Talkin' Bout My Resolutions

I'm determined that '99 is going to be different from the rest. Quite what that looks like, I'm not sure yet, but I decided I would do something different for New Year's Eve, to set the right tone. The criteria for the day would be that it would not be planned beforehand, that it would be something I would enjoy that I haven't done before, that it would be something non-sexual, and that I would be on my own. I figured that too much of my time is spent hankering after company, in an unhealthy way; and a good way to start the year would be by enjoying solitude.

I'm too bloody superstitious, really, that's my problem; every New Year's Eve I'm the same, misty-eyed and tremulous. 1998 started off on the wrong foot, as I had organised a party to which only my closest of friends came, when in fact I had invited, and expected, a multitude. God be with the days as a young actor in Dublin when people would gatecrash my parties. Instead of celebrating my incredibly dear friends a year ago, I was idiotically left feeling disappointed at my lack of coolness. A bad omen, for '98 was the crummiest, loneliest, most agonising year to date, encompassing illness, death and depression. Loyal readers must have experienced reading what I had to say as the equivalent of having a plaster ripped off very slowly.

In case you think I'm on my own with this public diary lark, eking out this narcissistically queer goo, look on the bright side. You could be reading the diary in Boyz, the trashy gay tabloid here in London. It's entitled "Rigid Boner's Diary" and subtitled "The contemporary erotic memoirs of an international jet set trolley dolly". There, you could read about our hero's ejaculation count, (four in the Christmas week's issue I have to hand), number of shags: (two, although he was also stood up once that week), and number of doses of crabs: (one). He writes on being stood up: "Feel totally stupid and rejected. What have I done to deserve such bad karma?" The next night, it is revealed that the guy who stood him up has a boyfriend. He writes: "Drunk and dejected, I end up dragging some nancy queen home and buggering him till he tells me to stop 'because you're hurting me'. Fuck off home then!" The next day he admits to his shame over his behaviour, and goes swimming to "exorcise" some of his "feelings of self-loathing". There ain't no pool big enough to hold the number of self-loathing queens in this town.

I was thinking that as I was swimming along in my sexy new swimming trunks this morning, having signed up with the gym. Part of my New Year's Resolutions, of which you shall undoubtedly hear more as the year progresses. However, I digress. Back to New Year's Eve itself. I decided on the day to go over to a friend's house, where we did the I Ching and she did the Tarot for me. We hung out, had coffee, and wrote down all the things we were going to do for the year. I rang to see how much it would be to go to Paris by train — £229 return, which I did not find amusing. So I hopped on a train to Brighton, paying £18 return, to come back at 4am. Not a difficult choice.

I wanted to be beside the sea. I miss not being near it in London. I went to a crowded gay pub for a couple of pints first, to see what the scene was like; and was lucky enough to find a perch at the end of the bar where I could people-watch, with pint of plain in hand. What was the scene like? Could have been anywhere in the Western world. Drag queens, clones, good-time girls, tough looking skins, grey-haired queens with gold jewellery, bright young things in the latest gear. A lot of laughter, a lot of noise. A free drink from the barman. Cheers.

Walking by the Sea
At 11.30 I wandered down to the sea front, and knew I'd made the right decision. The moon was full, the sea was high, and it was a stunning view, with Brighton pier illuminated in all its fairytale glory. The beach was full of couples walking up and down; it was romantic, certainly. As I was walking along, someone attracted my attention from further up the shore by skipping stones on the ground beneath me. I ignored him at first, but then along came another. This guy was sitting on his own, watching the sea, and waved at me to come on over. Loyal readers and fellow queers will be aware, of course, that a cheery wave does not feature in any cruising codebook, and therefore I immediately intuited that this guy was not out for a shag. Something about him reminded me of the Irish ability to strike up conversation anywhere, which of course is a rare thing this side of the pond. So I went over and sat beside him.

His first words were "I'm not queer, you know". I assured him that that was not a problem, but that I was. It was taken all in good spirit. It became obvious that he was on something, which turned out to be E, about five hours on. He was still up but on his way down. He began to tell me in a cheery Cockney "wide boy" way about how his life was in ruins, how he'd stolen a car and £500 from his sister (didn't know why) and had nowhere to go. He'd spent all the money on clothes and he'd got no idea what he was going to do next.

Should he go back to his foster parents' house? His job was poxy, his girlfriend didn't understand him, he was going nowhere; and he the princely age of 25. He'd probably end up back in jail, he supposed. He wanted to end it all, but wasn't sure how. I suggested that we could dig a hole right there and then in the pebbles, and I could bury him if he liked; but he thought pills would be a better option. I didn't have any, I assured him. Could he stay on my sofa?

Er, no, sorry, I said. Where did I live? King's Cross? Nah, he'd just end up on smack, he said.

Then the fireworks started going off; the sky was alight over the twinkling pier. It was a beautiful sight. Happy New Year, I said, and shook his hand, introducing myself. Happy New Year, he said. I'm Colin.

"I was queer once," he said, "when I was fifteen. Alan... Alan Williamson was his name. Yeah." It was immaterial to him, really; he spoke exactly as if he was saying that he went out with a red-head once. I am used to sussing out "heterosexuals" angling discreetly for a blow-job; but this wasn't on Colin's mind at all. It, of course, was on my mind; but then I thought better of it. Too often I have not chosen wisely. 1999 is to be about something different. He invited me for a drink in his hotel; he was old, he said. I declined.

During our chat, Colin would stop passers-by and ask them for a light; surprisingly few had one. Eventually, a group of about five or six people sat down a bit further on the beach, and we could see cigarettes being lit. Colin said we should join them; there were girls for him and boys for me. I said I wanted to be on my own for a while. "Alright mate" he said, and he wandered off to join the gang. I stood up and started walking off back down to the sea. I heard him call my name; I looked back, and he was waving, shouting goodbye.