by Matt Lucas
I nodded, brushing myself down.
‘It’s our friend Sam’s first time here. He’s trying to snog as many boys as possible and he wonders if he can snog you.’
I rolled my eyes, then looked up to catch sight of an exquisitely pretty, dark-haired young boy. He can’t have been much older than eighteen or nineteen.
‘Um. I’ll think about it. Is that okay?’
And I rushed over to Ian to tell him the whole thing.
‘Well? What’s the problem? He’s beautiful.’
‘The problem is that I’ve never kissed anyone. I don’t have a bloody clue what to do.’
‘WHAT?! You’re twenty-five and you’ve never kissed anyone?’
‘I’ve touched a dick.’
Ian sighed. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Are you going to kiss him? I don’t think he’s going to wait all night.’
‘I probably should, shouldn’t I?’
‘I think you should, yes,’ said Ian, still incredulous.
I gulped and popped a stick of Wrigley’s into my mouth.
‘Well, you can take that out of your mouth for a start.’
I walked gingerly over to the boy. He wasn’t impressed by the wait.
‘All right. I’ll kiss you, then. If you still want,’ I said, matter-of-factly.
‘Yeah, all right.’
He was sitting down. I was standing up. There was no room on the packed bench for me to join him.
‘Do you want to … get up … for this kiss?’ I asked.
‘Nah.’
And we kissed, his tongue flapping around the inside of my mouth, like the desperate, final throes of a trout on the deck. I didn’t feel anything in particular. My heart didn’t soar. Maybe I was just concentrating too much. After a while I put a merciful end to the whole thing.
‘You really ought to give up smoking, you know,’ I chided him. I’d recently given up myself and had become the most insufferable bore about it.
We arranged to go and see The Bluetones in concert. I spent the two weeks prior to the gig completely over-thinking things. Was it a date? Were we now lovers? Eventually I sent him a ridiculous text message a few hours beforehand, saying he was welcome to stay over afterwards, if he wanted. He didn’t reply. I went to the concert alone, this time chiding myself over my impatience.
Well, I say ‘impatience’. I hadn’t had any sexual contact since I was eighteen. It had been seven years. I wanted to meet someone and fall in love and all that, of course, but by now I mainly just really really wanted to have sex.
Eventually I did, a few weeks later, with a lad I spotted dancing, topless. He was a fan, and was happy to chat with me. We ended up back at mine. He wanted to … um … go the whole way, but I was a bit old-fashioned, and so we did some other things instead, before he scampered off to catch the night bus. I saw him around a few times after that, but he just wanted to be friends. I was gutted, but at least I had finally broken my duck.
I still had to overcome one obstacle, though – my conviction that I wasn’t good enough for any of the guys I took a shine to. I wasn’t alone in my dysfunction. I soon learned that there was a lot of arrested development out there on the gay scene. It’s hard enough for young LGBTQ+ folk these days, but back then so few of us were out to our families or at work, and even fewer had felt able to come out at school, so we hadn’t dated in our teens like our straight classmates, we hadn’t made the mistakes. By the time we came out, we might have been adults, but it was like a playground out there.
One of the things I noticed was how many gay men criticised other gay men for being effeminate, how they described themselves as ‘straight-acting’ as if it was some great virtue. I could understand how guys might be more physically attracted to other guys who were more masculine, but I could not see how this translated into the ritual social belittlement and estrangement of more effeminate men. After all, we all knew that same-sex attraction was not a choice. If it had been, none of us would have chosen it, in the face of all the abuse we suffered. Therefore why couldn’t people also see that effeminacy wasn’t necessarily a choice either?
There were two large clubs to go to in the West End on a Saturday night – Heaven and G-A-Y. The former was the biggest gay club in Europe and, in theory, more sophisticated, offering different floors and different styles of music on each – club, R’n’B, indie etc. – while G-A-Y was at the Astoria, with one huge room blaring out cheesy pop music. At G-A-Y the joke was that everyone was either fifteen or seventy-two. The clientele at Heaven seemed positively cosmopolitan in comparison.
I’d go to Popstarz on a Friday night, but Heaven was my place, my local. I spent my evenings in the VIP Room – not through snobbery but because I preferred to sit and chat rather than to dance. I didn’t chat all night, though. Every so often my friends and I would do a circuit of the whole club. And it wasn’t just a bunch of pretty boys. There were all types in there – posh chaps visiting from the country, gangsters, geeks, tourists – all coexisting (relatively) peacefully.
I was pretty surprised to see such a variety of types, shapes and sizes. And I was also surprised to discover that gay relationships came in many different forms too.
Plenty of people had partners significantly older or younger than them, and often those partnerships were happy and healthy.
I learned, too, about open relationships. There were sometimes rules about using protection outside the relationship, or only doing certain things with other people.
Others were in partnerships that had strong dominant and submissive overtones, and explored the idea of ownership and obligation. One of my friends used to go to a bondage class at night school and would relay to me how happy he was that he had learned a new knot, but how miffed he was that his partner was the one who always wanted to be in control.
I met people who were in polyamorous unions. It seemed utopian on the face of it, but they were often burdened by vast numbers of rules and regulations, with rosters determining who slept with who, on what night, in which bed, and who would do the washing up while the other two were getting jiggy. I was exhausted just hearing about it.
Despite what you may read in the papers, however, the majority of those who weren’t single were in much more conventional relationships, ones that mirrored those of their straight friends.
Yet this was a world in which there was no gay marriage, no civil partnership, no equal age of consent even. In fact, any attempt by a gay couple to adopt children was assumed by many to be a front for something far more sinister.
So it was left to us as a community to define for ourselves what a relationship was. And, years on, even with societal acceptance, I believe this is still the case. I noticed recently there was a furore in the papers about a high-profile gay couple who, it turns out, are in a happy, consensual open relationship, but who have decided that that is their business and nobody else’s. The press had a field day, calling them hypocrites and demanding the right – denied by the courts – to ‘expose’ them. Expose them for what? For not conforming to what some straight columnist has decided is a permissible relationship?
For years we have not been allowed to be. We have had to forge our own pathways to express and explore a love that the majority have deemed unnatural and undesirable.
Finally, now that gay marriage is legal, do we all have to go and buy our morning suits?
Sorry. It doesn’t automatically work like that.
What’s the point of ‘coming out’ if you’re then going to go straight back in, in terms of what shape you actually want your relationship to take? That’s not being out.
As a closeted teenager in the suburbs, the relationship I had dreamed of having – an impossible dream, I was quite sure – would be with a guy roughly my age, and it would be forever, and it wouldn’t involve anyone else.
But on the gay scene I learned quickly that while some shared my ideals, others rejected them, seeing them as a pale imitation of what st
raight people do.
In fact, thinking about it, when I was growing up, not only was there no gay marriage, there wasn’t even the concept of gay marriage. People weren’t really even lobbying for it.
On the Valentine’s Day 2001 edition of This Morning, Richard and Judy presided over a ‘gay wedding’ live on ITV (their inverted commas, not mine). The country found it not so much disgusting, as hilarious. That’s how recent a concept it is.
I’m not David Cameron’s biggest fan but I do thank him for pushing through gay marriage, despite the efforts of many in his party – and other parties too, it has to be said – to block it.
Things don’t move for an age and then suddenly they move almost too fast to take it all in. It seems absurd now that gay marriage was so opposed, so feared. The sun still rises. There haven’t been ten new plagues. I’m baffled by the Church’s arguments about the ‘sanctity’ of marriage being between a man and a woman. The institution of marriage long predates the existence of the Church.
Back in Heaven at the end of the last century, defining any relationship would have been a luxury for me. I was just trying to get into those jeans that fitted me perfectly six weeks ago, and still trying to catch the eye of each gorgeous guy that walked by.
And, inevitably, whichever lad I’d taken a shine to that week had a girl with him – the fabled fag hag – who I’d appear to take more interest in, pumping them for information about their pretty friend, with the aim of getting their endorsement in the process.
One girl always used to pop over for a chinwag, a chirpy Cockneytype, black hair and wild make-up around her eyes. Years later David and I were on a TV show and she came up to me and started talking about the old Heaven days. I was gobsmacked – I had never put two and two together. It was Amy Winehouse. (Better put in a clang there.)
Sometimes my efforts to charm a lad were successful. I spotted one boy, a model so handsome my jaw dropped. We spoke briefly, but I didn’t dare try to chat him up – I knew I stood no chance. I bumped into him again a few weeks later and to my surprise we ended up back at mine. Again I became quite smitten, but he wasn’t looking for anything serious. It took me a while to get over it – he seemed so perfect. One night, when I was still pining for him badly, I decided to go out and have a drink to cheer myself up. I got off the Tube at Oxford Circus, stood on the escalator as it took me up, and was mortified to see his face looking back at me from every second poster. There were hundreds of him. I fixed my glare on the ground, only lifting it once I had exited the station, whereupon I saw his mug again, in a different campaign, above the giant Next store!
Another lad was more proactive in chatting me up – a shaven-headed artist, a hipster, actually, if such a thing existed back then. He drank a lot, though. I gave him my number and he emailed me the next day – this was a relatively new thing, emailing – and apologised for being so drunk. He wanted to take me to dinner. This he did, and we ended up in bed. We saw each other a few times, but it became clear that he had a drinking problem. When he was sober, he was sweet and intelligent and present.
On our last date I took him to the theatre and then to a bar, and we agreed to go back to mine, but he wanted to go to a club first.
‘Just one more drink.’ That was his mantra. ‘Just one more.’
On this went, until it was about 3 a.m. Eventually I muttered that I was leaving, and that if he didn’t come with me, then that was probably it.
He looked at me. ‘Yeah, you’re right. We’re not really a match. Bye.’
Off into the night I went, feeling very sorry for myself.
I woke up to a string of voicemails …
‘Matt. Matt! God, I’m such an idiot. Shit. Why do I drink so much? Matt, you’re amazing. You really are. I’ve been a complete dick tonight. I really like you, Matt. Really. I’m so sorry. Would you give me one last chance? Can I meet you tonight? Can I take you for dinner? Can I cook you dinner? No drink. I just want to see you.’
I sat through a match at Highbury that afternoon feeling conflicted. Should I ring him? Would it be a loss of face if I did? But then I did like him.
I got home around 6 p.m. Enough time to shower and change and then head over to his.
I called him …
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘Good. Good … Sorry, who’s this?’
‘Matt.’
‘Matt? Oh. Hi.’
‘Hi.’
There was a pause.
‘So, um, what time should I come over?’
‘Matt … This is kind of embarrassing, but I thought we agreed last night …’
‘Well, yes, but your voicemails … ?’
‘What voicemails?’
‘… the ones you left on my phone at six this morning.’
‘I didn’t leave any voicemails this morning.’
‘You did. You said –’
‘Look, Matt, I told you last night I wasn’t interested. I actually think it’s kind of weird that you’re calling, to be honest. I’ll see you around.’
I realised I’d had a lucky escape.
Finally, in February 2000 I was outside Heaven with my friend Tom when a cute lad started tagging along with us. He was cocky, shaven-headed, a bit rough, but steeped in designer clothes and reeking of expensive perfume. He was also utterly bewitching – but dangerous, I could tell. He was lurking near the front of the queue, hoping to get in without paying, I think. My celeb status meant that I was always granted free entry, along with my friends, so I nodded to the doorman to let him come in with us.
Once inside he offered to buy us drinks and then a couple of his mates appeared – one a big burly guy, who eyed me with suspicion and whisked the lad away. I swiftly surmised that whoever was paying for the Prada clothes and Hermes belt probably wasn’t doing so for my benefit and decided not to get involved.
Half an hour later he found us again. He was pretty upfront, wanting to know if I was seeing anyone.
‘Ha, you’re not in my league,’ I said.
He looked hurt. ‘That’s not very nice.’
I suddenly realised that I’d jumbled my words. ‘No, no, NO! I meant, I’m not in YOUR league.’
We swapped numbers and then the burly guy reappeared. I slipped away.
Later that night the lad left a voicemail, suggesting I call him.
I called him the next day and we chatted. And the next. And the next.
I was on a tour of Troilus and Cressida at the time and we were in York, with rotten reviews and barely any audience. His text messages were cheeky and flirtatious and kept my spirits up. I’d come offstage and hurry to my phone, hoping there’d be a new one there.
A couple of weeks later we were in Manchester and he came to see me. He didn’t want us to sleep together straight away. I booked a swanky room in a nice hotel with – at his request – separate beds.
We went for dinner and to a club and then spent the night chatting, watching TV and having a few drinks. At the end of the weekend, just before my twenty-sixth birthday, we decided we were boyfriends.
He didn’t want me to go to his hometown because he wasn’t out, so he came to London to visit most weekends. By now I had appeared in some Cadbury’s Creme Egg commercials and was able to buy a nice flat in West Hampstead. Again, my brother had moved with me. It was only a few months since I’d come out to him, and he was clearly unnerved by the sight of a topless, tattooed skinhead wandering about the place, munching on cornflakes. I, meanwhile, was buzzing.
However, beyond the physical attraction we had for each other and the sheer wonder I felt at actually having a boyfriend, we didn’t quite have enough in common for it to develop any further. He drank brandy, smoked cigars and took cocaine, none of which held the remotest appeal for me. He loathed football to the extent that he refused to kiss me if I was wearing my Arsenal shirt, wasn’t fussed about musicals and couldn’t fathom why I didn’t find motor racing the most exciting th
ing on the planet. Three and a half months after it began, it was over. I suspect I knew all along that it might not last, but it ended amicably and I felt a sense of achievement that, however briefly, I’d managed to make a connection with someone beyond just a one-night stand. There was hope.
Meanwhile my mum, like my brother, was also having difficulty coming to terms with me being gay. I was sympathetic to a point – after all, it had taken me twenty-five years to tell her, so I reminded myself that I had to be patient. My stepdad suggested she see a counsellor and gradually she came to accept things. ‘You’re still my son and I still love you,’ she told me.
That Christmas my mum, brother, stepdad and I went to my stepmum’s flat for lunch. (Yup, we all get along. Very modern.) My stepsister gave me a bundle of presents. One of them was a teddy bear in a black leather hat, with a moustache. Everyone laughed.
Except me. I wasn’t ready.
Not long after, I called up Auntie Sheila, my late father’s sister. I wanted to tell her what I had now told the rest of the family.
‘I know, Matt,’ she said.
‘Who told you?’ I asked, wondering which family member had spilled the beans.
‘Your father.’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘He’d figured it out. He was just waiting for you to tell him. He said that he loved you and just wanted you to be happy.’
Right. That’s more than enough gayness for now. Even gay people probably found this chapter a bit over-gay. I know I did.
I’m going to have a Snapple and then walk the dogs. And while I do, I might ponder whether, in maybe twenty-five years’ time, the notion of dedicating an entire chapter of an autobiography to being gay might actually seem – in Britain, at least – rather quaint.
My first day at Haberdashers’, Sept 1985 aged 11. As you can see, I was painfully shy
H – Haberdashers’ Aske’s Boys’ School
To this day I have not the slightest idea how on earth I got into Haberdashers’ Aske’s Boys’ School – or Habs, as it is known.
Habs was supposedly the best school of the lot and certainly the toughest to get into. By ‘the lot’, I mean the collection of private schools in and around north-west London that those who could afford it battled to get their children into.