I was nervous about greeting her home from work. I needn’t have been …
I was nervous about greeting her home from work. I needn’t have been …
I take a significant amount of pride in being a robust, well balanced individual with a broadly trustworthy moral compass and little fear of consequences because of all of the above. I’m out as queer to my partner and a circle of friends (and you lot, obvs.). I’m not out at work, although I’m a reasonably prominent ally.
Today I outed myself to a colleague. She is absolutely the safest person in the building to out myself to – she’s prominent in the Pride network of her company. Here’s the thing though.
I didn’t intend to do that.
I mean, it wasn’t an inadvertent disclosure. We were talking about the Pride network and allies, and I thought clearly for about a quarter second before before I said,
“I’m not out at work yet.”
And then there was a sphincter tightening moment, and a brief wave of nausea. She, of course, accepted it without comment or judgement and a few minutes later asked “Poly?”, to which I replied “Kind of, but pan mostly”
It wasn’t a thing, except that it really, really, was a thing.
I’m glad that I did it, I don’t think I overshared because it was in the context of the conversation, but I’m going to need to have a bit of a reflect on how I’m going to manage this stuff going forward.
I’ve got a post sketched out for later on the weird intersection of white cismale privilege and queerness. I’ve got a feeling that there’s a fuck load more intersection than is generally discussed, but in the field I work in, it’s absolutely a vanishingly tiny thing, like homosexuality in professional footballers.
Question for later reflection. Do I have the minerals to be the first to stand at that intersection in my company? To stick a fuck off huge rainbow flag into the ground and say ‘Here I am. This is me. Be the real you.’ I mean, I know I’m capable of it, but am I willing to live with the consequences? What are the consequences?
There’s a way I dress for events and play when I’m of the mood. It’s femininised, but it’s still masculine. I have a fuck-off huge moustache and a deep and strong regional accent, so that’s staying. It involves skirts and stockings. It has corsets and sharp mens jackets. It’s entirely comfortable (psychologically – corsets and heels intrinsically can’t be physically comfortable). Make up is subtle but obvious.
It’s fundamentally NOT drag. It’s not performative, except that it’s for me as the primary audience. And today I found out that there’s a word for it.
Some of you will have read this before on other sites, but it’s a fucking brilliant story, and completely and utterly true in every detail.
So I’d planned an evening of consensual adventuresomeness earlyish in my relationship with Helena who had often (occasionally? once?) expressed a vigorous interest in kidnap fantasies. I had covered all the details – the scene, the tools and accoutrements, the venue for her vile and filthy miscreant to have his evil way with her (and more or less what he was going to do – you have to leave a bit of room for freestyling). All was well and all was going to go to plan.
We met up for a drink in a pub, both on soft drinks, both driving. When I suggested that we might go for a bit of a drive to find somewhere a little darker and less overlooked, she was all enthusiasm – and why would she not be? We jumped into my car and headed off towards the secluded spot I’d found on Google maps. It was only 3 or 4 miles away, so it wasn’t going to take long.
Oh. Bugger. My plan had sort of revolved around arriving there with her securely trussed up in the boot. And there she was as large as life and twice as gorgeous in the passenger seat. And it was only going to take us about 10 minutes to wind our way down the country roads to the ‘venue’. Arsehole.
Hi! I’m Raoul, and I’ve been queer for about 4 weeks.
No, but that’s not really true, though, is it?
Hi, I’m Raoul, and I’ve been on a journey into queerness for about 4 months.
Nope. If I’m going to share with you from behind a veil of anonymity, I might as well be honest, otherwise there’s no real point.
Hi. I’m Raoul*. I’m kinky and queer, which kind of tells you everything and nothing about me in 4 little words. My tastes have always veered to the dark, interesting and weird, generally with a soundtrack in a slightly tingly minor chord, but I’d packed the vast majority of that off in a ‘forget about it, it’s a path not taken’ kind of way a very long time ago. And that was all reasonably fine, and reasonably manageable until about 4 years ago when I separated from my wife, and a female friend I hadn’t seen in 20 years or more messaged me to say “go investigate Fetlife.”
I’m sorry, what? What is it? Why? WTF? (At this point I was surfing and chatting at the same time…). So it seems that the teenage me that she hung out with was a bit of a wrong ‘un, in a kinky way. This is, she reckoned, was bred in the bone.
This is, I reckon now, absolutely true.
And so, I made new friends, tied them up, beat them, and fucked them.
Actually, no. I made new friends, and then I went to a non-kinky party with some kinky people, and fell head over heels in love with an utterly beautiful, insanely sharp, painfully self-deprecating woman who held my hand for my baby steps and now kisses my cheek, slaps my arse and tells me to do the fucking thing.
Then I tied up and beat my new friends.
And so it went for the next couple of years; kink life ebbs and flows in the opposite direction to real life as one waxes, the other wanes.
And then …
And then … I’m not entirely sure how to get to the next bit. It all has kind of gone whoosh a little bit.
We had a couple of child-free 5-day weekends over the summer. We wanted to experiment with a party drug that every other fucking person in our generation seemed to have tried whilst in a field somewhere in 1992. Just a half each. Another half 4 hours later.
Jesus fuck. Even now, looking back at the photos from that weekend, my mind is blown by the difference between how I perceived myself on Thursday evening, and how I saw myself on Saturday morning. From a straight Dom (with 5% switch) to a made-up, camped up, spanker/spankee, dildo sucking, ass-playing, subby/slutty freak, and loving it, and wanting to know MORE.
This wasn’t just a ‘shall we try …?’ ‘Fuck yeah’ grab it all and do it all thing; there was serious talking and serious opening up; and seriously taking all those boxes that I’d buried stuff in since I was about 11, giving them a good shake and seeing what spilled out. It was a lot, and they’re not even half empty yet.
And none of this stuff had been as hidden from her as it had been from me, not really. I remember watching Stardust with her years before and her gently teasing me for being like Captain Shakespeare. And the time I put on a little tartan skirt to serve her breakfast in bed. And when I painted my toenails and sent her a photo ‘just to amuse her’.
Oh. Yeah. I can kind of see that now.
So it grows.
Now? Now, I’m self-defining as queer, because that’s a lot less of a mouthful than ‘Occasionally cross-dressing, pansexual, polyamorous hedonist kinkster 70/30 Dom/sub’. It’s also less likely to be constantly under flipping review.
So this? This is supposed to be a short introduction to my blog, which is going to be my way of working out a lot of this stuff by writing it down. I hope there’ll be some interaction with you along the way, but it might just be *crickets* all the way down. I hope there’ll be reflection, understanding, filthy tales, anecdotes and shared experiences. If anyone else benefits from my experience, even if it’s only to realise that they’re not the only not-quite-50 year old discovering that they’ve had a mask on for most of their lives, it’ll definitely be worth it.
*I said honest, not foolhardy! I’m sticking with my nom de plume…
If you want a lover
I’ll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I’ll wear a mask for you — Leonard Cohen