An improbable but beautiful meeting

Last Wednesday, I went out with my Maiden Aunt (her description) for one of our occasional evenings out. We endured an “informal evening of champagne” at my local lesbian coffee shop for nearly two hours before being able to make a polite exit. In essence, it was pretentious and horrid. If there’s one thing I hate more than a pretentious person, it’s a northern pretentious person.

Having escaped the insufferable champagne “do”, we went to the Fat Cat at Deansgate Locks with the express purpose of drinking a lot of ordinary drinks amid a lot of ordinary people.

I came back from a visit to the gents’ to find Maiden Aunt chatting somewhat nervously to a young gentleman and his quiet friend. It transpires that young gentleman was a Royal Marine on leave from Afghanistan. He seemed to have said a brief hello to a fair few people, in the hope of finding somebody who thought that we were doing the right thing by being there. The parallels with the Vietnam war are becoming clearer every day. This guy was in harm’s way daily and wasn’t getting any thanks for it from the folks back home. It’s sad and it’s unfair. Asked for my opinion, I said that I felt we did the right thing to get rid of the Taliban but Iraq was a mistake. However, all respect was due to servicemen who were there, conducting themselves with professionalism and restraint. He said he just couldn’t help himself from hating Muslims. This seemed somewhat out of character somehow but I guess that being shot at a lot by the Taliban is likely to colour one’s opinion. I took a chance at this stage and I said that I had no particular beef with Islam. As a gay man, Judaism, Christianity and Islam all hate me in equal measure. Give me a moderate Muslim over a home schooling American Christian any day.

Bit of a risk though to say this I suppose. One wouldn’t normally assume that a marine who was showing some signs of post traumatic stress would react positively to the news that his new mate was a batty boy who might well be mentally undressing him as we spoke. His actual reaction couldn’t have been more “fair enough” and “respect”, which is pleasingly a near universal reaction in Manchester in 2006. We chatted. It was nice. Maiden Aunt left to get a train, which had been my planned hometime, but I had half a pint left so I thought I may as well finish it with my new pals. When I got back to the bar, there was another pint sitting waiting for me, conjured from military wallet. A real man who knew I was gay was buying me drinks. What was there not to love about that situation, eh?

11pm came and, it being England and not a special occasion, the bar decided it was time to close. Marine and quieter mate had planned to go to the huge club up the road from my flat. I’ve walked past this club many times and inwardly sneered at it, in the disagreeable manner that superior ageing old queens do when they walk past straight clubs. However, I was a bit straight-curious, especially as I was in the company of a charming, young and cute 25 year old real man who was oddly keen that I should go with him.

It was all very surprising. Marine insisted on paying me in and buying the first three rounds. It was becoming odd. Odder still was the fact that the atmosphere was superb. I suppose that means it was a student night. Technically, I’m still a student which felt oddly comforting. Comforting too was the way that Marine pal had said quite clearly that nobody would give me any grief (lest gayness be obvious from pheromones or something), as he would be there to protect me. I truly can see what a lady sees in a soldier. They may kill with their bare hands, but eeeh, they treat you right. I know that hypersensitivity and over protectiveness are symptoms of PTSD. I shouldn’t take it as a compliment.

At 1.30am, I had a moment of clarity: I was trashed on a school night amid kids half my age. I love the fact that evenings like this occasionally happen when one lives in central Manchester . My new Marine friend had become ever more touchy feely all evening and even seemed reluctant to let go of my hand or to take his arm from around my waist. He was remarkably tender for a straight guy, let alone a killing machine. Look, you can't blame me for completely loving that, can you? Had he not shown me his military ID a few times, I would have doubted he was anything other than a bi-curious student. Deeply satisfying as it was to have a handsome, charming real man being tactile and protective, it seemed that it was time for an exit. His bond with me was surely nothing more than combat stress issues and the fact that I had shown him respect, affirmation and affection. I'd listened carefully and told him it was OK that he’d shot people in the line of duty. Emotional maelstroms such as this can progress to improbable sexual encounters. Honestly, they can. Those of you who have enountered this phenomenon will recognise what I mean. The rest of you will probably be very sceptical and I don't blame you. When it does happen though, the reaction after sobering up aint always pretty. It seems best to avoid that with an exceptionally fit man who's trained to kill.

I did tell him many times he ought to respond to some of the looks he was getting from young girls (one of whom sarcastically asked him if I was his father: bitch). I really believed that a marine on three weeks’ leave should be racking up as many uncomplicated life affirming (hetero) sexual encounters as possible and I was in the way of that. He saw it differently. In other words a 25 year old squaddie was less shallow than me. Ouch.

He was very keen to swap mobile numbers and that he’d be very pleased if I would call him. Long hug later and I was on my way into the Manchester night alone, torn between walking the few minutes to my flat and turning back.

I’ve since spoken with a friend in Manchester who has had a similar encounter, except that he actually slept with his soldier (for info, it didn’t end unhappily). These things happen more often than one would imagine, it seems.

There was something beautiful about the whole thing. I may yet give him a call and ask if he fancies a beer and a chat. I genuinely care that this man has somebody who he can talk openly with, as he seemed to be lacking that. He deserves more respect than he seems to get. My friend who'd had a similar encounter said that this is the sort of beginning of a lovely friendship. I'd be up for that.

What should I do?