I hate that you never come out just once. You will ‘come out’ to every new person you meet. And every time you will wonder if it is the right decision, or if it will put you in danger.
I hate that—in the 21st century—you will still find people saying “that’s gay.” Even people you consider friends can’t come up with another adjective to describe the slightest inconveniences in their lives. But of course, they didn’t mean it in that way…
I hate that homosexuality is still considered inappropriate to talk about in the presence of children, but parents are all too quick to label their child as a “ladies’ man” or a “future heartbreaker.”
I hate that the image of two men or women together is ‘brave’, ‘groundbreaking’ or ‘inappropriate,’ but it’s perfectly fine to flaunt women in the scud to advertise a new aftershave or car model.
I hate that I was never taught about same-sex relationships in school, but I totally know what to do if my hypothetical, non-existent girlfriend misses her period.
I hate that I never had a gay role model growing up. I had no-one to look up to, and no-one to talk to when, as an awkward teenager, I wondered if it would be easier to take my own life than to tell my mum and dad I liked men.
I hate that—as a community—we act as if we are moral gods, yet reject someone from our romantic lives immediately if they are ‘fat, fem or Asian.’
I hate that I will always be different to my straight male friends. I will never be part of the conversation about girls, and there will never be a conversation about guys. Equality, my arse.
I hate that I can’t go on holiday abroad anywhere without googling “will I be killed in Dubai for being gay?”
I hate that the dating pool within my small town includes about four people. I hate that those four people are all part of the swingin’ sixties club, yet don’t hesitate to send me a dick pic or ask if I’m ‘down for some discreet fun?’
I hate that despite all these hates, I still feel awkward talking about being gay. And I’ve been out for four years.
I hate that I’ll always look over my shoulder before holding a partner’s hand, just in case anyone wants to chastise or attack us.
I hate that the automatic response to me telling someone I’m gay is “oh, I know someone who is gay, I’ll set you up!” Omg no way, I know so many intolerable straight people for you too!!
I hate that I will always go out to straight clubs with my friends, but I can guarantee folk would always be inexplicably busy if I wanted to go to a gay club.
I hate that there is the possibility I might eventually become a lonely old queen scouring Grindr for men in their 20s.
I hate that I will always feel a little fat, or not quite tall or muscly enough because of the impeccably high standards we hold as ideals.
I hate that straight people think I like musicals. I fucking hate musicals.
I hate that you’ll never see a version of 50 Shades with a same-sex couple in the cinemas…just putting that out there, E L James…
I hate that its commonplace for random girls to surgically attach themselves to you on a night out declaring “I love gay guys, you’re such fun!” Respectfully: fuck off, you absolute mess.
I hate that some people think saying “I would never have guessed you were gay! You seem so normal!” is a perfectly legitimate compliment.
I hate that if gays are lucky enough to have one, they will always compare themselves to their partners.
I hate that after being turned down once, your straight male friends will say “I wish I was gay, mate. It would be so much easier.” Erm, no.
I hate that I have—in the past—been referred to as ‘gay Ruaridh.’ Sorry, fat Sheila, I’m actually just Ruaridh.
I hate that some gays put straight men on a pedestal. You aren’t a ‘straight acting masc for masc,’ you’re a cunt. End of.
I hate that Sheila—whose ten kids are running around truant, while she smokes her fifty Marlboros a day and gets her eldest to fetch a mammoth McDonald’s for dinner—will tell me that “a child needs a mother AND a father; having two dads is unnatural.” Again, fuck off Sheila.