wall and ask if I wanted a kiss, while all his mates laughed, like boys kissing boys was the funniest thing in the world. But I was on top of my work, and I wanted to be a teacher, so I decided to skip Transition Year and finish my Leaving Cert a year early. The only downside was that for 24the last two years at school I was in the same class as Aaron. I almost didn’t skip ahead just to avoid him, but Nathan said I shouldn’t let him hold me back, and he was right. Mum said if I really wanted to be a teacher, she’d get me work experience in her school if I got enough points for teacher training, before starting college with people my own age. That had settled it. But even now, the things that Aaron had done still stung.
On my first day in Fifth Year, Aaron put up his hand in religion class and asked the teacher about the Catholic Church’s view on gay marriage. He looked at me with a big grin on his face as the teacher explained how gay marriage was against God’s plan and all that stuff. I turned bright red and wanted to fall through the floor, but then, one by one, the other kids started to stick up for gay people. OK, so it usually started with, ‘I’m not gay, but …’ but at least it showed Aaron that he couldn’t say whatever he wanted and get away with it. I learned to keep my head down, ignore him and get the grades I needed. I kept telling myself it would be worth it, and besides, I still hung out with Chelsea after school. I would be starting college next September, but Aaron either didn’t get the points for college or didn’t want to go. As luck would have it, he got a job as a gardener in the school where Mum worked and I was doing my work experience, so I still had to see him now and then.25
I usually kept out of his way, but this time, he’d gone too far.
The McAnallys’ garden looked perfect, as always, but Aaron still had a ‘Vote No!’ poster stuck up inside his bedroom window from the gay marriage referendum, as if his side hadn’t lost. Aaron was lying back on a plastic sun lounger, sunbathing topless. His boxer dog was sitting on his chest, as usual. His best friends, Darren and Wayne, were sitting either side of him in the grass, drinking cans of beer. I hopped over the white wooden gate, which annoyed the boxer dog. She jumped off Aaron’s chest and came bounding over, drooling and yapping at me. It wasn’t her fault she belonged to such a horrible person, so I crouched down to tickle behind her ears.
‘Oi! Killer! Get away from the gay boy,’ Aaron yelled. ‘You might get dog AIDS.’
‘Do dogs get AIDS?’ Darren said.
‘I dunno,’ Wayne said, ‘but all your girlfriends are dogs.’
