The Sexual Compass

by Michael Reed

  Susan put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I'm sorry things don't work out for you, in that area. It's unfair.”

  I don't think it was conceited to feel that I hadn't humiliated myself at all. The truth of the matter is that I'm not the worst guy in the world, and I didn't deserve to be in the bottom five percent of all thirty-year-old men when it came to sexual success. It was unfair.

  “I've got to go now, John,” she said. Then she gave me a lovely hug followed up by a smile. That was a bit better.

  ***

  After everyone had left, I started putting some of my clothes into bin bags, ready to be thrown out. I had considered donating them to a charity shop, but I didn't want to pass on the curse that I had been living under to some other hapless sod in search of a bargain.

  I went through every item in my wardrobe and chest of drawers in turn and asked myself, honestly, if they made me feel happy or sad. Never mind if they were still perfectly good. The money didn't matter, and if I could make a few improvements to my life, that was a bargain in itself. I bet to myself that I'd end up regretting this when I was in a steadier state of mind. Tough. When you're on a roll, you have to make the most of it. I was sure I'd be back to excuse-making soon enough. The new me was going to make some improvements, and the old me would be the beneficiary, if I ever went back to what I used to be.

  Why had I put up with horrible shirts that I hated? I must have secretly hated myself. The brown leather jacket was a tough one, relatively valuable and functional as it was. It was incredibly straight, and very much the garment of a boring individual.

  “For a man with no ideas!” the catalogue should have said. “Boring bloke down the pub? Then this is for you!”

  I considered a ceremonial cremation for it in the back yard, but it seemed like too much trouble. Quick check of the pockets, and in the bin bag it went. Most of my clothes followed it.

  Before long, I had some bags piled up in the hallway. The bag with the jacket, however, was already in the wheely bin and ready to go. I had done this to stave off the temptation to retrieve it. Not everything I now had left over was absolutely awful, and I had just enough apparel to get me through the week. How different I felt, sitting in my living room with a blue shirt and black trousers, looking reasonably smart. What a different view on life.

  ***

  I popped my head around the door at the hairdressers.

  “Do I need an appointment?” I asked.

  “No, we can fit you in in five minutes.”

  As I sat there, I looked at the three women who were working. I had taken a bit of jelly this morning, so my interest was dulled, but being objective about it, they were all gorgeous. Hairdressers tended to be, I had noticed. I suppose you have to look attractive when you're selling a service that makes people more attractive. After five minutes, a chair freed up and one of the girls indicated to me.

  “Now, I've got a challenge for you,” I said as I sat down.

  “Really?”

  “I'd like you to make me look absolutely gorgeous, to both men and women. But, as you're not a magician or a plastic surgeon, can you do anything with this?” I pointed at my head. Now, that was some good banter and it earned some laughs.

  “Erm, I'll see what I can do,” she said with another smile. “Who's your normal hairdresser?”

  “My mum.” That one didn't need any delivery to get a good laugh.

  “What are you after?” she asked, good-naturedly.

  “Something a bit trendy. I want to go clubbing. This is boring,” I pointed at the mum-special again.

  Something occurred to me. I love women. I love being around them and talking to them. I get on with them much better than I do with men. Sex had been getting in the way until now for two reasons. Firstly, because I had a desperation about me that was obvious. Secondly, because they all found me as sexually alluring as something that they had just trodden on.

  Freed up from the whole sex thing, I suddenly wanted to get to know some more women. Usually, they regarded me as either below their contempt or as a complete clown. I was going to change that by being myself rather than having a “please, please, please, like me” act. I had an Ace up my sleeve. I love making people laugh, and surprisingly for a boring bloke, I have the knack. With women more than men, for some reason.

  I checked out the hairdo in the mirror, and it was exactly what I'd asked for. I'm British and I would have said I liked it anyway, but it was brilliant. She'd been a bit aggressive, and maybe taken some liberties, but she knew her stuff. At the very least, I looked more like I was in the “twenty five to thirty” than the “thirty to thirty five” age group.

  “That is exactly what I wanted,” I told her in all honesty. She knew.

  I had been invisible to the local youths for a long time; they weren't interested in engaging with a boring grown-up bloke. However, as I was leaving the barbers, two such specimens slowed down in their noisy, blinged-out saloon. One of the tracksuit-clad little bastards leaned out of the window and enquired of me, “Aww… Get yer hair cut, y'poofter?” before cackling and speeding off.

  Mission accomplished, I thought to myself happily. I was back in the game, in so many ways, of late.

  Chapter 14 - The next week

  According to the dodgy forum, there were a few methods of extracting insulin from over-the-counter medicines. I made a note of what I needed, and I decided to start buying things before they became widely known as sources of insulin. I thought about all the other people who must be going through the same process as me. I wondered if, eventually, I would be able to get what I needed off the National Health Service? Sexual reassignment was available, so maybe sexual orientation reassignment would be free one day? I had been miserable as a straight man, and I had not been able to form a single sexual relationship by the time I was thirty years old. Surely, that would meet the criteria for assistance?

  That week, I turned my attention to the problem of refilling my wardrobe. I didn't want to go mad on that front, in part because I didn't know what I wanted. I hate buying new things because, about half the time, I end up going off it by the time I get it home. Besides, I had a feeling I was at the start of a journey that would involve a few changes along the way. A couple of non-horrible work shirts and some new trousers were a good start.

  In that vein, I paid a visit to a shop that looked appropriate. After long deliberations that had led to the selection of some plain shirts, I looked around for something that would suit a fast-paced social scene. It was agonising. A t-shirt made out of silvery material looked good, but it also looked a bit ridiculous.

  There should be a chain of shops called I'm Clueless, for guys like me. I'd pay an extra twenty-five percent for good advice, preferably from a team of experts who were certified sexual successes. If I was running it, things that look quite good, would be the first floor, so that idiots like me can buy clothes. Things that look like they cost about ten pounds, things that look like they cost about thirty pounds and things that look like they cost about fifty pounds would be the other floors, and they would be for buying presents.

  I spotted a shop assistant, and although he didn't look gay, he did look like he knew his way around a club.

  “Hiya, mate,” I ventured. “I'm looking for a bit of advice.”

  “What about?” the good-looking person asked me, making me instantly realise that I had made a mistake.

  Oh, I'm thinking of buying a new car, I didn't say. So, I decided to come to this clothing shop to get some advice and buy one from you.

  I did pause though. I decided to say something.

  “Clothing, of course. It's a clothes shop, right?” I said, with a puzzled expression. What was he going to do, beat me up for being impertinent?

  I'm not as good-looking as you, but I danced with some homosexuals in a club last Friday.

  “Right… what sort of advice do you want, though?” A reasonable question, I supposed.

  “I'm just looking for some
new going out things. What's hot at the moment?” I said with a cheery grin.

  “It's just what you can see,” he said, sweeping his hand around the entire shop.

  “Right…”

  “Let me know if you need anything,” he added and then walked off.

  Oh I will. I WILL! I didn't exclaim before falling to my knees and grabbing his calves.

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I didn't squeal with star-struck admiration at Good-Looking Guy.

  You are the wind beneath my wings, you little cock-knocker, I didn't say before getting the big silver gun out of my pocket.

  Oh, and here's something else for you. We'll call it a little extra to thank you for all your help, I would have been well within my rights to add before opening fire.

  I considered dropping the shirts I had already chosen on the ground and walking out, but it had taken me so long to choose them that I decided to buy what I had already picked out. It meant giving the shop some of my money, even though they employed my nemesis, this Antichrist.

  The nob-end was watching me when I went to the till. Oh, of course, he's not working on the till; it would be beneath someone of his talents. He stretched a little as he stood there. It was obviously his job to be a good-looking guy who stands around in a clothes shop and is completely useless. As I stood waiting to pay, I wondered what the job interview consisted of.

  So basically, it will be your job to be good-looking and stand around in the shop. You'll have to be able to yawn occasionally.

  Will I have to know about the stock?

  No, it's very important that you don't know anything about the shop or anything that we sell. Unless it's a good-looking woman you're talking to, of course. Then you can try be helpful. It won't matter if you're not. You are good-looking, after all.

  So, the job is standing around and being a good-looking, unhelpful nob-end?

  That's it!

  Will I be able to chat up the good-looking co-workers, who'll think that I'm great and that my crap jokes are funny because I'm so good-looking?

  I'm afraid we're going to have to insist you do that.

  When can I start?

  ***

  At first, I liked the extra attention that my new look was getting me at work. By Friday, I was sick of it. On my first couple of calls on Monday, the new hairstyle and smarter clothes had drawn some comments.

  “Ooh, look at the new hairdo” said one of the lab-techs before reaching over and giving it a tussle. “Someone must have a girlfriend, I think,” said another. I was thirty, not fifteen! I might be giving out some gay vibes now, but until recently, I was a sexually interested heterosexual man, and these were women. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I was only interested in one thing. I was happy to engage with these women as friends, but not as their young nephew. Getting out of the game had given me an objective view of what my situation had been, and I concluded that it had been half my own fault. By the middle of the week, I started to give a polite smile of acknowledgement when the hair or the clothes were commented on. From now on, I decided, no more clowning around, lest I be thought a clown.

  Some of the women treated me with a bit of respect. Erica was chatting about her degree with a co-worker.

  “I'm thinking of doing an Open University degree,” I mentioned to her.

  “Oh really? I'm doing chemistry and biology for work.” I knew her a bit better than some of the others because her husband was the manager at a different pharmacist and I knew him. “What are you going to take?”

  “I haven't decided yet,” I replied. “I've only just started thinking about doing it.”

  “Is it for career, or just out of interest?”

  “Maybe a bit of both. Something technical would be the obvious choice for me, and as you say, that would help me career-wise. But, it's tempting to do something just because it's fascinating. My sister-in-law is doing anthropology and politics, and that really does seem interesting.”

  “As I said, I'm just doing it for the job,” she said. “I want more money! I'm a bit surprised that you say anthropology. And I don't mean any offence by that; I'm sure you'd be clever enough.”

  “None taken. The truth is–and this sounds big-headed–if I took something technical, to do with the job, then I'd probably find it really easy. In addition, as you say, it could lead to more money. However…”

  She nodded. She knew exactly what I was saying. “Don't have a family, John. I love my family, but I wish I was stuck with a dilemma like yours. It wouldn't have hurt anything to have the kids ten years later than we did. I'd do english lit. or history or something like that, if I could study what I wanted.”

  What a difference. I do have the knack for making people laugh, but I'd relied on it far too much. I felt embittered about my status, or lack of it, with the women, but it was becoming clear to me that I had played a hand in what had happened to me.

  Joan, a kindly sixty-year-old dispensary tech engaged me in a different way while I was on another maintenance call. In the past, I'd looked at her and thought, I wonder if she would have sex with me if I had some way of asking her? I felt guilty about it, but the truth was, I reasoned, a sixty-year-old ought to be grateful for a chance of sex with a thirty-year-old. What a horrible way to reduce sexual courtship to the level of horse-trading. However, I wonder if a sixty-year-old single man would be offended by such an offer from a thirty-year-old woman? Bit different then, eh? I felt bad, as though I had been putting Joan down, in my thoughts. And the truth is, back when I was interested, I would much rather have done it with someone like her, who I liked, than with the booby lady from down the pub, for example.

  At first I thought it was going to be the type of condescending comment that I had been getting since the beginning of the week.

  “Someone looks a bit different,” she began.

  I nodded and smiled. I didn't make a daft joke about it.

  “But the question is, does this represent a change from within?” she said with a wry grin.

  How did she know? What did she know?

  I answered her as honestly as I could. “I am trying to change a few things. Bit fed up with the old me.”

  “When you're as ancient as I am, you realise that when you want to change things, you should just do it. You can't see that when you're young, but it's true.”

  It was a thought that I carried around with me for the rest of the week.

  ***

  It had been an interesting week, but the whole thing had been leading up to Friday night. I didn't want a repeat of last Friday's vomity end to the evening, so a hearty meal was the order of the day once I got home. I settled on some pasta with tuna, a safe choice. I left that bubbling away in the kitchen and put in some time with a dance instruction video on YouTube. The step touch had failed to set the dance floor on fire as I had hoped, but I'd been switching between various styles over the course of the week. Getting into the groove along with the combined effect of mouse and loads of alcohol seemed to be the formula. I was going to stick with what (sort of) worked.

  Earlier in the week, I had joined a dating site, but I hadn't dared add a profile for myself, at least not yet. I had begun by searching for gay men within a file five mile radius to see what was on offer. As I looked down the gallery, I felt myself shifting in my seat. Here I was, sober and eyeing up some potential men. The same problem that I had run into all along had cropped up: I had no context to put all of this in, no history with it. I had an idea of what I had been looking for in a woman, but what sort of guys was I into?

  As they stared into the camera, it was as though they were staring at me. When I was straight and looking at women, I didn't feel like this, but I had long ago given up on trying to create sparks; I had become convinced that I didn't stand a chance. I wondered if I could have provoked a feeling like this by being more proactive with women.

  I don't know what I had expected from this side of the site, something more overtly sexual, I suppose. There wer
e a few women on the “men seeking men” area, and they must have filled in the profile incorrectly. They were women rather than cross-dressing men, I would say. I bet they all wondered why men kept in-boxing them to tell them they looked extremely convincing.

  Overall, the men looked like a nice bunch of average blokes. I'd say about one in twelve was actively trying to look effeminate or camp. I hopped over to “men looking for women” to look for differences between the gay and heterosexual guys on the site. By comparison, the gay guys certainly knew how to present themselves. To begin with, on the whole, they were smartly turned out, even though they were casually dressed. There didn't seem to be many bodybuilders around, but it looked like everyone worked out. Even the chubbier blokes looked like they were toned. The older ones had embraced youthfulness.

  What a frump I felt. And how arrogant. What a lack of effort I had made in that area over the last ten years or so. I resolved to buy some weights. The slightest improvement in that area would be worth it. Again, it would function as a symbol. The gay men on the site seemed to be making the best of things with their body and their clothes. It wasn't vanity; they were sending out the proper signals. For most of my life, I had sent out signals that I was a fat, boring bloke who expected people to guess what I was I like underneath. It was equivalent to turning up for a job interview without having shaved or without bothering to wear a suit. As I straight man, I hadn't been playing the game at all.

  The posing of the photographs was interesting. Usually with an arm around a friend, maybe lifting a pint towards whoever was taking the photo. I hadn't put a profile up yet, but I bet that if I had, it would have featured a photo of myself with a neutral expression, standing against a wall.

  I had been on the site in the past, as a straight man, not to advertise but to peer out from my hiding place. Like it or not, gay or straight, a man was expected to show that he was taking an active rather than passive role in courtship. Oh, if only the straight world were different.

  I still felt that women had never given me a chance and that I would have preferred the female role in courtship. How many women do you know who would not be able to get laid if their life depended on it? That was the source of my bitterness. I was sure that I had been treated unfairly by women who worshipped arseholes, but what had I expected, exactly? That I would stand there, make no effort, not initiate anything, and yet be a sexual success with the women? We can't all be Tom Cruise or Ronnie Cray. I had given it zero percent effort and achieved zero success. As a gay guy, I wasn't going to make the same mistake. This time around, I was going to at least try.