Confessions of a Compulsive Overeater | ‘I believed I was only good enough for sex in the dark’
‘Je Suis Fatty Gay’ is an anonymous contributor who, every month in Attitude, takes us on a very personal journey that began in the closet – and the fridge. You can read his last column online here – this is the sixth instalment…
By the time I started University, my binge drinking had begun to dominate my life. There were a few local gay bars I drank in, but being close to London, I preferred the anonymity of the sex clubs and backrooms there. Grossly overweight, I believed I was only good enough for sex in the dark with old men, or wanking ten times a day on chat-lines. Eat-wank-drink-fuck-eat-wank-drink-fuck-eat-wank-drink-fuck, over and over and over again. It was a hideous cycle I couldn’t break. I was desperately unhappy, yet my clown persona protected me and the rest of the world from seeing what I actually thought I was; a useless and unlovable monster.
When I graduated, I became further enmeshed in my destructive lifestyle – except now it was becoming more obvious to others. I fought with my best friend Tommy who was worried about me. This just kept me more distant, more angry and more drunk. For years that was my life. And then I met Wayne.
By the time I was 25, and working front-of-house in a West-End theatre. I loved it as it allowed me to hit the bars straight after curtain-down, and then spend my days eating through the hangovers. One night, I was at one of my local haunts, and I must have been on my third or fourth double whisky when I saw him. I remember staring for a while, thinking how handsome he was. He had mousy-brown cropped hair and a kind soft face. At around 5’9, he was average build and taller than me, but looked my age.
He was sipping a bottle of water when I caught his eye and he smiled at me instantly. I blinked in shock. Guys like him never looked at me, let alone smiled. I wasn’t yet smashed, but was drunk enough to saunter on over. We moved across the bar at the same time and met on a spot near the dance floor. The first thing I realized was that he was stone cold sober, which was unexpected and threw me. In my experience, sober guys were harder to cajole into the toilets for a blowjob. I second guessed him as just being polite, so noted that I wouldn’t waste too much time in conversation when I could be cock-hunting at a nearby glory-hole.
We exchanged names and pleasantries, but becoming anxious, I fell back on my persona for protection. I asked what he did for a living. “I’m a writer”, he said. Feeling insecure about revealing my job selling ice-creams and programmes, I told him yes, I worked in theatre, but as an actor. He wrote for TV, on one of my favourite shows as it turned out. He told me he loved country music, and reeled off geeky facts about his favourite artists, which I thought was cute. His name even sounded country, and that made me break out in a big smile. He saw this, and returned it back with a killer grin, and we held each other’s gaze for a moment. It felt goofy and uncomfortable and awkward and sweet and embarrassing and lovely and painful all at the same time. I needed another drink. When I offered to get him one, I was surprised by his request for just a mineral water. I got another large whisky.
We chatted for the rest of the night, and somehow I managed to dodge questions about my career treading the boards, and I think he guessed I had been lying. I found myself saying I liked the things he liked, just to keep him keen. Nevertheless, he made me laugh, and there seemed to be a genuine spark between us. Could he be ’the one’? I was completely out of my comfort zone. When he told me he was thinking about calling it a night, I came back down to earth with a crash. I figured I’d still have enough time to visit the toilets for a quickie with someone after he’d gone. Then, rather nervously, he looked at me with his big blue eyes and said “I don’t live too far from here. Would you like to come back to mine?” Doing my very best to stay calm, I replied “That would be nice”. Draining my whisky, we headed out of the bar together, and he grabbed my hand, holding it all the way back to his flat…
Check back next month for the next instalment of ‘Je Suis Fatty Gay’, and share your own story with us at jesuisfattygay@attitude.co.uk.
You can read the latest instalment of ‘Je Suis Fatty Gay’ in the current issue of Attitude – available in shops now, to order in print from newsstand.co.uk and digitally from attitudedigital.co.uk.
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