My Big Fat Gay Life (42 page)

“You’ll always be a big part of my life,” she stated, looking directly into my eyes.

“Why don’t you invite him here so we can all talk about it like civilised human beings?” I suggested.

She nodded.

* * *

That afternoon, Ruth and Kyra came for a visit. I was holding Kyra stiffly in my good arm and Ruth was filling me in on all the latest news when Patricia came into my room. She was carrying a tray full of coffees and muffins, which she placed on the table next to my chair. Ruth and I exchanged horrified glances.

“Don’t worry,” Patricia said, noting our exchanged glances. “I didn’t bake the muffins.”

“Great!” Ruth exclaimed, smiling. “I’m starving.” She reached for a muffin, broke off a piece, and popped it in her mouth.

“Mmmm, good,” she observed through a mouth full of food.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Patricia said, walking from the room.

“No Patricia, please stay,” Ruth said. “I need to talk to both of you.”

Patricia perched herself on the arm of my chair, and we both looked expectantly at Ruth.

“I’m doing OK today,” she started, “but there are times when I feel so sad and irritable. I think I’ve got the baby blues. Is there anything either of you can suggest to help?”

“What’re your symptoms? How bad is it?” Patricia launched herself off my chair and gently cupped her hand under Ruth’s chin. She lifted Ruth’s face up toward her and stared intently into her eyes. What I’d originally seen as signs of exhaustion were now clearly signs of depression.

As Patricia searched Ruth’s face for signs of the depth of her depression, Ruth filled us in with some details. Patricia and I exchanged concerned looks. This wasn’t just the baby blues: she was suffering moderate Postnatal Depression.

“The first thing we want you to do is visit your Doctor and ask for a prescription for some anti-depressants. Make sure you ask for ones that won’t end up in your breast milk. Then I want you to start coming to see me at Rainbow’s End for some Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.”

Ruth just nodded, but her face showed her relief. Her haunted expression cleared a little.

I was fairly nervous. Tonight was the first time I was going to lead the group session by myself. Gavin, my mentor at the rape crisis centre, was going to sit in, but he was going to sit away from the group and merely observe. It felt like a test, and I hate tests. I always fail.

“First of all,” I said as I looked around the seven men who were attending tonight’s session, “I want you all to look around at each and every person here. I want you to look each person in the eye and acknowledge him. You’re all brave to be here. With society’s norms and stereotypes, it takes a courageous man to admit he needs help and to share his feelings and emotions.”

I was silent for a minute or two as the attendees made eye contact with each other. Heads were nodded in acknowledgement, and furtive eyes made contact. Eventually all eyes returned to me.

“I’d like to start by sharing my own experience. Several months ago, I was drugged and raped by a man. I’d gone to his home to clean for him…”

Someone gasped. “He raped you in his own home?” he blurted.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“That’s brazen!” the attendee said. “I hope you had him arrested!”

“Actually, I didn’t,” I said. There were several more gasps from various attendees. “I was so frightened and confused. I felt ashamed. All I wanted to do was get away from there as quickly as possible.”

“What about the next day?” the questioner pressed on.

“I don’t think there was any physical evidence the next day. It would have been my word against his,” I replied. “OK, so…”

“What were you ashamed of?” the voice asked. “You did nothing wrong.”

“What’s your name?” I asked him, turning in his direction.

“Tom,” he answered.

“Right. Tom, I’ll get to that eventually. In these sessions we like just one person to speak at a time.” I tried to say it as gently as possible. These men are here for help, not discipline.

“Sorry,” Tom mumbled.

“I actually saw the man who raped me earlier today,” I continued, “and I felt such a strange mix of emotions. I felt so angry and ashamed, but I also felt grateful.”

“Grateful?” Tom interjected again. I could hear the confusion in his voice, and I understood it totally.

“Yes,” I said, focussing my attention on Tom. “The main reason why I fled his house: the main reason why I felt so much shame, is because I enjoyed it. I ejaculated. I don’t remember it, but I did.”

There were some mumblings, but surprisingly Tom didn’t say a word.

“I felt ashamed because I’d cum all over the table he raped me on. I felt gratitude because he opened my eyes to a whole new spectrum of sexual acts to perform with my wife.”

“What sort of acts?” Tom asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“If I’d never been raped, I never would have tried using dildos or anal beads. Now I often ask my wife to use those kinds of sex toys on me.”

There were more mumblings and grumblings, but Tom just looked shocked. “That’s disgusting!” he exclaimed.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” I defended myself. “We have a good, healthy sex life.”

At this point, three attendees stood up and started toward the door. Tom was one of them.

“I’m not going to apologise for shocking you,” I called out to them. “The very same stereotypes and norms that you overcame to be here tonight are the ones that are making you respond poorly to my experience.”

Tom faltered briefly as he walked to the door, but continued to stalk out as one of the other two opened the door. The door closed behind them and a shocked silence descended on the room.

“OK, who wants to go next?” I asked the remaining men.

* * *

“Justin, can I have a moment?” Gavin asked me. The group session had ended, the attendees had left, and I was putting the chairs away.

“Sure,” I replied. We sat down facing each other on the remaining two chairs.

“I admire your courage,” Gavin said. “To lay bare your soul like that was refreshing, and in another setting it would be truly inspirational.”

I nodded slightly.

“But these men are fragile,” Gavin continued. “They don’t want to hear that being raped changed your life for the better. They don’t want to hear that you’re grateful to your rapist for exposing you to the joys of the prostate orgasm.”

“It’s not all good,” I told Gavin. “I was trying to let them feel how angry I was at the violation. How disgusted and ashamed I felt. But I also wanted them to hear that good can come from bad, no matter what the situation is.”

“You’re a talented counsellor,” Gavin said. “And you have a good head on your shoulders. You’re very grounded. I think in a different setting you’d be an exceptional counsellor, but your approach is not right for here.”

He took my hand and managed to look sad.

“I can censor myself,” I said simply.

“I don’t want you to,” Gavin replied. “Your approach to life should be shared, but this isn’t the environment for your skills.”

The lights. The music. The adoration of the crowd! These are the reasons why I love performing.

As Drag Queen Lizzie, I do two sets every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night at Ruby Slippers. As Mark Lee, cum-guzzling and piss-drinking slut, I lie in the urinal at Ruby Slippers at least four nights a week. Very few people realise the two people are actually the same.

I finished off my second set on stage with ‘We are family’, the drag standard. It’s always a crowd pleaser. As I took my bows and worked my way back to the changing room, I walked past Kento’s hot friend who was now a regular podium dancer. Unlike most podium dancers, he always dances completely naked. The guys loved it and were enthusiastically shoving notes in his boots while roaring their approval.

“Why don’t you come up and pee on me sometime,” I drawled loudly at him, doing my best Mae West impersonation. He stopped and stared at me.

“That was you?” he exclaimed. I batted my eyelids demurely at him and kept walking. I wanted more than his piss on me: I wanted his cum. A girl can dream, right?

After I’d changed and removed my make-up, I emerged from the changing room as Mark. I downed a few shots to get a buzz going, but only shots. I never partook in anything illicit. Piss and cum are my drugs of choice: they get me high.

I walked into the toilet and it was surprisingly empty. As I emptied my own bladder into the urinal I was planning to lie in, I heard a soft sobbing coming from one of the cubicles.

“Who’s there?” I called out. “You alright?”

There was no response, so I walked towards the cubicles.

“Are you hurt?” I asked the mysterious sobbing person.

“I’m fine,” came a response from the cubicle in front of me. I pushed on the door and it swung open to reveal a cute ginger guy sitting on the toilet. His eyes were red and puffy from crying.

“Did someone hurt you sweetheart?” I asked softly.

“No,” he replied.

He was silent for a few seconds, so I turned to go lie in the urinal.

“Wait,” he said. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” I asked him.

“Be a happy gay man.”

“What makes you think I’m happy?”

“You lie in a toilet urinal and let people piss on you for fun. You must enjoy it or you wouldn’t do it,” he observed.

“Are you struggling to come to terms with your sexuality?” I asked him. “Scared? Afraid to come out to your family?”

“Yes,” he replied. “And more. I disgust myself. My body drives me to desire things that go totally against my religious beliefs. I’m so confused, and to top it all off I have nowhere to go.”

Cute, confused, and homeless: is he a gift? It’s not my birthday.

“Why don’t you come home with me?” I offered.

* * *

Rory, as I’d discovered was his name during our walk to my flat, was a mess. His flatmate had discovered he was gay and kicked him out. His family were staunch Catholics who’d never understand or accept his sexuality. His religious upbringing had resulted in a seriously fucked up mindset.

“Religion sucks,” I said simply as we entered my flat. “It’s screwed more gay men than I have!”

He was silent.

“But the thing with religion,” I continued, “is that you can pick and choose your beliefs. It’s good to have a belief system or a moral compass, but it doesn’t have to be defined by the Church. You need to define your own. Take the bits that appeal to you from your religion, and leave the rest.”

“But we aren’t supposed to lie with a man like we do with a woman,” Rory stated.

“Yep. And we’re not supposed to eat shellfish, or own slaves unless they’re from a neighbouring nation. I’m allergic to seafood, so that one’s fine for me, but I prefer my slaves home grown!”

Rory actually chuckled. Suddenly I’d had enough of the talking: I wanted cock, and I wanted it now.

“So why don’t you think about which particular abominations you’ll adhere to and which ones you won’t while you fuck me?” I asked him.

“Kento! What are you doing here at this early hour?”

I looked up from doing my burpees and was surprised to see Justin’s bulge addressing me.