With my new perspective, life simultaneously got harder but easier to understand. I knew what I was but I knew not everyone else would be. The following two years I hit denial, full tilt. Indulged myself in my intense friendships and when the time came to move on, I was glad of the change to sixth form. The freedom of town and more anonymity. Slowly, throughout my first year I began to shed the attempts I’d made to fit it. By the October half-term, my hair was short back and sides but I still ignored the “gay” whispers in my head.

At the end of my 1st year, I felt I needed to give boys one more chance. Before I started facing up to things. Now I had to look for a willing victim. Now I know that sounds bad, but I do not attract men. I have finally realised that is not because of the way I look. It’s simply that they know I’m a train to nowhere. My pheromones could be bottled and sold as man-repellent. Side effects are known to attract some of the nicest guys you can ever meet and you never go short of a man hug or someone to move heavy objects!

It transpired that there was indeed a boy who was willing to date me, keen even. Brave soul! Now all this was well and good but from the get go it was never going to work. And not even because I wasn’t straight. He towered above me…6’ 4” to my 5’ 3”…his spiky (GINGER) hair made him look like he never ended. Neck strain was going to be an issue. And then you add that to the fact that if he turned sideways he’d disappear. Now, I may not want to have sex with a man but I can appreciate one that is pleasing to the eye, like in those days, David Boranez or Keanu in his Speed phase. Lanky and ginger was not setting my pulse racing, I must confess.

As I was getting ready, my Dad popped his head into my room. News of my evening’s activities had reached him and unlike most fathers, mine was very pleased to know it included a date with a boy. Money was handed over without the slightest of wheedling required. He may have been relieved but same couldn’t be said of me.

In the spirit of fairness and being open-minded, I heaped on the positive thought and headed out. We’d settled on a drink and a movie. 35 minutes of horrendously uncomfortable small talk endured, we finally took our seats. I was very much glad of the moment I could sink back into the darkness and enjoy Clooney-Walberg in Three Kings. It wasn’t to be. He held off for 15 minutes before he reached across and began what I can only describe as “heavy petting”.

He was also the worst washing machine kisser I had encountered thus far. At points, I felt like I was drowning. His stiff, heavy hands roamed my body, unsure where to settle and never settling anywhere I wanted him too. If he happened across an area of sensitivity, his force overrode any pleasure I might have derived. I kept him at bay, best I could. Digging deep into my denial, I told myself it was his haste that offended me.

As I drove him home (that should have been a sign!) I made one final effort, tried to relax and enjoy his advances. I couldn’t. I felt uncomfortable, hollow and most crucially, dry.

He continued on, regardless. I stopped him dead in his tracks. Pulled his hand away. Turned from his face and cruelly dismissed him from my car with the words “For future reference, it really should be wet if you want to do that.”

In the following months, I carried on as normal, ignoring all forms of dating. I was hideously in love with a girl in my media studies class and the more my denial crumbled, the more I realised it.

A brief encounter on the concourse at college set my coming out in motion. There was a group of lesbians in the second year, everyone knew about them and this was mainly because they congregated outside the library during every free moment. One day as I left the library, one of them jumped to her feet and followed me. Once we were far enough away from her friends, she reached out and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and was surprised to see her. She was beautiful in a way other girls weren’t. The short pixie hair, eye liner galore and the classic leather jacket and plenty of piercings. She got right to the point…

“Can I ask you something? Are you gay?”

Clearly, at this moment I looked shell-shocked. She continued…

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, and it’s just…I was so sure….I mean…not that you….Oh god I’m sorry….”

At this, I managed to regain some power of speech.

“Do I look gay?” I uttered, amazingly with some righteous indignation, all bluster.

To her credit, she actually managed to say what all of us would want to say and what she clearly really wanted to say and for that I have to thank her! She carried on, trying to make amends…

“I’m so sorry, it’s just got a vibe and I wondered…because you see, I wondered; if maybe…well you’d like to get a drink….you know? With me?”

Dumb founded, I found my voice…barely…

“Ahhh right, umm thanks and everything, but I’m not, you know…gay.”

With that I turned and fled. The following “Oh My God…Do I look like a lesbian???” mini-drama confirmed many things, most importantly…

A) My friends totally ruled for being able to not just burst out laughing and scream “YES!”

B) If other people can see it, then maybe its time to just be honest?

And so I started to slowly sneak out of the closet, declaring myself as a bi-sexual, you know to ease folks in to the whole gay thing, whilst still giving hope that I might end up with a man. So I’m now 17, I’ve been hopelessly in love with media studies girl for 13 months and people kinda know I like girls. Me thinks its time for some fun.

*Grins*