It was 1990 and I was almost 19 years old.  I had no choice but to agree to give Stacey a squash lesson.  I was absolutely shitting myself to be alone with her, fearing that my secret would be revealed.  I was petrified to be exposed.  There was a balcony above the court where everyone could watch and I knew the boys would be on stand-by to give me a slagging as I took to the court with her.

Here, I discovered something that would give me the strength and confidence that I’d need for the rest of my life.  When I’m on the squash court, I am in my happy place. It is where I feel most at home.  I have a different persona as a coach, and as a player.  It is almost like an act. This naturally happened to me, when I got on the court with Stacey that day.  I wasn’t the nervous, shy, insecure teenager who ran away from her and over to the boys in the corner to fulfil my ‘pretend version of me’.  On the court, I was the coach.  I was in charge.  I knew my stuff.  I was professional.  I surprised myself if I’m honest.  I think it surprised her too, and maybe even turned her on a little.  (Ooooh matron!)

Stacey ended up coming for a few lessons each week.  Every time, I felt the most excitement I’d ever felt in my life.  Every time I’d make sure my teeth were brushed, that I was wearing clean gear, that my hair was washed.  I noticed that I was paying extra attention to myself before she came along.  I began wondering if the boys were noticing too.  She was a terrible squash player.  Fantastic swimmer mind you, but squash was not for her.  Neither of us cared.  I coached her, and she pretended to learn.  It didn’t take long before the phone call to book another lesson, turned into a phone call to go have a drink.

I’ll never forget the day she picked me up.  I was sharing a flat with three of the lads, and there was NO WAY I was going to tell them where I was going.  I asked her to wait around the corner.  She told me she’d be in a little maroon mini. She called it Rue.  That became our inside joke.  “Meet me and little Rue at 7 o’clock” or something to that affect.  She started to call me ‘Buddy’.  I knew she was falling in love with me the way I was falling in love with her, but it was forbidden for two reasons. 

1. She had a girlfriend and

2. I wasn’t gay.  Right?

We drove around in Little Rue for hours and found a pub in the middle of nowhere. We sat and had a drink, me a lager, she a pint of Guinness.  She told me with conviction about how she’d come out as a young teenager. I told her how Catholic I was and that I loved the Virgin Mary.

It wasn’t until after she invited me to one of her karaoke nights, that I couldn’t hold back anymore.  It was at a place called Pipers Island in Caversham, very close to the squash club.  I’d met a guy called Steve at the squash club, who I started spending time with, because he was funny and smart and sarcastic. He offered to come with me.  As we walked inside, I could hear her singing.  My heart went sideways.  As I turned into the lounge area, there she was.  Standing tall in front of her microphone, engaging with the crowd, bubbling over with energy and charm.  She began singing, and then saw me. She stared. Hard. I didn’t stare back.  I couldn’t.

I ended up going out with Steve, in fact I moved in with him.  I had sex with him.  It was the perfect cover. But I fell in love with Stacey.  At 19, I still chose not to tell anyone.  I couldn’t. She took me to her parent’s house and I played the piano for her.  That might have been the moment she fell in love with me.  Still, she continued to call me ‘Big Buddy’, both of us pretending this wasn’t happening.  We listened to KD Lang, lying on her bedroom floor.  We wrote music together. I bought a keyboard.  I once got my own gig in a pub nearby.  I remember showing up at the venue to see a giant blackboard outside with “Tonight’s special guest:  Orla and her Organ”, written in chalk. SERIOUSLY!

I hated performing in public, but I did it for Stacey. I couldn’t let her down.  One day, while up in her room, she held her right hand up in front of me. She took my hand and held it up in front of hers.  And then our hands touched. Waves of electricity went through me. Our hands stayed there, magnetized to each other, we couldn’t let go.  She kissed me and gently took me to her single bed.  I won’t give you the details in this blog (see what I’m doing here?  You’ll simply HAVE to get my book when it’s out…), but we did make love.  Well, she did.  I hadn’t a clue what I was doing, and actually I think it was quite awful in the end.  That was it.  One afternoon of embarrassingly immature and inexperienced sex left me destroyed for the next year.  My squash took a back seat.  Steve took a back seat.  I wanted to be with Stacey until the end of time. 

I returned to Ireland in 1992, when I was 21.  I had to get away from her.  I told everyone it was because my squash career didn’t take off.  Steve knew though.  I broke down in tears one night while watching ‘Who’s Line is it Anyway?’ and I told him.  I did love Steve and he said he knew.  He’s still one of my best friends to this day.

Upon returning to Ireland, I was lost.  Fed up with squash, fed up with the world, and I couldn’t tell anyone.  My father suggested I look through the one-adds in the paper and find a bloody job.  There was an ad for a new Tex-Mex restaurant opening up in Dublin, called Break for the Border.   I went to a group interview and somehow convinced the very nice man that I was an excellent bar-tender.  It was only a white lie.  I had definitely poured a few pints at the squash club in Caversham over the last few years, just didn’t really know how to whip up a Sex-on-the-Beach or White Russian.

My one year at BFTB was incredible.  I had a new family. They all knew I was gay and they embraced me.  I became a fabulous bar-tender, always cracking jokes with the customers, and I was quick to shake up a cocktail.  My new family joined me on secret trips to gay bars as I was afraid of being arrested.  It was illegal in 1992 to be gay, so going to these bars was definitely dodgy.  I had a blast.  I met a guy at the Parliament, on Parliament Street named Junior Larkin (RIP two years ago), and he took me under his wing.  He was the King of the scene.  Or Queen should I say.  He was flamboyant, funny, cheeky, flirtatious with all the boys, lovable, loud, and proud.  I adored him and what he stood for and how brave he was and how he simply didn’t care what anyone thought. 

I introduced him and a few other women I’d met, to my mother and my aunty Hannah, and my cousin Maria.  On first impression, their jaws dropped upon spending an evening with my new friends.  They still didn’t know I was gay.  They were just my weird friends.

And then I decided it was time.  I’d kissed one of the girls at a bar.  I liked it.  And there were other girls kissing girls too.  And boys kissing boys.  It was a safe place where everyone could be themselves.  It was my friends at BFTB who convinced me to come out.  They assured me I’d be loved no matter what.  I always had a great relationship with my mam, although in her opinion I was always going through ‘phases’.  Like that time, I went all Gothic and became a Cure Head.  Or that time I applied to be a nun.  And now these weird friends.

So, one sunny morning in June, I wrote a letter explaining that my ‘weird’ friends were gay, and that I was too.  I left the letter on the kitchen table and took Prince our dog for a walk to the beach across the road.  I sat on the sand dunes, as I had done so many times before, contemplating how my life was about to change. 

About an hour later, I walked back towards the house, scared that perhaps the front door would be locked. It was ajar.  I walked into the kitchen to find my mother sitting down, clinging to a glass of hot whiskey with lemon.  My letter was opened and lying on the table.

Her eyes were glazed over, yet she tried to smile.  I burst into tears and said ‘I’m sorry’. Yes, I apologised for being myself.  Crazy right?

She took my hand, and in her own true no-filters style asked me a question:

‘But, but, what do you DO?’ 

I burst out laughing, as did she, for her mind had gone straight THERE.  It was the icebreaker we both needed, and I took a sip of her whiskey as she stared at me in confusion.

It took my father a very long time to accept it.  In fact, he didn’t speak to me for a year.  I left home for a while and stayed with Junior in his house in Kilbarrack.  They had a horse in the front garden. We shared his single bed, and at night he’d take out his false teeth.  It was a time I’ll never forget.  My parents found me there one day and brought me home.  My dad said years later, ‘I never liked the 55-mph speed limit, but I put up with it.’ 

30 years have gone by and I’m finally ‘okay’ with my sexuality.  I’m quite certain it took the guts of 20 years to truly accept it.  There is always an underlying feeling that you’re constantly being judged when people realize you’re gay.  I admit, even up until recently, there was an odd time I felt that.  But now that I’m 50, I may have potentially lost my mind. I don’t care anymore. I love myself today and I have a lot of love to give myself.  I’m making up for the 20 years where I hated myself.  I’m no longer the ‘pretend version of myself’. I am happy.

Hope this was the happy ending you expected.  I’m in a place now where I feel tremendous peace and I’m extremely grateful for everyone who went through that rollercoaster journey with me!  And as I said in my first blog, THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING.  I’m only getting started!