The Sexual Compass

by Michael Reed

“Not got any johnnies, have you?” he asked me after tapping on my door at 1am.

  “Erm… yep.” Why did I pause, as though having to think about it? Was I implying that I was using them at such a rate that I couldn't reliably recall if I had any left? More likely, I had hinted at the truth, that once they were bought, they were shoved into the sock drawer to lie untouched.

  “I couldn't borrow a couple, could I?” he asked.

  “Borrow them? Okay, but you better give them a damn good wipe afterwards,” I said, as I headed upstairs.

  “Champion, mate!”

  Upon my return, I threw him the box. “Might as well take the lot. There's every chance I won't be getting laid tonight.”

  “Good lad.” He took them over to the standard lamp to examine them.

  “They're extra small. I hope that's acceptable.”

  “No, it's not that,” he replied. “Just checking that they're still good.” He had the decency to smile with embarrassment at that one.

  Oh well, at least they would get some use. His sex life was a bit hectic. The bastard. He'd lie and cheat on whoever the latest one was, and his older brother had never been able to get a girlfriend or have sex.

  It wasn't just the number of women he got, it was the type of women he got. It would have seemed reasonable that he'd wake up next to another druggie from time to time, given his lifestyle, but that isn't what Steven liked. And Steven got whatever he liked in life. Steven had girlfriends rather than one night stands. Not being University educated was a rarity and the relationships went on for months. How did they put up with him? Why did they put up with him? They became exasperated with him, but never truly angry. That's because it was never truly his fault, in their eyes. It always seemed to me that it was their fault for putting themselves through the mill with him. It might have been that the women got something out of it that I couldn't figure out.

  Chapter 12 A gay night out

  “A brave man dies once, a coward a thousand times.”

  I gave the house a last look around. Ever the optimist, I had tidied up, just in case. Wallet, keys, phone. Wallet, keys, phone. I normally wore a watch, but watches are for sensible people.

  Goodbye, house. Goodbye, old me. May fortune favour the foolish.

  I decided to walk all the way into town to give myself a bit of practice and to get into character. I had never before felt like I did that night. For one thing, I felt purposeful. I was a man on a mission and I swaggered as I walked. I felt like I had been holding my stomach in since puberty. And now, I was letting it all hang out. I was on the pull, frankly. Starting at thirty when it came to sex? No big deal. A lot of gay people had a late start on their sex life. In the straight world, women rated me as a three out of ten. I felt sure that I'd do much better as a gay man.

  After fifteen minutes of walking (and swaggering), I reached the corner that led into town. 10pm was a good starting time for a night of clubbing in Cleethorpes. There are probably about fifteen little clubs, all open until the early hours. I had never been in any of them. In the past, I had danced a little, down the pub, when extremely drunk, usually on my own and for the amusement of the lads. How humiliating for me.

  As I rounded the corner, my swagger missed a beat as I saw a police car parked outside of a club. Weird. What was I doing wrong? Okay, I stole some chemicals. The truth is that I was going equipped for homosexuality, and instinctively, I thought it might have showed. I smirked to myself at my private joke. But this raised a question: did gay people like a joker? Heterosexual women didn't seem to find it very attractive.

  A typical night out would consist of me standing with guys I knew vaguely from work while holding my pint at my chest. There are areas for men like me in every club and every pub that has a dance floor. They should be clearly marked: “Sad Lonely Bastard Zone”, and then the small print: “This area is for sad bastards who can't get anyone to dance with them. Old geezers who are just out for a perv are also allowed to use this area. No dancing other than vaguely nodding and moving a leg in time to the music.”

  This time it was going to be different.

  Frankly, I presumed that the sexual negotiations would be a bit simpler with other men. Some might say that my assumption was based on a stereotype about gay people, but I was sure that it wouldn't be endless rounds of game-playing, posturing and proving of one's worth.

  As I walked along the street, someone doing promo for a club handed me a flyer for a free shot with my first drink. I knew the upstairs of that one to be decidedly fruity, but when I went in, I began with two drinks in the downstairs bar before venturing up.

  Okay, I thought, let's see what this baby can do.

  Once at the top of stairs, sure enough, lots of young men with tight t-shirts were laughing and hugging each other. I had pulled into Gayville, it seemed. Good.

  Here was a question: did they know that I might be gay? I had gaydar, but was I throwing out a gay signature that they could detect? Sure enough, I got a few looks back. It was working!

  After a couple more drinks, I prepared to continue with this phase of the experiment. Even standing there, sambuca in hand, the situation was different from the usual one. I was standing with my drink, observing as usual, but this time I was checking out the lie of the place while concocting an overall strategy for the evening.

  I usually planned my drinking to be nicely drunk by home time. What a boring fellow I had been. What a sad time of the night home time was. Sometimes, I'd have a go at drunkenly joking around with the staff as they were packing up, to stave off the inevitable. It's probably just as well that I wasn't born a woman as God knows what I'd do to avoid going home by myself.

  With pretend confidence that had been enhanced by alcohol, I walked towards the dance floor, for once, with intent. I found a pillar, and I stood next to it while surveying the scene.

  Damn it, those are the standing places for losers!

  I'd use it to get my bearings and then launch off in my new persona as a homosexual club-monkey.

  Through a fractal on a breaking wall, I pushed off and soon stood two metres away from the safety of the pillar. I had an Ace up my sleeve as, earlier in the week, I had looked up “dancing in clubs” on YouTube. Let's just say, I now knew a few moves. Casually, I employed the step touch, one of the dances I had practised in front of the laptop. It worked a bit, but I think I must have learned the wrong dance for this type of music. It was very hard to do the step touch fast enough. I looked around. No one else was doing the step touch. It was probably a good dance move, but it was too complicated.

  I simplified things, movement-wise, and bopped along on pure instinct, persevering for the rest of the song and then headed back to the bar. After a sambuca and then one more sambuca, my thinking became clearer. Back on the dance floor, and things went a bit seventies. Thank God the DJ seemed to have his head screwed on, finally. “Freak Out!” indeed. Standing on my own, I had a considerable groove going on, and I kept it up for a couple of songs. What an enjoyable sensation, but why not seize upon this run of good luck, groove-wise?

  I spotted a likely target of a few lads dancing together. Before I had a chance to reconsider, I pushed off towards them.

  “I want to dance with all of you!” I exclaimed. Communication in a club can be a bit hit and miss, but they all heard what I said and began to laugh. One of the guys beckoned me and I was suddenly in their circle. I wondered what the reaction would have been if I'd tried that with a bunch of women back when I was straight. My guess, either a disgusted shake of the head or simply, “Fuck off, mate!”

  No explanations are needed when you are young, gay and slamming the fuck out of the dance floor. Sometimes I danced as part of the group and other times I homed in on an individual to welcoming laughs and smiles that I hoped were well meant. Then again, who cares?

  Looking at one guy, I wondered what it would be like to have casual sex with him. No real feelings of note seemed to be cropping up. I felt sure that I was chang
ed by the mouse, but that once again, the problem was a lack of context. I hadn't grown up fancying men and I had no specific ideas about what I liked. Big muscles? Not really. The guy in front of me had a nice face and a trim body. Not bad.

  Would I be into a fellow fat blokes, if I met one I liked? When I fancied women, I liked a full figure, but even then, what context did I have? About half the time, I clicked on thumbnails featuring women who looked like housewives, complete with flabby bodies. Older women's bodies always looked characterful, and basically, hot, to me. However, if I got close to such a woman, touched her, and got a proper look, would I like it as much as I did on screen? If everyone liked it, why weren't middle-aged women with love-handles on the cover of every magazine and being used to sell products? Furthermore, if no one else liked it, could I really like it as much as I thought I did? But that was crazy talk; if no one else did like it, why did housewifey women on porn sites get voted up with tons of appreciative comments underneath? Certainly, part of the appeal was getting a look at someone I shouldn't be seeing naked.

  I looked around and my new friends had disappeared. Ah, that's life in the fast lane of clubland. Stumbling around, I decided to try another club while still gay.

  Next up, a club called Rio. I nodded to the bouncers and they were quick to acknowledge me and wave me in. They knew a man in a hurry when they saw one. Once inside, I paid my money and strolled in to the main area. To think, I'd lived here my whole life and been content to simply wonder what it was like inside.

  The club was fairly packed and there was some classic rock playing. First problem encountered. I absolutely love Queen, my first CD was a Queen CD, but was I still into Queen? As great as Queen are, as a band, they are what a boring bloke down the pub likes. I decided to be honest about my feelings. I'd enjoy it and it would be nice to have something familiar while I took stock of the place and formulated my plans. Besides, I felt worrying pangs of soberness beginning to take hold; I judged that some red sambuca could solve that problem. I supped at the little plastic cup and surveyed the place from the vantage point of the bar. Erk–there were straight people of my own age group everywhere. However, I had paid to get in, so I decided to wander around.

  I briefly considered buying a pint just to have something to hold, but that was boring bloke thinking. I didn't want a comforter to help me fit in and disappear. I wanted to be able to hit that dance floor at a second's notice when I needed to. Besides, I get drunk rather quickly for a fat bloke, and I had lost count of how many red sambucas I had sloshed down so far. I wobbled a bit when I pushed off from the bar. Oh well, maybe a man would spot my vulnerability and decide to take advantage. Hmm… When I was a straight guy, a woman doing that would have been my dream come true, but even drunk and mousing it, the opposite didn't seem as appealing. I decided to be on my guard, but still open to whatever homosexual possibilities presented themselves in this place.

  As luck would have it, the floor plan was arranged in a figure eight with two separate dance floors, and things improved a bit as I moved onto the dancier dance floor. As I walked around the corner, Madonna came on. Express myself? Yes, that's what I'm trying to do, Madonna! At least it wasn't Like A Virgin. Even Madonna was on my side and egging me on that night. I tried to stumble around as expressively as possible and had a go at expressing myself at the corner of the dance floor. I attracted some confused stares from women. This place just wasn't gay enough for a guy like me.

  I began to feel as though I had overdone things as I flounced around. Damn it, I was at optimum performance for a while there. I'd accomplished a lot on my first expedition. Time to cut my losses and head back to base.

  “Mouse you later!” I shouted to a gaggle of women and topped it off with a salute. They must have been foreign or something and they didn't understand me.

  By that time, I was beginning to feel groggy, but that was probably a side effect of the mouse, I reasoned. I pushed off and tried to maintain my balance. I always feel like I'm The Terminator when I'm as drunk as this. I was reduced to basics. Move forward. Recall mission parameters. Someone approaching. Carry out threat assessment. No threat detected. Locate building exit from memory bank. Plot safe route. Hold on to pillar. Proceed to exit. Nod to concerned looking doorman. Proceed out of building. Continue onto main road. Plot optimal route.

  By the time I was near my street, I realised that I had a choice. I could bolt down an alley and throw up now, or I could baby myself back to the house, and perhaps, not vomit. Choosing the latter over the former, I set off down the road. A few minutes later, I quietly unlocked the door and walked into the house without rushing things.

  I whispered: “God of Booze, I have been taught enough of a lesson. Yes, I drank way too much, but I accept that fact, and any further lesson would be superfluous. Besides, I have lot on my mind at the moment, and it's perfectly understandable that I have overdone things.”

  My excuse-making, coupled with a lack of a truly penitent attitude, angered The God of Booze. Teenage experience told me not to run. Solemnly, I proceeded into the bathroom and chucked up. What a night.

  Chapter 13 - Straightening things out

  Sometimes you have to strike when the iron's hot. It's called momentum, and I seemed to have built some up. I didn't know where I was headed exactly, but you get to a point where life is so steady that you're sick of being comfortable.

  “Y'know, I'm a bit sick of the way you make fun of me when you're ready to go,” I said to myself. It was a good opening, truthful and direct. “I'm not much of a sexual success, and I'm sick of you lording it over me,” I continued, practising what I was going to say to Susan.

  “Tell me, Susan, what did you do to earn your success in that area of life?” That would be sticking it to her. A few home truths. No losing my nerve and apologising to her. This would be a bitter pill that would take a while to have its full effect. Let her leave angry or even storm out. She'd have to come back eventually, and when she did, we'd be on a much better footing. I have been a joker, but I am not a joke. How about adding, “You mean a lot to me, Susan” to the beginning of it? Somehow I knew that starting off like that would put me in control.

  Once we were in the kitchen, Susan started on about things in the usual way. It was difficult to cut in; I had to make it seem natural. Plain words were the best way to get started, and then back to what I had prepared.

  “There is something I want to say,” I said, suddenly.

  “Oh, right? Sounds serious.”

  I didn't want to do it. Who cares if she made fun of me a bit? I vaguely remembered promising myself that I would persevere. It was important for some reason that I couldn't remember. Besides, I had to say something now. Go on John, blurt it out!

  I blurted: “I'm sick of the way you make fun of me. I'm a virgin and it's not my fault.”

  “Oh, um,” she mumbled before laughing and biting her upper lip in an attempt to stop.

  I was glad she was laughing. It gave me the courage to finish off the job.

  “It's pretty funny for you, Susan, because everything goes your way when it comes to sex. You're a nice looking woman and you've got big tits, and I wonder how I ended up being a complete bloody joke around here!”

  I kept my voice down, and I'd shut the intervening doors for the sake of Steven and the kid. This was proper grown-up stuff, and I had impressed myself. It was like a row on soap opera.

  That said, it was, maybe, a bit stronger than I had meant. Oh, and what had I told her? I'd handed over my most humiliating secret to someone whom I'd just made an enemy of. Now I was even more of a joke. Oh, for a time machine.

  “Okay…” She then had to stifle her laughter again. So much for not being a joke any more. Why did I feel like I had just transitioned from nervously standing on the side of the road to putting myself into the middle of the road, with heaving traffic bearing down on me? She put her hand in front of her mouth and then touched me on the shoulder. This is why people never fix things, becaus
e it feels crap.

  To make matters worse, I felt guilty because she is dependent on me for the visits. Now I was leveraging that position to berate her over something not very important. What an arsehole. I would have been better off saying, “Oh, I'm not playing that any more” and pulling away from her next time she started up. That would have done the job. She would have made a joke about me being touchy. It might have taken a few goes but it would have worked eventually. Anything was better than this.

  Then she ramped things up by locking eyes with me and said, “I'm sorry…” and then she pretended to start crying. That did it. Susan was making things a lot easier for me by keeping me angry with her. And… I realised that she was crying. Her apology was obviously genuine too. On the positive side, this wasn't going to turn into a screaming match.

  Steven burst into the room.

  “I just need a…” he began.

  “We're in the middle of something, Steven,” she said. “Out!”

  He obeyed.

  “I am sorry, John. I didn't mean to make fun of you.” We both stood there quietly for a while as she continued to sniffle.

  After a while, I sighed and told her it didn't matter that much.

  “It does matter, and I shouldn't have done it.”

  I'd uncorked the bottle, and as a result, I felt shivery but no longer angry. Another pause and more sniffling from her while she looked at the floor.

  God, this must be what it feels like to have a girlfriend. Perhaps it isn't worth it.

  I wondered if getting a boyfriend was going to be free from moments like this.

  “Why are you crying?” I asked, breaking the sniffly silence. This was followed by another pause that once again made me feel as though being girlfriendless over the course of my entire life had an upside to it.

  “I seem to turn everyone against myself. Usually by ripping the piss out of them. Especially of late. I am sorry,” she said.

  “It's really okay. It's a bit of a sore subject for me, as you can imagine. I've been going through a lot recently, and I'm trying to get things sorted out.”

  Although I felt as though I had been balancing on a high-wire recently, summarising things out loud had helped. Now that the problem wasn't unmentionable, it didn't seem insurmountable.