Yentl was a defining moment in my early life. Barbara Streisand did all the right things and still got snubbed by the Academy. It was a lesson in following your convictions and doing the right thing even if it did end up as a video rental.

I came out twice to my parents that I can remember; my parents only remember the second time. It’s probably because the second time I was accused of being a liar, a thief and a male prostitute, which gave them something else to think about.

Let’s call the evil little gnome who tried to ruin my life Bert. Bert was a Mormon. Not a very good Mormon because he wanted to screw pretty boys (and girls if memory serves). At the time I was a nursing student who had just called off his engagement to a beautiful little catholic girl (we will come back to that…)
Picture this, a tall, blonde, blue eyed boy, witty, intelligent and a little emotionally unstable at the time (that’s me).
Now picture Bert he was a short and stocky ex-gymnast, frustrated and trying to sort out his head.

Bert invited me to live in his house (he lied it was rented) whilst I sorted out how I was feeling. We had a one night stand that was pretty hot but was not going to end in a meaningful relationship. Although, you should never totally discount a man who can do the Crab in a bath whilst drinking from a wine glass. At first I was to naïve to pick up the signals that he wanted to have more sex (that didn’t last long). The move seemed like a good idea at the time.

One night Bert got drunk (actually we both got drunk) and he put the moves on me. I really did not want to go there with him but he said either we have sex or else. That was the point at which I should have left but I was not thinking straight so off we went to the bedroom.

Thereafter we had a pattern he got drunk we had sex. See I told you we had a few problems.

One evening I was watching Beastmaster on video (this was the days before porn DVD anything in a loin cloth was considered hot) and in walks Bert. He was not drunk but did want sex. I said no. He and I got into a slanging match of note after which he screamed at me to leave. Nothing unusual in that, so I phoned a friend to come and pick me up. Then I made the fatal mistake I phoned my parents and asked if I could come home. My parents, being who they are, said of course.

My friend drove me back to my parents and helped my unload my stuff and then drove off. My Mum answered the door with tears running down her cheeks I thought something had happened to my Dad. I knew his heart condition had been playing up. Little did I know what was really going on.
I went through to the lounge where my dad was sitting his skin the colour of putty and his lips artic blue. Then Mum dropped the bombshell… “Bert phoned us, he said he had to throw you out because you had been stealing from him and had been using his house for rent boy-ing” (that’s male prostitution to our straight friends).

Time stopped…damn that redial function

All I was aware of was the pounding of my heart and the bile rising in my throat. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff whilst a gale blew offshore. I could feel the ground crumbling beneath my feet as the waves crashed upon the rocks below. I saw my life disappearing into a huge hole. I was about to lose everything.

Listed in my head was:

 Everything I had heard about parents turning on their kids when they found out the truth.

 Every anti-gay joke about AIDS.

 Every newspaper report about perverts and paedophiles.

 Leviticus 20

What about my sisters?

Who would ever love me after this?

Nobody straight seems to understand how difficult coming out is. On one side you have to juggle the expectations of others whilst trying to be true to yourself. On the other you know those words cannot be unsaid and the whole of society will judge you because of them.
Harder still is the realisation that even if those you love accept you coming out becomes a way of life. Do I tell my work colleagues? Do I tell my friends? What happens if the people at work find out? What if the neighbours find out?

Our assumptions about what is right, normal, healthy, moral and Godley rarely include homosexuals. I like thousands of gays and lesbians live every day on the other side of bigotry. Even those who are victimised by society love kicking us. Lesbians are raped to fix them. Young gay men are institutionalised by their churches.

Is it any wonder many of us hide in the back of the closet. It’s dark and warm and back there I won’t be… gay-bashed in the street… spat on if I hug my lover… refused promoted in case I come on to male trainees… warned not to interfere with my nephews… refused communion in a church…all things that have happened to me because I dared say “I am gay”.

What cost is honesty? Imagine having to always think about if you should share who you are. Every time you meet someone new wondering if they will accept or reject you.

In case you are thinking you are a cool liberal imagine how you would feel if your child came home and said those three little words.

Back to that horrible night…

What was I supposed to say? How could I stop this happening?
I told them the truth as best I could. I told them I was gay but that the rest was lies. And then you wait… and wait…and wait…

To this day I don’t know how Mum and Dad got through the next hours. I only remember the pain on their faces and in their voices. They said they loved me no matter what then asked me not to tell anyone else I was gay. They told me we would get through this and then asked if I was certain about being gay.
No, Mum “I’m not certain” I would choose to be a dirty pervert not worthy of anything but contempt and probably destined to die from the gay plague. I would choose to be humiliated and rejected, refused my basic human rights and then go straight to hell when I die.
They will never understand how difficult that night was for me as I realised there were conditions on the love my family had for me. They even asked me not to tell my sisters.

All this time later I have accepted they were hurting as they watched their son change into a monster in front of them. They had to mourn the picture of me they had in their hearts. I hate to think what images of perversion flew through their heads.

Now in case you want to judge them understand this. My parents are amongst the most loving, compassionate and giving people on this planet. They were rejected by my Grandmother and yet when she was dying my Mum tried to reconcile. My Dad has never referred to me as his step-son to the world I am his son. I have never known them bare a grudge or speak ill of people. They taught me independence and acceptance.

As if telling my parents was bad enough the gnome had even more disruption planned.

At this time I was working at the Hospital and doing rather well. So guess what Bert did? Go on guess?

First he contacted my ex-fiancée and told her I was a fag(later for that). Then he informed one of my lecturers that I was a rent boy. The rumours shot round the hospital faster than a case of clap in a brothel.
Needless to say I was called aside for a quite chat with a member of staff.

I can still remember how the subject was broached. We sat in a sluice room tiled in white from floor to ceiling. The afternoon light was streaming through the windows as we sat in silence our chairs at an angle to each other. I knew about the rumours, I had the hate mail that had been pushed under my door to show how explicit they were. I did not know that the School of Nursing had any idea about it.

Let’s call the lecturer who had to talk to me Lesley. She sat in her chair playing with a strand of her long auburn hair. She looked uncomfortable. Then she started “We have been made aware of certain rumours. I am not here to ask if they are true. I just want to know how you are coping.”
My jaw hit the floor; it was bad enough that my family had been through this, that I was receiving hate mail but now the hospital knew. The hospital where my mother had trained, and was still well known. The hospital where I had expected to complete my training.
For some reason this got me angry. I must have come across as positively macho. I told Lesley it was none of her business and I was quite capable of looking after myself.

For the first time ever I was angry that being a homo was an issue. Not ashamed, not afraid, not sickened just ANGRY. Like Yentl I had to decide if I would hide behind a carefully crafted exterior or take the world on as me. I guess that’s when I came out to myself… I knew I would never be recognised by society but just like Barbara sometimes you have to follow your own star.