I was 19 when I realised I’m not special – I’m just gay

I once had a very curious experience in Soho (a sentence that launches a thousand stories). 

It was just after lockdown in 2020, when we could finally sit outside at bars. I was at a chic gay bar (on account of both my sexuality and great taste), when Lady Gaga’s hit 911, which I’d played over and over to myself in lockdown, came on over the speakers.

I looked around, bemused. Had my Bluetooth accidentally connected to the bar’s speaker?

Even more bemusingly, everyone else in the bar seemed to know the words. But that couldn’t be right. This was a song I had discovered in lockdown on my own. 

And it was at that exact moment – at least for the benefit of this piece – that I realised I’m not on my own adventure. I am on the same adventure as many, many other gay men before and since.

When I was younger, the chance to come out as gay was ruthlessly torn from me by my voice and personality. When people make assumptions about you and your sexuality, it can be really painful, especially when every single one of those assumptions is entirely apt.

Could the guy who auditioned for every school musical, had a penchant for Sylvia Plath poetry and designed bespoke costumes for Cheryl Cole in his notebook really be gay?

And is water wet, do we know? 

I read as gay for much of my youth and so my identity was always at the forefront of my mind. When I started to come out to my family and friends, from the age of 14, it meant a lot to me. I could seize control of the narrative and speak my truth – like a gay Malala – but it was a major plot twist for precisely no one.

But I had no queer elders to guide me because, while my heterosexual parents are incredibly supportive (shoutout Mum and Dad, you know who you are!), neither of them are gay men.

I had understanding, but not empathy.

Similarly, I was different to every other boy in my form group; whereas the other 14 boys in my class were of course in no way different to each other. Literally all 14 of them liked football and were called Callum.

There were so many things that I thought only I knew about – the Glee cast cover of Smooth Criminal, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s competition shows to find the next Nancy or Maria, the TV show Doctor Who.

All in all, I was the only gay guy that I knew – which meant I must be the only gay guy, because I knew everyone. 

Throughout my teenage years, I felt like I was a complete outlier – and that’s the biggest cruelty of gay youth. So much queer culture is built on feeling different, unique and out of place.

Then, you enter the adult world and it becomes apparent that everything you think, feel and say is actually the same as every other gay guy; every single gay guy knows the lyrics to 911 (if you’re a gay guy reading this who doesn’t know the lyrics, yes you do).

Whiplash alert! I thought I was some kind of radical trailblazer growing up, when really, I was embarking on one of the most well-trodden paths of all time, the Camino de Santiago of sexual awakenings.  

I remember when I first started hanging out with other gay guys at university, aged 19. It was genuinely chilling how many cultural references we shared.

Of course, this is what community is about. I was delighted, for example, that people were suddenly finding my biting and cruel wit iconic, rather than just biting and cruel – and people could finally quote the same pop culture references as me.

But they had also had the same weird hookups as me, felt the same latent shame as me. 

A lot of gay men are even called Will. And this meant I was not in fact a new frontier, but rather a member of the old guard, a traditionalist, even. 

There’s something simultaneously reassuring and haunting about realising so many people share your life experiences.

I used to have a fantasy when I was younger about becoming some kind of queer icon. I hadn’t got very far on how I would achieve that status – but it was a toss-up between starting a grassroots political movement that actively changed the lives of my fellow community members, or saying something kinda slay on a reality show.

I could figure out the details later – but either way, I had these visions in my head of me inspiring the next generation and encouraging young queer people to live authentically.

But as it became clear at university: I am not special. I am just gay.

If I were to give any advice to my younger self, I would say: Even though it’s lonely now, in every single classroom in the country there is a young gay man who has a story just like yours. So you really ought to start your podcast now because the market is going to become really oversaturated.  

I’m quite happy accepting my status as a generic gay guy, honestly. It took a moment, but the truth is, you can’t hate the party from outside. And it will be a good party if there are gay guys there.

Everyone thinks they are special because we have all been told it – but the truth is, we are not all special. 

Except for me. I’m the only one writing a first-person op-ed in Metro, after all.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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