Thursday, 1 April 2010
Confessions Of My Teenage Crush, Part One.
Hard to believe I know but I haven’t always been a gorgeous stream lined homosexual. There once was a time when I was hiding myself underneath 19 stone of lard. Although in the summer of 1985 I popped into the world screaming with a set of lungs that no doubt Miss Shirley Bassey would have been proud of, it took me another 17 years to truly realise the diva I was.
I was lucky enough to live in Manchester home of Canal Street and Boddingtons Bitter and fortunately for me Sheena Simon School of Performing Arts which was slap bang in the middle of Canal Street. It was at this safe haven that I came bursting out of the closet to all my class mates. I don’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that no one seemed to bat an eyelid. It was actually met by laughs and generally banter and comments such as ‘fuck Mike, we thought you’d already come out.’ Such was my diva like ways I guess there was just no closet bit enough for me to hide in, that and the fact that my weight would surely have buckled any closet I chose to climbed into.
I was so desperately unhappy back then, I’d spent years of being the ‘fat faggot.’ Instead of trying to blend in I over compensated for my insecurities and self hate and was probably the loudest in my class. I was also experimenting with my look back then and you could hardly miss someone walking down a corridor that was 19 stone, had bright blue hair and was no doubt singing a chorus with my friends from a well known musical number. All that Jazz was always my choice.
At this time I started to go to Canal Street more and more, I really don’t know why as it was like Japanese torture to my self. I lived in hope that a boy would approach me but they never did. I’d go home and simply stand in front of the mirror and look myself up and down and think of all the ways I hated myself. It was after one of these staring competitions with my self that I decided something really had to be done. I longed to be able to fit into a pair of jeans and to stop wearing horrendous Adidas tracksuit bottoms; they clearly didn’t fit in with the image that I wanted. My plan? To starve myself.
In the next six months that followed I didn’t eat. I would have a yoghurt every other day followed by a session of plugging my fingers down my throat to stop me from taking in a single calorie. I’d have ten Embassy number one for breakfast, ten for lunch and six Archers alco-pops for dinner. It’s a shame I didn’t realise that there was 10 spoons of sugars in each bottle. The cigarettes suppressed my hunger and if I ever felt faint I’d simply have an energy drink. Hunger pains became my friend. The weight soon started to fall off and the positive comments fuelled my determination. My addiction with food only stopped when I met my first true love, but by then I had lost eight stone in six months and had covered by body from head in toe in stretch marks. Unbeknown to me this wasn’t to be the last time I had such an addiction with food.
As I finally began to slide on my first pair of jeans the euphoria travelled up my body with every inch they went up. As I fastened the buttons with ease the euphoric feeling continued to travel to reach even the last hair on my head. These weren’t just any jeans, these jeans said ‘I’m here, I’m queer.’ Dark denim with white paint splashed stripes down the front accompanied by a shirt printed with the New York sky line. If I was to have worn the same shirt just two months before they would have used enough material to print the sky line from every major capital city in the world.
Part Two coming tomorrow....