Ille-Gay-ly Homosexual – Part Three

Imagine having spent the guts of 10 years hiding in my own little closet, sheltered by the arms of the catholic church, and now about to break free.  My squash game was improving more and more.  I was invited to travel with the Irish Senior National Team to Australia for the World Championships in 1990, not as a team-member, but as an emerging new player.  I did get to play in the Individual Championships, but not in the team event.  That didn’t matter to me.  Here, in Sydney, was Lisa Opie.  And her girlfriend.  Out in public.  And there were others!  All squash players. I won’t name them, but I found myself in the company of many gay women for the first time in my life. I was like Charlie in my very own chocolate factory. In the place where I felt most at home – a giant Squash Centre.

Of course, I didn’t admit to anything! No-one could ever know. I was with the Irish team, sharing a room with my dear friend Brona, who I looked up to and admired.  She was so funny, and still is. When she laughed, she would accidentally spit and guffaw at the same time. She took me under her wing.  I loved Brona.  But not THAT WAY!  Unfortunately for her, she was about to experience something she’ll never forget.

After a week or so of ‘mingling’ (I’m SURE these women could tell I was gay, because I followed them all around like a puppy) Lisa invited me to a social gathering involving (wait for it) born again Christians. I was into God and Holy Mary and all that, so being curious about another religion seemed reasonable.  Looking back, I find this story very funny, but I don’t want to insult anyone in any way in this blog, so I’ll keep it short and get straight to the juicy stuff.  In a nutshell, there were people speaking in tongues, and I participated in the bit where they push you backwards and then you fall down and start speaking in tongues yourself.  Anything to hang around with lesbians, right?

There was just one problem.  It didn’t work for me.  Yes, I fell backwards, and got a bump on my head actually.  But the only thing coming out of my mouth was ‘can I have another beer please’.  I blamed it on the fact that I was TOO catholic.  That the born-agains couldn’t break past the strength of my indoctrination.  

I got back to our accommodation quite late. Brona was waiting up for me concerned about where I’d been, and listened with distress to my story.  We quickly fell asleep.  Or did we?

About 2am, we both sat up in our beds with a bolt. I had a dream that there was a devil standing at the end of the bed.  Brona had the same dream.  We were traumatised.  She thought I’d been possessed by a Born-Again God or something, and that I needed to see a priest immediately.  Now in 1990, there was no Google.  There were no iPhones. No laptops.  So, obviously, we grabbed the Yellow Pages and searched for Catholic Priests.  Brona sneaked into our team managers bedroom, and took the keys to the rented team van.  She was always so sensible and clever, and she looked on the map of Sydney to determine where we should go.

As we set off to see the priest, I was deep in thought.

Dear God, I’m really sorry I went to that party.  I swear I didn’t do the tongues bit.  I know there’s only one God and one Holy Mary.  I’m sorry that I have these feelings about these women.  I can’t help it.  Whatever you do, don’t tell Brona because she might not want to share a room with me. 

It was 2:30 am in the middle of Sydney, the rain was pelting down, windshield wipers flapping like there was no tomorrow. Driving to see a priest. Poor Brona was frantic. 

‘Do you think you need an exorcism, Orla?’ her voice was trembling.  She was clutching the steering wheel and leaning forwards trying to see past the storm. It was like a scary movie.

‘What’ll that entail?’ I asked, wanting to believe it was a good idea. 

Maybe an exorcism will cure me of the gay thing.  It’s perfect.  And I’ll never have to explain myself.

‘He’ll probably just wave a cross over your head or something’, Brona spoke quickly and assuredly, turning left onto the street.

‘Oh yeah, that’ll work then, I’d say’. I was secretly enjoying this crazy adventure in the middle of the night.  Hoping I’d finally be cured.  It was meant to be.

She parked the car and the two of us huddled under an umbrella, walked towards a big, dark house with steps leading up to the giant wooden front door.  The priest was expecting us, as Brona had called ahead of time after she found the number in the phone book.  I don’t recall his name, or what he looked like, but we sat in a room with three tall chairs, told him our story about how I’d been to a party with born-again Christians and didn’t speak in tongues, and then we both had the same bad dream about a devil standing at the end of our bed.  At the time, it seemed dramatic, but I’m sure quite anti-climactic.  I’m quite certain I didn’t receive an exorcism.  Maybe Brona can recall better what happened.  He blessed us and we went on our merry way back to base camp.

I’d love to elaborate on this story, there’s so much more to it, so many rich characters, but I’m conscious that this is PART THREE of my coming out story – and I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff! Trying to keep it BLOG-LIKE.

I returned to England after the World Championships, and continued with my campaign to be a professional squash player.  I was coaching part-time, in lieu of receiving coaching from the main coach there – an incredible man, who brought many of the players at our club to become top 5 players in the world, including winning world championships.  I was tickled pink to be training with these players.   One of the ladies I used to coach, (I’ll call her DT) was quite obviously gay.  She had a short hair-cut, shaved at the back, and spiky on the top.  She had broad shoulders and wore baggy shorts.  She was pleasant to speak to, but I was absolutely shitting myself every time I gave her a lesson.

This was because, she always brought her girl-friend with her.  I assumed it was her girl-friend.  She would stand upstairs on the balcony, watching our lesson from above, occasionally yelling out silly comments about DT having just missed a shot.  It was Stacey.  The woman I would grow to obsess over for many years to come. 

While DT showered after each lesson, Stacey would come and talk to me.  She also had a short back and sides haircut, which scared me for some reason, but she had such incredible confidence about her.  A fantastic smile and infectious laugh, that absolutely pierced through my soul, as her eyes always stayed lazer-focused on mine.  She would mimic an Irish accent (BADLY, sorry Stacey), and try to get me to laugh.  I realize now she was the first woman who ever flirted with me. 

Why is she always talking to me?  She must KNOW. Is it a special smell we all have? That only other lesbians can smell?  Shit, I better take a shower.  No I can’t.  DT is in the locker room.  Feic I must be stinking. 

I looked away from Stacey as often as I could, making excuses that I had another lesson or a phone call to make. I couldn’t get away from her.  I was more afraid that the ‘boys’ in the corner would see me with her. These were the lads I trained with.  I LOVED these guys, but they had no idea what was going through my mind.  They would often make comments.

‘Be careful with those two, Orla Dorla.  It’ll rub off on you, you know’, their south of London accents ringing through my ears. 

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be like that at all’, I lied through my teeth, feeling the heat rushing through my body.  (Now, years later, that bloody heat has become a regular occurrence with these peri-menopausal hot flushes).

Weeks went by with DT coming in for her lesson every Tuesday. Stacey always came along, and watched every minute of every lesson, then promptly came to talk to me while DT was in the shower.  I found myself wanting to see her. I found myself counting the days until Tuesday.  I was in agony.  Why did I yearn to see her and hear her voice and see her smile?

And then it happened.   One afternoon, the phone rang while I was on reception.  ‘Thank you for calling Caversham Squash Club, this is Orla, how may I help you?’

‘I’d like to book a lesson with you please’.

I knew that voice.  My heart launched itself into my throat.  It was her.  Stacey.  She told me years later, that she knew the only way to get my full attention was to take a squash lesson with me. She’d corner me inside the 21 by 32-foot white room, where I had no choice but to speak to her and look at her.  And that was where it all began.

If you’ve managed to get this far in the IlleGayly series, then I can’t thank you enough.  I’m thoroughly enjoying reminiscing on those days. It’s therapeutic for me, and I hope providing a bit of a laugh for all of you.  As I sit here in sunny Prague, my goal is to finish this story by Friday.  It might be one or two more parts, but it means a lot to have so many readers.  Happy Tuesday!