A few days ago, a reader sent me the email which I've posted below. I also saw the film Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire recently. Both that film and this reader's email made me realise how lucky I am.
Hi GB,
First of all, a heartfelt "Thank you" for your blog. For middle-aged gay men like me residing on the other side of the world, your blog and that of many others serve as a reminder that it is indeed possible to have a real life beyond the shores. A life lived in a way that I can only dream of – without bigotry, constraints, duplicity, or prejudice.
I live in a Third World country. You may not have heard of my country and it does not matter; we are simply one of the many dozens of inconsequential sovereignties in the United Nations. It is unfortunate that one cannot choose where he is born. If we could, I have no doubt that everyone would have picked a First World country to be born in. I've never been out of the country myself (except once, too many years ago, as a last-minute "just because" replacement when a close friend to went to Singapore). My passport has since expired without any additional immigration stamp.
It is very hard for guys like me to travel overseas. With a low salary, I am having trouble making the most basic needs meet. In a society where "who you know" counts most, men without the "dynamic" connections are consigned to the most menial of tasks. Twiddling thumbs, pushing paper, watching grass grow, seat warming, and pencil sharpening remain in the exclusive domains of Pay Grade 3 and above. Single men and women who do not have the right connections seek those who have. It pretty much sets them for life. When your wife's second cousin's husband's uncle holds a high government position, it pays to name him as a work reference even though you have never met him. Just don't forget his birthday and Christmas gifts. A much closeted unmarried gay man in the midst of a life crisis? I thank all my patron saints and lucky stars I even have a decent job.
I have seen many of my countrymen who have been able to travel overseas. Most of them return with an attitude that I like to call as being pseudo-Western. I call them that because, in their travels, they pick up the bugs and germs responsible for the Western attitude of nonchalance, detachment, or indifference. Unwarranted generalization? So, sue me.
Call it my "colonial mentality" but I have yet to encounter a Western guy (real or pseudo) who will meet with a Third World gay man and genuinely accord him with esteem, homage, and high regard. I am aware that these traits are not to be taken so lightly, may take time, and have to be earned, like honesty and sincerity, but, when one comes into a game with the odds stacked against him, he has to work extra hard and vigilantly to even merit the attention that might be languorously granted to him.
I dislike it how most people (gay pseudo-Westerners especially) take for granted the ease and liberty by which they can readily travel. We of the common lot, however, go through all sorts of trials and tribulations in search of the potent visa. It is no wonder that there are many of us who knowingly and even actively participate in nefarious scams, schemes, and swindles in order to procure the much revered entry visa. Blessed are those with ten-year multiple entry visas.
I also dislike it how these pseudo-Westerners who, upon their return from their overseas jaunts, show off with contempt and disdain. Setting aside the manner by which they acquired their visas, they attempt to dazzle us mere locals with their glitzy blings, counterfeit Louis Vuittons, lurid photos, and flamboyant stories of their forged credit card funded sprees. Crime pays top dollars, you see; the meek and the honest happily settle for loose change.
Compounding all these internal furies is my inability to be the real me. The real me as being a gay man. I'm gay, yes. Am I happy? You have got to be kidding. Feeling proud? Are you out of your mind? Contented? Get out of here! Ever had a fulfilling relationship? Yes, with my pet turtles. Have friends? Too many. All with their own closets to carry and as clueless as me.
In a draining effort for some gratifying male company, I find myself furtively trawling Internet ads for guys, bi or gay, local or expat, white/black/brown/red/yellow, living or visiting my country and, importantly, seeking "fun". No strings, even.
I have had very little success in that regard. After all, 98.7% of these men want young men only. Who wants a man well past his "use by" date? Further tainted by the fact that we are well-known for fleecing gullible tourists, what chance did I have? I was quite lucky with the 1.3% because all the young men will have been snatched already, or live in a remote island, or the guy is simply too horny to care.
On the rare occasions that I get to be intimate with another man, I relish every moment spent with him. Once, many moons ago, when I was in the arms of a generous mature Scot, I remember wishing that time would stop and the world be still so that this extraordinary feeling of being "loved" will not end. I also remember thinking that the arms around me were to embrace and hold me, not strangle me. I did not care that he was almost old enough to be my father. (Sorry, but I just could not resist adding this: Speaking of fathers, my own dear father was not meant to be. Sperm donors will have had achieved nobler estates and carried out worthier causes.)
So far, all my male/male intimacies have been fleeting and temporary. As much as I'd like to form a stable relationship with most of my sexdates, I know it is just not possible, given the environment I'm in. I'd sell my soul to Devil in exchange for a continuing companionship with someone I'm really fond of but I think the Devil easily realizes he'll be getting a bad deal. Truth be told, I am seething with jealousy and incensed with envy when I read about successful and enduring gay partnerships, especially an East and West union. A mainly internal resentment, I agree, and, most will say, with dubious rationalization.
If being gay is a "choice", then I must have been really stupid. It is so not easy to be happy and gay and live a half-decent life in the bottom third of the Third World. However, having said this, I suppose I should consider myself very lucky I wasn't born in Mongolia.... or Zimbabwe.... or in places where they use minced cat meat in steamed Chinese buns.
Enough of this "woe is me" rant. In spite of (or maybe because of) this, I still hold some hope for my own future. No matter how faint the glimmer may be. It feels like the dying embers of a neglected bonfire... but, still, a burning fire nevertheless.
I look forward to a future where I can be where I want to be, holding hands with the man who will sail with me, through calm waters and rough seas... That dream may be so distant, unattainable, well beyond my reach but this is what is keeping me alive. Life is too high a value to give up without a fight.
"Bulls**t! Get real!" Did I hear you say? Yes, that is clichéd and passé. But what does one do in the face of adversity? I simply refuse to concede defeat. Not if I can help it.
By the way, I am 42. Does it make me a lot more pathetic? I know most will say I'm just angry. Maybe. But the only time I was irrefutably angry was when the dog chewed my Best of Playgirl. All 128 pages of it. I'm glad RSPCA has no office here.
As for readers who may have the irresistible urge to put in their two cents' worth: Please do not hold back. Sock it to me. I enjoy rejection and spite with my breakfast. With spoonfuls of second-class sugar to make the swallowing more palatable. Charity? Don't bother: the Salvation Army is three doors away from me. The Sisters of Mercy only a block away. Contempt? Water off a duck's back.
Many thanks for your patience in reading this rancorous diatribe. Life must go on for every one of us in this planet.
Take care and look after yourself. And more power to you, GB, and all your loved ones – past, present, and future.
I sincerely hope that you will keep your blog ongoing.
Cheers,
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