Passing Stranger
October 2003
By Mihangel
Passing stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me . . .
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my
body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard,
breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
Walt Whitman, To a Stranger
1. Making sense of life
Books say: he did this because. Life says: he did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren't. I'm not surprised that some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people's lives, never your own.
Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world. Man is an enigmatic creature -- both mankind in general and individual members of the species -- and one of his most enigmatic qualities is sexuality. Not really understanding my own, I cannot make much sense of my life.
The old Kinsey scale, extending from the totally straight to the totally gay by way of varying degrees of bisexuality, might seem to cover all conditions. I long thought I knew exactly where I stood on it: firmly at the gay extreme. Now I am not at all sure. One pip short of the gay end? That implies an essentially gay man who is slightly attracted by women. But I have never been in the least attracted by women in the plural, only by one particular woman in the singular. Because we all have our inconsistencies, is this one of mine? Or is the answer that, whichever direction our general desires may incline, in the last resort we love a person, not a gender?
And do these questions matter? We are what we are, and since it is highly unlikely we will ever know why we are what we are, is it not better to get on with life than agonise over the unknowable? Perhaps, even probably. But there comes a stage in life's journey when it is not amiss to pause and review our route so far. That is what I am attempting here: autobiography of a sort, personal rather than professional.
But some words of warning. Because it is about me, it is important to me and my family; and it was written, as far back as 2003, not for publication but for myself and them and a few net-friends who were curious about me. But I know full well that I am far from special or unusual. My predicament, my quandaries and my discontent are in no way uncommon. Therefore, and because my gay career has been, to say the least, insipid, I felt that others would find my history stale, flat and unprofitable. Friends, however, assured me then, and continue to assure me now, that it would interest a wider audience. At first I was unconvinced. Now at last, in 2009, in the hope that they are right, I am letting my arm be twisted. But remember that all these words, apart from minimal tweakings and the addition of an epilogue, are six years old.
And this is not an erotic story. While it is about being gay, itis not in the least erotic and scarcely a story. Do not expect a straightforward narrative: it is rather a patchwork of episodes, musings and metaphor. Autobiography, I have discovered the hard way, is more difficult to write than fiction, and much more painful. Difficult, because memory is fickle and because the demands of modesty and truth can conflict. Painful, because it hurts to relive anguishes and expose weaknesses to public gaze. Yet I am in search not of pity for my failings nor of praise for my successes, but only of self-understanding.
Friendships -- and that includes partnerships -- are based on trust. They are like investments. If you cannot scrape together enough trust, you cannot open an account. If you are unwise or unlucky and invest in a dodgy concern, you are sold down the river. But the returns from a good investment support you for the rest of your days. All these experiences have come my way. In saying little here about the largest and best investment of my life, I mean no offence whatever to my family who, to their eternal credit, accept and acknowledge the gay side of my nature, and understand why I need to express myself through it.
This history sets out, rather, to explore my gay past and present, with its feeble record of non-investment followed by investment that was not always wise. In this department, only in 2001 did I reap any dividends at all, and only in 2003 did I find my peace. It is therefore on the lows and the highs of those two years that I have concentrated. Moreover, because nobody's nature floats in a vacuum, I have tried to paint in, by way of background, some other aspects of my experience and temperament and thinking, and even of my habits. Quotations, for example, are scattered profusely through these pages, and I make no apology because they are a hallmark of the curious creature called Michael; as they are of Jonathan too. If we come across as a pompous old fart and a precocious young brat, so be it.
The usual disclaimer that the characters bear no relation to real people obviously does not apply here. But, equally obviously, much disguising has gone on. The only two names in the cast-list which are genuine are Michael and Jonathan. All the rest have been altered. If anyone identifies himself, or others, behind a disguise, he must remember that I can only paint the picture as I see it. His view may well be different. Many locations have also been camouflaged or changed.
A word for readers in the USA. My political views sometimes surface, and one American friend, sadly, misinterpreted them as America-bashing. Nothing could be further from the truth. When this was penned in 2003, what worried me (and worried not a few Americans too) was the then president, his administration and his policies. The last thing I have is any quarrel with Americans at large. I had exactly the same problem with the then British prime minister, but no quarrel with Britons.
For their comments, my grateful thanks go to Megan and Pryderi (my daughter and my son), and to Anthony, Ben, Roger and Paul. For the lyrics of The Origin of Love from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, my thanks to Boom.
Everything else I owe to Hilary and Jonathan. Without them, much of what follows could not have happened. Without their persuasion and encouragement, it could not have been written. Both have suggested, even insisted on, many an improvement and amendment. While I will never make total sense of my life, between them they have made more sense of it than before, because between them they have filled my emptiness. This piece, though it can hardly convey the full scale of my debt, is dedicated to them both.
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