In this strange period where I am reminded of my boy, and, more significantly, maybe, reminded of the fact I never did really grieve for us and our loss properly. I am left with a lasting fact about him, that I never really appreciated at the time, as it was all so bound up with some very complex relationships.
That fact is this: My boy had no truck with ‘sexual identity’.
His first love was an asian boy, a beautiful, pompous, dark-skinned creature, who spoke like someone from the Raj. It’s hard enough when you belong here. They both got beaten up at school for being ‘fags’.
But my boy didn’t retreat into the ‘safety’ of the ‘fag’ identity. Partly because there was nothing safe about it. As he was being buggered by Professor Yaffle.
And his second love was me, a gawky girl who didn’t seem like other girls seemed.
He always used to go on about how we are all ‘polymorphously perverse’. But the difference between him and the rest of us sexual intellectuals, was that he practised what he preached. He fancied who he fancied, he fucked who he fucked, and he loved who he loved, regardless of sex and gender identity.
I wish I had his bravery to do the same. He was my favourite fauxmo.