Illustration: Xaviera Altena/Guardian
I recently turned 30, and when I wasn’t analysing every new crease around my eyes or checking my hairline (it’s not good news, by the way), I spent a lot of time reflecting on the past decade of my life. Graduating university, somehow landing my dream job in journalism, and – most notably – my desperately confused bid to define my sexuality. Fun.
It’s safe to say that, as a closeted gay guy at a comprehensive school just outside of Manchester at the turn of the millennium, the “sex education” I received wasn’t quite tailored to my orientation. Unsurprisingly, a worn VHS presenting some questionable 1970s pubic hair on a straight couple couldn’t teach me much in the way of LGBT etiquette. In fact, I don’t recall the word “gay” being uttered once. Nobody was like me – I was essentially an alien, it appeared.
Instead, with no point of reference in the classroom, I was forced to explore some extracurricular activities. Certain corners of the internet and a quick flick through Attitude at the back of the corner shop; that kind of thing. All consumed with an underlying feeling of shame. Sometimes subtle. Often all-consuming.
See, being gay wasn’t cool for kids in Y2K. Without wanting to veer too far into X Factor sob story territory, I was one of the school’s select few human punchbags and the archetypal bully’s dream candidate. My sexuality was something to shy away from, not celebrate.
My true sexual development came way later than the whole balls-dropping, voice-deepening thing. While my mates were up to all sorts behind B-Block at 16, my journey began in my early 20s. A lack of acceptance in school, and wider society at the time, was to thank for this late start.
In spring 2009, I’d just turned 20. My second year of university was going pretty well, actually. I was 80% cheap tequila and 20% cheesy chips at any given time. Things were good. The massive, rainbow-emblazoned elephant in the room, though? I was in denial about my sexuality and everybody knew it. It was a subject nobody dared broach. That was the unspoken rule.
It was around this time that I started to feel things for a certain “straight” guy, very much with a girlfriend, in my halls. We went on to have a secret, toxic, not-quite-relationship. I won’t detail the ins and outs but – spoiler alert – my heart was soon smashed to smithereens. No biggie.
With the benefit of hindsight (and the fact we still have each other on social media), I now appreciate he was going through the same confusing sexual exploration I was, so fair play to him.
This slightly traumatic turn of events put me off admitting my sexuality even longer; everything suddenly stalled. I’d already assumed the role of the “straight” guy who just so happened to have an unrivalled knowledge of the Saturdays’ B-sides, so I decided to keep face. It was safe. It was my identity. What harm could another few years of excruciating denial do?
My personal brand was confused as fuck as I entered my 20s. Was I gay? Was I straight? Was I bi? Back then, when talk of fluid sexuality and non-binary gender identity didn’t seem so progressive, I felt an overwhelming pressure to label myself.
Then, London happened.
You hear those stories of small-town folk moving to the bright lights of the capital and “finding” themselves, and I wanted in on that “anything is possible” narrative. So receiving the call telling me I’d somehow secured my dream journalism job at a teen magazine in Soho was the moment everything started to change.
Upon packing my bags at 23, my mum offered me one single piece of advice: “be careful.” It was glaringly obvious to both of us that this explicitly translated to “wear protection when you inevitably lose your gay virginity”. It’s what she didn’t say that really resonated. With her knowing glance, I said my goodbyes and surrendered to the city. The northerner had landed, and there was no going back.
I was conscious that my peers had a good few shagging years under their belts at this point, and I had some catching up to do. The dating apps? I was on them all. The gay clubs? First-name terms with the bouncers, mate. After a bizarre few weeks of keeping up the “straight” charade for my new colleagues, I outwardly admitted I thought Liam Payne was “fit” in the office. Nobody flinched.
Was this it?
There was no precise moment I “came out” to friends as such. No glitter cannon. No symbolic rainbow over my modest Acton flatshare. I didn’t even ride a horse through Soho with a megaphone à la the iconic Geri Halliwell in peak PR mode to announce the development. On the outside it was a sort of seamless non-event. Internally, though, it was incomparable bliss.
I finally broke the news to my parents at 25 after maintaining the “too busy for a girlfriend” thing a little while longer with them. It’s a whole other story in itself, to be honest; but suffice to say the Coronation Street omnibus has been known to leave my mum more shocked.
So, what words of wisdom would I offer 20-year-old Carl? Well, the next decade’s going to be an absolute mindfuck of misery and marvel in almost equal measure. You’ll have some really great (and some really terrible) sex. Don’t even bother trying to second-guess anything. You’re probably wrong. Just chill out, all right?
Covering sex, love and everything in between – watch Sex Education on Netflix. Available on the NOW TV Smart Stick. Learn more at nowtv.com
