Straight to Gay: How a Stroke turned one man Gay

by Chris Birch

  I loaded another bag in the boot of my car, somehow, the memories flooding back were keeping my tears at bay, as if still remembering my family meant that somehow I hadn’t lost them. I started to shut the boot but then noticed two black eyes staring back at me. It stopped me in my tracks, it was the teddy Mum had given me when I went to the hospital to meet Simon.

  I was six when Simon was born and was sent to stay with Nan when Mum went into hospital. As I sat on the sofa, kicking my legs and trying to construct the Star Wars Death Star from Lego blocks, Nan, who had been waiting next to the phone all afternoon, pounced on the receiver as soon as it rang. I’ll never forget that squeal she made before telling me I had a brother. When we arrived at the hospital ward later that day, I looked over at Mum and barely recognised her; she was red-faced, sweaty and her hair was all messy. Dad had his arm draped over Mum as she cradled a blanket with a pink blob inside it.

  'That’s your new brother,' Dad had whispered to me proudly.

  Life changes when you get a sibling, especially if you are used to being the only child, and, being aware of that, Mum and Dad obviously wanted to make sure I didn’t feel left out. So they presented me with a teddy and told me it came with my brother. At the time, I was totally unaware of the process of childbirth, the idea that my mum had given birth to a teddy didn’t throw me at all. Instead, I was delighted that I was getting something out of the whole big-brother thing. I had been told many times that being a brother meant I had new responsibilities, so I felt it was only right I was being compensated for it.

  I can still remember now the first time I locked eyes on Simon. A bundle of skin in Mum’s arms, his eyes were closed, he lay perfectly still, like a doll. Mum looked knackered but happy. When Simon was born I felt a huge sense of responsibility. From what I had seen in films, brothers were special. I knew that we would be bound together for life; I was his only brother and he mine.

  At least, that is what I thought then. I looked at the blue fluffy teddy in the boot of my car. ‘Looks like it’ just me and you now,’ I said to myself before slamming the boot shut.

  When we were kids I used to look after Simon when Mum and Dad were at work. Mum’s long hours as an ambulance driver meant she was often out of the house in the evenings so I would reheat what ever dinner she had made for us. I loved pretending to play the role of dad to Simon and somehow that made us closer. There was a time when I was his best friend, keeper of all secrets, playmate and protector. I missed those days. But if there was one thing I had learnt in the last year, it was that everything could change, in ways you could never imagine.

  Chapter Two: Ladies Man

  It was the type of glorious sunny afternoon that most bride and groom’s pray for on their wedding day. The smell of freshly mown grass perfumed the air, the chatter of happy voices rung in my ears and with my best friend, Wayne, at my side, I nervously awaited my bride.

  I looked down at my white shirt, Mum had ironed it that morning but the crisp edges had started to wrinkle in the heat. Chatter broke out around me and I realised, whilst I shuffled my feet in my heavy leather shoes, that my bride was behind me. A chorus of our closest friends broke into song.

  'Here comes the bride, all fat and wide, here comes the groom, skinny as a broom,' their high-pitched giggles made me break into laughter.

  I looked to my side, Leah, the most popular girl at school, who all of my mates fancied, stood proudly next to me.

  'Do you take this girl?' the vicar, who beforehand had been picking worms out of the lawn and eating them, said seriously.

  Leah and I nodded solemnly, her toothless grin beamed back at me.

  'Does anybody here want to fight him for her?' the vicar declared.

  It didn’t sound quite right but I didn’t question him. He had told me before the ceremony that he knew what to say because he had watched one of his Mum’s films with a wedding in it. With nobody objecting my best man passed me two jelly sweets in the shape of rings. I grabbed Leah’s hand and nervously pushed the ring on her finger.

  'You may kiss the bride,' the vicar dramatically announced and then burst into giggles.

  The laughter spread through the wedding party, I felt my cheeks flush red but bravely lifted the lace curtain Leah had draped over her head, leant in and quickly kissed her on the lips.

  'Ewwww, Chris kissed Leah,' my best man shrieked.

  I was six years old and had just got married on the school field in our lunch break. Sadly, the union wasn’t didn’t quite last for the rest of our lives, or even, a whole week. The next day Leah said we weren’t married anymore because I wanted to play football instead of making daisy chains with her. But she would be the first in a long line of girlfriends. From that moment onwards girls would be my hobby, the centre of my universe, my teenage years would be dedicated to the fairer sex and chasing after as many of them as possible.

  At High School, by then spotty-faced and stinking of my dad’s aftershave, I became both fascinated with and terrified of, girls. Like a homing pigeon, something innate made me want to be close to the fairer sex, it’s just that when I came face to face with a girl I fancied I didn’t quite know what to do. But thankfully, Dad had some advice for me. One Saturday, after watching the local rugby team lose pitifully, Dad was feeling philosophical, perhaps thanks to the beers he had drank. I was thirteen, my upper lip had recently sprouted its first black hair, my body buzzed with hormones and having had a growth spurt that saw me rip out of my clothes, I was feeling awkward.

  As a group of girls from my school walked past us Dad motioned for me to follow them.

  'One of them your girlfriend?' he chuckled, he had noticed my red face and

  uncomfortable stoop.

  I shot him a death stare instead of saying anything. My voice had started to quiver in the past week, every now and then a word would come out high-pitched, shaky and unstable.

  'Ooh someone’s voice is breaking,' Mum had laughed when she heard me. So, I vowed only to speak if it was completely necessary.

  'Listen Son,' Dad said warmly, noticing my despair.

  'There’s no big secret to women, just be their friend and then if it’s right, it might lead to something more.’

  Be their friend? It was a revelation. So, I don’t have to woo them with some big romantic gesture like Hugh Grant does in the films

  'Worst case scenario, you’ve made a new friend, best case, you’ve got a girlfriend.’

  Dad shrugged, popped a cigarette in his mouth and then lit it.

  His words stayed with me. That Monday, at school, I decided to try out Dad’s advice on two girls in my year, who were huddled in a corner of the playing fields.

  'You ever been to see the banger car racing?' I tried, my mates looked on and wondered what on earth I was doing.

  Their faces immediately softened.

  'Oh I love banger racing,' one of them declared loudly.

  'Was it good?' the other cooed.

  Bingo, I thought. Maybe girls weren’t so complicated after all.

  After making friends with a few of the girls I invited them back to mine after school to listen to music in my room, it was all very innocent.

  'Alright mum, we’re just going to my room to do some homework,' I said casually and then shepherded the girls upstairs before Mum could say anything embarrassing.

  Mum was halfway through making dinner and gave me that famous Mum stare that meant she was watching me. Her eyebrows raised, her eyes tightened and as the girls ran up the stairs Mum smacked me on the bum with a tea towel.

  'You leave that bedroom door open Christopher,' she said and wiggled her finger in my direction.

  She only called me Christopher when I had done something wrong, or, was about to.

  'Yeeeesss Mum,' I groaned, embarrassed, I hoped my friends hadn’t heard her.

  Mum’s face softened and she winked at me.

  'Go on then,' she said, motioning her head upstairs.

  From her expression it was clear
that she was secretly a little proud of the fact her son was so successful with ladies.

  'Boys will be boys,' she chimed to herself as I padded up the stairs.

  In my bedroom the girls giggled at the posters on the wall. Like most boys my age I had a subscription to FHM magazine and had torn out posters of Pamela Anderson and blu-tacked them to the wall, much to my mother’s annoyance.

  'If that pulls the paint off with it you can re-paint those walls,' she had moaned.

  Opening my black cassette tape organiser with pride I asked the girls what they wanted to listen to and we would spend the next hour listening to music and talking about our friends at school.

  One night, when I was fifteen, a new face joined us on the walk home from school. She was blonde, tall and had doll-like beautiful features.

  'Hi, I’m Carys,' she smiled.

  Instantly smitten I tried to hide my grin. I knew hanging around with girls would pay off, I thought.

  'Fancy coming over to mine?' I asked.

  Carys nodded shyly.

  She sat in my room for an hour but barely uttered a word, later that night, after they had left, I found a folded up letter under my pillow. I unfurled the creased piece of paper and immediately noticed the smudged outline of a pair of pink lips. My heart instantly raced with the excitement and promise of what was to come.

  Be my boyfriend? I really like you, it read in swirly, unmistakably girl’s, handwriting.

  I was so surprised that I instantly worried Simon might have planted it.

  'Are you sure you haven’t left something in my room?' I asked him, whilst he fiddled with Lego.

  'No, stop asking me,' he shrugged.

  He wasn’t lying, he wasn’t capable of telling a convincing fib, so there was only one other conclusion.

  An anonymous love note I thought, bursting with pride, that must make me a ladies man.

  The next day at school I questioned one of the girls in our lunch break.

  'Did someone leave something under my pillow?' I asked.

  'Don’t know what you’re talking about,' she grinned before winking subtly and walking back to her friends.

  The lads were all jealous.

  'How do you do it?’ They chided, 'get one of them to go out with me'.

  After days of bugging the girls they finally gave in.

  'Carys likes you,' one of them admitted, matter-of-factly.

  I wondered what to do next. She liked me but she hasn’t spoken to me? It was all very confusing. That evening, Carys came round to my house.

  'Umm can I ask you something,' I whispered, trying to be private despite the other two girls sitting on the bed with us.

  Carys nodded.

  'Will you be my girlfriend?' I blurted it out and then immediately blushed red and broke into a sweat.

  What if she says no? I’ll look like a right pillock, I worried and stared at the floor whilst I waited for an answer.

  'Yes,' Carys finally said softly.

  I leant in for a kiss, nervous excitement made my palms sweaty but then my lips met hers and then….wow. Warm, fuzzy, adolescent surges rushed through my body. This is brilliant, I thought, I want to do this a lot more.

  After that we started one of those weird relationships you have as a teenager, we declared that we were boyfriend and girlfriend but avoided each other like the plague because it was all too embarrassing. Despite initially thinking that we would be together forever things fizzled out very quickly because I couldn’t be bothered to cycle the few miles to the village where she lived!

  Two years later, when I was fifteen, I had swapped hanging out in my bedroom for something a little more daring. A lad in my class at school had bragged that the local nightclub had let him in, so, my friends and I decided to give it a go.

  'Just going to the park,' I told Mum, rushing towards the front door.

  'You look very smart for going to the park,' Mum said suspiciously.

  She was eyeing up the blue shirt I had on, she had bought it for me to wear at her friend’s wedding, it was the only thing in my wardrobe that I thought would make me look grown up. Before I could think of an excuse her face fell into a laugh.

  'Oh I can guess why, impressing some girl i’m sure,' she sighed, shaking her head.

  After meeting my friends outside my house we walked to town and made our way to the club. We approached the neon lit door nervously and all stretched our backs and puffed out our chests in the hope it would make us look older and taller.

  'Work’s been a nightmare today,' I announced in a fake gruff voice, just close enough for the bouncers to hear.

  He looked us up and down then opened the door and loud trance music immediately burst out, we quickly walked in before he changed his mind.

  'They totally believed us,' my friend whispered excitedly.

  'We must look over eighteen, that’s amazing,' I grinned.

  Looking back, I’m pretty sure the nightclub knew that anyone who was old enough to drink alcohol legally wouldn’t be seen dead in there, so they let us kids in to make up the numbers. But as I surveyed the room, surrounded by beautiful women in brightly coloured dresses, new female faces decorated with dangly earrings and thick, shiny, lip gloss, I felt like some kind of playboy.

  I’m a proper grown up man, I thought, triumphantly.

  Later that year whispers spread around school that one of the lads in our class had had sex, he said it was with a girl he met on holiday.

  'Sounds made up,' I scoffed when he bragged to me. But secretly I felt like everyone was having sex apart from me. It seemed like sex was everywhere, in the films, the music I listened to. Even our teachers were talking about it and in sex education our tutor awkwardly taught us how to put a condom on a banana. So, when the moment finally came and my girlfriend at that time suggested I go to her house when her parents were out, I crossed everything and prayed it would happen.

  My prayers were answered. Like most first encounters it was awkward and over way too quickly but that didn’t stop me feeling like a complete stud for having lost my virginity. That girlfriend may not have lasted long but my desire to have sex more often, with more women, was ignited.

  By the time I had turned eighteen I had started using liquid courage to help me chat up women, with a few pints of beer under my belt I had the confidence to talk to anyone, whether they wanted me to, or not. One night, in a local bar in nearby Newport, a group of pretty girls sauntered past my friends and I and sat down in front of us. Standing at the bar with my four mates a quick head count tallied up ten of the girls, at least two each, the odds were good.

  'I’ll get them to come over,' I told my mates, nodding my head in the girl’s direction.

  My friends rolled their eyes.

  'Here he goes, Chris Birch ladykiller,' one of them joked.

  'Watch this,' I added, cockily.

  I flipped up the collar of my white shirt and strolled over to the women who looked deep in conversation. As I approached them, one lady, with blonde hair, looked up and the others followed her gaze, suddenly I had ten pairs of eyes on me. If I hadn’t of had three pints I would have felt nervous but with the warm confidence of alcohol, I carried on.

  'Hi ladies, you having a good night?'

  Blank faces stared back at me but that wasn’t going to deter me.

  'You from round here then?' I asked.

  I knew they couldn’t ignore me forever.

  'Yeah,' one said, then she turned back to look at her friends.

  That’s fine, I thought, I like a challenge, they’re just playing hard to get. Sure I was going to get at least one phone number I ploughed on and tried to work out which one seemed to hate me the least.

  'So, you girls out celebrating tonight?' I said.

  If one of them is out for their birthday I can offer to buy them a drink. But my plan was thwarted.

  'No, we’ve just been to a funeral for our friend,' the blonde girl said, 'this is the wake.’

  I looked at the
girls again and realised they were all in black and one of them was holding what looked like an order of service.

  ‘Oh, right .. well, my condolences.’

  I retreated back to my mates as quickly as I could to lick my wounds but it wasn’t long before we were all eyeing up another group of girls.

  'You need a good chat up line,' my mate suggested, leaning on the bar.

  ‘Nah, don’t need them’.

  Usually I had better luck with women and I was pretty sure that was because I didn’t use cheesy lines like my mates did.

  'What about this one?' he started, 'do you believe in love at first sight, or shall I walk by again?'

  'What about...you look a lot like my next girlfriend?'

  'No no,' one of the lads interrupted, 'try this one'.

  He pulled himself together and with a serious expression on his face delivered his line.

  'Are your legs hurting? because you've been running through my mind all day'.

  'Ohh god, no wonder you lot have no luck with women,' I sighed.

  By the time I was nineteen I saw myself as a bit of a Casanova and for some unknown reason the women of South Wales seemed to agree. Every Saturday was dedicated to get ready for our big, lads night out where we hoped to pull some girls.