I find myself in a unique situation. Not that is uncommon mind, especially in my line of work (musical theatre), but it’s something I feel extremely passionate about and have the need to share!
At the tender age of 24 I find myself surrounded with the attention of a group on very special men. And not in the derogatory sense of the word: A group of men who have become my joojoo, my strength and my happiness. They are fairly demanding at the best of times and when I am surrounded by a crowd of them I usually don’t get a word in edgeways! If I am asked the “how are you?” question it’s intended to have a response of “fine, but my dear HOW ARE YOU?” and the responses never cease to stop entertaining me: If the response starts with a deep dramatic sigh I know not to push the subject too far, instead sit with them in the silence and commiserate in the drama, but if the response is one that is followed by the resounding deep sigh, then I know that a new drama is about to unfold and should brace myself (thinking, smokes? Check! Wine? Check! Incense – sandle wood or tequila? Tea? Check!)
My introduction to the gay man was when I was 8 years old and working in my first big show. We had two hairdressers, Morne and Natasha. I was walking down the passage of the dressing rooms, when I first heard Natasha speak. And immediately I was entranced, because Natasha had this deep baritone voice and long blonde hair with pink lipstick! And so on the way home after the show, sitting quite contently in the backseat of my parents car, I told my parents that I had met a “heshe.” My father nearly pranged the car, but mother ( giving my father the look of death),turned round and quite calmly asked, what a “heshe”was.
“well she’s a woman and looks very pretty, but she sounds like a man, so I figure it’s a heshe.” I think in hindsight it was probably at that moment when my parents realized that my life was destined to be filled with more glitter and sequinz than they had originally anticipated…
During my schooling years I would often dream about them and I remember at least once a week , generally at Friday morning mass (love convent schools) praying to god desperately asking him for a George. (thinking back, the fact that I was praying in a Catholic church for a gay man…if the nuns only knew, thank god the big guy up stairs has a sense of humor!)
I then I started college. Admittedly despite my status as “faghag,” my” gaydar” is highly underdeveloped. And so my first interaction with one came with a reaction of horror and fear. An incredibly good looking guy walked past me and slapped my bum! I turned around with a bit of a shocked look, completely speechless and his response was a wink and a smile (naturally). I was completely perplexed by this and the first thought that crossed my mind was, “oh my god does this man like me?” LOL! I remember walking back to my res, my tummy filled with butterflies at the thought that an incredibly good looking man, with an amazing dress sense might actually like …me. I went straight to the girls in the dorm and told them the news. “oh ja, he does that all the time with me, why do gay men think that just because they are gay, they can randomly touch our arses?...” the girls all jumped into this conversation and I was left sitting there, quiet with awe and an absolute sense of excitement – the prayer was finally being answered. The butterflies have never left me since :)
Six years later, I think I have met every type of gay man in South Africa: the queen, the duchess, the princess, the bloke, the one who just came out the closet and tries to be a queen rather unsuccessfully, the deniable, the shy and the angry. Each one with his wicked sense of humour and own drama that could, if publically known put the writers of Bold to shame!
Recently I spent 6 weeks in Durban living with 3 incredibly good looking gay men. We had the mother, whose cooking kept my tummy warm and who always had the good “muti” readily available. We had the beauty-pageant, who had the Q10 near at hand, along with every moisturizer that did god knows what, and then the prince charming, who didn’t need to say much, but whose laughter sent the butterflies but atwirl! And me. Father?....god let’s hope not:)
Every morning was entertaining: the mother became the gruff bloke, who’s voice extended that of the baritone range, in his cotton checked pajamas and sheep skin slippers, who, depending if he got more than 6 hours of sleep would generally murmur a rough “good morning” before connecting onto his gaydar and checking his latest flirts. The beauty queen, who was chirpy,(too chirpy at the best of times) and who just looked fresh, no matter how many hours of sleep he got, and then, the prince charming, eating his 8th bowl of healthy cornflakes, sweaty after a long job on the beach, muscles still glistening from a “good mornings work out!”.
Shower hour was a symphony of tenor’s and basses (and a soprano who shall remain nameless), that probably would have Hammerstein, Larson and Freddie all turning in their graves. A gusto of reverberating, clashing harmonies, with some who knew the lyrics and others who would just make them up as the shower water would take them. With the accompaniment of the odd scrubbing brush, popping bubble bath (mine) and water drops, the symphony would last a good 10 minutes. It was the 10 minutes that I looked forward to the most during our trip.
One morning, I thought that I’d give it go, whilst having my morning bath. After a small hummed scale, thinking that it was probably wise to do a warm up before I begin belting out a Sondheim , then feeling rather sheepish that I was trying to warm up (although I had a lot to live up to, after all) I tried to start. But soon I was perplexed by my song choice: happy song, song about love, …(haha, naturally Michael buble’s everything has just started playing on the radio whilst I’m typing this…. – a shower regular…hahaha! Hang on, have to savour the moment!....)
….
Ok, so now, after feeling sheepish about a warm up and frustrated that maybe Sondheim is a bit too deep at 10am, I shout to myself “oh for godsake Hopkins just sing! “ I belt out something that doesn’t even resemble a tune, get so shocked by the acoustics that I immediately feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and find myself more stressed in the bath than I was before I got in. Praying that the “girls” didn’t hear the vocal coach sound like a donkey on heat, wrinkled and flushed I decide then and there that perhaps it’s a “boy thing” singing in the shower and thus should be left solely to them!
After the shower hour, came one of my most difficult parts of the morning. Three hot men, dressed with style, and then, the clincher, all spray their own aftershave/perfume. And not a little spritz either I might add. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I would feel my nose start to twitch (along with other parts of the body) and find myself wearing this stupid big grin and giggling at the most random moments. My eyes would become slightly glossy and for the next ten minutes would (avoiding eye contact) force myself to do my cross word puzzle and focus on the impossible clues ONLY!
Whilst these boys are all “out the closet…(by the way, if this closet could be personified, and given and face and a name, and I happen to meet him in a street, I intend on giving him a piece of my mind and then bitch slap all the glitter out of him)…moving on...as I was saying, these boys are confirmed homosexuals, my next challenge and I found myself sometimes…ok often, having to remind myself of that fact because:
In certain situations, the suppressed alpha male would jump out, often taking me by surprise, and I would have to consciously remind myself to sit with my legs together and keep my jaw pasted up to my palate. Like a turrets syndrome, these boys would just become dominant, and I could just see all the tinsel shake in fear and the heels scurry away. It would happen when they would answer their phones: A deep voice with a frown across their brows, “hello?”. Or when they, (not very often) would hurt themselves, like tripping (although that was usually me) or when driving and a taxi would cut in front of them and they’d start yelling at them or my worst, best..no probably worst; when they would talk about sex. (Sigh…long and reverberating!)
The mother would start. And I won’t give the details, but he would describe how he would become like the man..and …oh god, I can’t even type it,( where have my fingers gone?!) And then prince charming would agree and subtly start smiling as if remembering something from the night before , positively glowing, and glancing with all confidence to the beauty queen who, you know try not to look too guilty; at which point I would give a very good impression of a yawn and excuse myself to go to bed. That or if the conversation was simply too flippen educational, would grab the trusty cross word puzzle and whilst doodling, listen with rapture! It was like one of those romance novels about the dark, flanked Indian taking the Jane and you know how it goes. I was FINISHED! Sometimes I have to admit, rather horrified by the techniques – whoever is under the illusion that gay men are all glam, oo my dear if ONLY you knew! I certainly had NO clue! I would go to bed, my mind positively buzzing, whilst trying desperately to remember things that I considered “tips” only to give up and fall asleep with the comfort that my three boys were at least free in our cocoon to be themselves and that on some nights they would sleep easy.
The one common and for me heart breaking theme that I have picked up over years is the what the cynical would consider normal and every mans journey. That being the theme of loneliness and forbidden love.
In the three short weeks, we had there, one week, one of the boys had his heart broken. Usually after a break up, the sighs, when asked how they are, are always at the beginning – code for one not to go anywhere too deep. I think what kills me is that the sparkle, you know the one when you are on stage in the lights, fades a little. And sometimes it never really comes back. The soft look in their faces hardens ever so slightly. I imagine what they are thinking may be that “This is the life that I have chosen.” Or that perhaps the fear of life as a solo artist becomes a little more tangible. I’m not sure, but what I believe is that there should perhaps be a warning sign on that closet door before he comes out, that warns you that cynism is just next door and his door is always ajar and very easy to open. With every break up you can see that door creaking open in their mannerisms and their laughter. And whilst all straight couples go through a similar “journey” in break ups, I truly believe for the gay man, it’s harder because it’s rarer. And all I want to do when it happens is hold them and swear at the asswipe who has hurt them and beg them, if needed, not to give up! Never give up! I think it’s the fact that for a man to, “risk looking like a fool for love” is far more difficult and real for them than anybody else. And when they do it, because they are all romantics at heart, and it doesn’t work, the embarrassment or humiliation that inevitably ensues may hit home a little harder. We all feel like chops when we give ourselves over, but life isn’t all roses, as they have already discovered by “coming out” and it’s then, at that moment, when they think that, that the light fades ever so subtly and the door stands a little more ajar.
I am yet to be able to comfort any of my boys in a helpful way when this happens. I tend to become more practical. Find a blanket and cover them when they are lying on the couch or when making that cup of tea, putting an extra teaspoon of sugar, just so it tastes a little sweeter in their bitter world at that moment.
I feel so privileged to be a part of their lives. Even if I am called a “faghag”.
They are the bravest people I know. And for me, it is being able to be brave that sets you apart from being ordinary. Nothing else.
To all my boys and my dearest George:
“You're a fallin
g star, You're the get away car.You're the line in the sand when I go too far.You're the swimming pool, on an August day.And you're the perfect thing to say.
And you play it coy, but it's kinda cute.
When you smile at me you know exactly what you do.Baby don't pretend, that you don't know it's true.Cause you can see it when I look at you.
And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times
At the tender age of 24 I find myself surrounded with the attention of a group on very special men. And not in the derogatory sense of the word: A group of men who have become my joojoo, my strength and my happiness. They are fairly demanding at the best of times and when I am surrounded by a crowd of them I usually don’t get a word in edgeways! If I am asked the “how are you?” question it’s intended to have a response of “fine, but my dear HOW ARE YOU?” and the responses never cease to stop entertaining me: If the response starts with a deep dramatic sigh I know not to push the subject too far, instead sit with them in the silence and commiserate in the drama, but if the response is one that is followed by the resounding deep sigh, then I know that a new drama is about to unfold and should brace myself (thinking, smokes? Check! Wine? Check! Incense – sandle wood or tequila? Tea? Check!)
My introduction to the gay man was when I was 8 years old and working in my first big show. We had two hairdressers, Morne and Natasha. I was walking down the passage of the dressing rooms, when I first heard Natasha speak. And immediately I was entranced, because Natasha had this deep baritone voice and long blonde hair with pink lipstick! And so on the way home after the show, sitting quite contently in the backseat of my parents car, I told my parents that I had met a “heshe.” My father nearly pranged the car, but mother ( giving my father the look of death),turned round and quite calmly asked, what a “heshe”was.
“well she’s a woman and looks very pretty, but she sounds like a man, so I figure it’s a heshe.” I think in hindsight it was probably at that moment when my parents realized that my life was destined to be filled with more glitter and sequinz than they had originally anticipated…
During my schooling years I would often dream about them and I remember at least once a week , generally at Friday morning mass (love convent schools) praying to god desperately asking him for a George. (thinking back, the fact that I was praying in a Catholic church for a gay man…if the nuns only knew, thank god the big guy up stairs has a sense of humor!)
I then I started college. Admittedly despite my status as “faghag,” my” gaydar” is highly underdeveloped. And so my first interaction with one came with a reaction of horror and fear. An incredibly good looking guy walked past me and slapped my bum! I turned around with a bit of a shocked look, completely speechless and his response was a wink and a smile (naturally). I was completely perplexed by this and the first thought that crossed my mind was, “oh my god does this man like me?” LOL! I remember walking back to my res, my tummy filled with butterflies at the thought that an incredibly good looking man, with an amazing dress sense might actually like …me. I went straight to the girls in the dorm and told them the news. “oh ja, he does that all the time with me, why do gay men think that just because they are gay, they can randomly touch our arses?...” the girls all jumped into this conversation and I was left sitting there, quiet with awe and an absolute sense of excitement – the prayer was finally being answered. The butterflies have never left me since :)
Six years later, I think I have met every type of gay man in South Africa: the queen, the duchess, the princess, the bloke, the one who just came out the closet and tries to be a queen rather unsuccessfully, the deniable, the shy and the angry. Each one with his wicked sense of humour and own drama that could, if publically known put the writers of Bold to shame!
Recently I spent 6 weeks in Durban living with 3 incredibly good looking gay men. We had the mother, whose cooking kept my tummy warm and who always had the good “muti” readily available. We had the beauty-pageant, who had the Q10 near at hand, along with every moisturizer that did god knows what, and then the prince charming, who didn’t need to say much, but whose laughter sent the butterflies but atwirl! And me. Father?....god let’s hope not:)
Every morning was entertaining: the mother became the gruff bloke, who’s voice extended that of the baritone range, in his cotton checked pajamas and sheep skin slippers, who, depending if he got more than 6 hours of sleep would generally murmur a rough “good morning” before connecting onto his gaydar and checking his latest flirts. The beauty queen, who was chirpy,(too chirpy at the best of times) and who just looked fresh, no matter how many hours of sleep he got, and then, the prince charming, eating his 8th bowl of healthy cornflakes, sweaty after a long job on the beach, muscles still glistening from a “good mornings work out!”.
Shower hour was a symphony of tenor’s and basses (and a soprano who shall remain nameless), that probably would have Hammerstein, Larson and Freddie all turning in their graves. A gusto of reverberating, clashing harmonies, with some who knew the lyrics and others who would just make them up as the shower water would take them. With the accompaniment of the odd scrubbing brush, popping bubble bath (mine) and water drops, the symphony would last a good 10 minutes. It was the 10 minutes that I looked forward to the most during our trip.
One morning, I thought that I’d give it go, whilst having my morning bath. After a small hummed scale, thinking that it was probably wise to do a warm up before I begin belting out a Sondheim , then feeling rather sheepish that I was trying to warm up (although I had a lot to live up to, after all) I tried to start. But soon I was perplexed by my song choice: happy song, song about love, …(haha, naturally Michael buble’s everything has just started playing on the radio whilst I’m typing this…. – a shower regular…hahaha! Hang on, have to savour the moment!....)
….
Ok, so now, after feeling sheepish about a warm up and frustrated that maybe Sondheim is a bit too deep at 10am, I shout to myself “oh for godsake Hopkins just sing! “ I belt out something that doesn’t even resemble a tune, get so shocked by the acoustics that I immediately feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and find myself more stressed in the bath than I was before I got in. Praying that the “girls” didn’t hear the vocal coach sound like a donkey on heat, wrinkled and flushed I decide then and there that perhaps it’s a “boy thing” singing in the shower and thus should be left solely to them!
After the shower hour, came one of my most difficult parts of the morning. Three hot men, dressed with style, and then, the clincher, all spray their own aftershave/perfume. And not a little spritz either I might add. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I would feel my nose start to twitch (along with other parts of the body) and find myself wearing this stupid big grin and giggling at the most random moments. My eyes would become slightly glossy and for the next ten minutes would (avoiding eye contact) force myself to do my cross word puzzle and focus on the impossible clues ONLY!
Whilst these boys are all “out the closet…(by the way, if this closet could be personified, and given and face and a name, and I happen to meet him in a street, I intend on giving him a piece of my mind and then bitch slap all the glitter out of him)…moving on...as I was saying, these boys are confirmed homosexuals, my next challenge and I found myself sometimes…ok often, having to remind myself of that fact because:
In certain situations, the suppressed alpha male would jump out, often taking me by surprise, and I would have to consciously remind myself to sit with my legs together and keep my jaw pasted up to my palate. Like a turrets syndrome, these boys would just become dominant, and I could just see all the tinsel shake in fear and the heels scurry away. It would happen when they would answer their phones: A deep voice with a frown across their brows, “hello?”. Or when they, (not very often) would hurt themselves, like tripping (although that was usually me) or when driving and a taxi would cut in front of them and they’d start yelling at them or my worst, best..no probably worst; when they would talk about sex. (Sigh…long and reverberating!)
The mother would start. And I won’t give the details, but he would describe how he would become like the man..and …oh god, I can’t even type it,( where have my fingers gone?!) And then prince charming would agree and subtly start smiling as if remembering something from the night before , positively glowing, and glancing with all confidence to the beauty queen who, you know try not to look too guilty; at which point I would give a very good impression of a yawn and excuse myself to go to bed. That or if the conversation was simply too flippen educational, would grab the trusty cross word puzzle and whilst doodling, listen with rapture! It was like one of those romance novels about the dark, flanked Indian taking the Jane and you know how it goes. I was FINISHED! Sometimes I have to admit, rather horrified by the techniques – whoever is under the illusion that gay men are all glam, oo my dear if ONLY you knew! I certainly had NO clue! I would go to bed, my mind positively buzzing, whilst trying desperately to remember things that I considered “tips” only to give up and fall asleep with the comfort that my three boys were at least free in our cocoon to be themselves and that on some nights they would sleep easy.
The one common and for me heart breaking theme that I have picked up over years is the what the cynical would consider normal and every mans journey. That being the theme of loneliness and forbidden love.
In the three short weeks, we had there, one week, one of the boys had his heart broken. Usually after a break up, the sighs, when asked how they are, are always at the beginning – code for one not to go anywhere too deep. I think what kills me is that the sparkle, you know the one when you are on stage in the lights, fades a little. And sometimes it never really comes back. The soft look in their faces hardens ever so slightly. I imagine what they are thinking may be that “This is the life that I have chosen.” Or that perhaps the fear of life as a solo artist becomes a little more tangible. I’m not sure, but what I believe is that there should perhaps be a warning sign on that closet door before he comes out, that warns you that cynism is just next door and his door is always ajar and very easy to open. With every break up you can see that door creaking open in their mannerisms and their laughter. And whilst all straight couples go through a similar “journey” in break ups, I truly believe for the gay man, it’s harder because it’s rarer. And all I want to do when it happens is hold them and swear at the asswipe who has hurt them and beg them, if needed, not to give up! Never give up! I think it’s the fact that for a man to, “risk looking like a fool for love” is far more difficult and real for them than anybody else. And when they do it, because they are all romantics at heart, and it doesn’t work, the embarrassment or humiliation that inevitably ensues may hit home a little harder. We all feel like chops when we give ourselves over, but life isn’t all roses, as they have already discovered by “coming out” and it’s then, at that moment, when they think that, that the light fades ever so subtly and the door stands a little more ajar.
I am yet to be able to comfort any of my boys in a helpful way when this happens. I tend to become more practical. Find a blanket and cover them when they are lying on the couch or when making that cup of tea, putting an extra teaspoon of sugar, just so it tastes a little sweeter in their bitter world at that moment.
I feel so privileged to be a part of their lives. Even if I am called a “faghag”.
They are the bravest people I know. And for me, it is being able to be brave that sets you apart from being ordinary. Nothing else.
To all my boys and my dearest George:
“You're a fallin
g star, You're the get away car.You're the line in the sand when I go too far.You're the swimming pool, on an August day.And you're the perfect thing to say.And you play it coy, but it's kinda cute.
When you smile at me you know exactly what you do.Baby don't pretend, that you don't know it's true.Cause you can see it when I look at you.
And in this crazy life, and through these crazy times
It's you, it's you, You make me sing.You're every line, you're every word,
you're everything.”
xxx
xxx
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