Confessions of a Compulsive Overeater | 'The gay scene made me feel hideous and out of place'

“Je Suis Fatty Gay…”‘Je Suis Fatty Gay’ is an anonymous contributor who, every month in Attitude, takes us on a very personal journey that began in the closet – and the fridge. You can read his last column online here – this is the fifth instalment…

I was 18 when I went to my first gay club. I was promised fun and fabulousness – and a boyfriend too, with a bit of luck. By now, I nearly 18 stone, and, having left school, my best friend Tommy and I hung out most days in HMV, trawling for imported Madonna vinyl and limited edition Take That CDs. Every other Friday night, we went to our local gay youth group to meet other teens like us. There wasn’t really much else to do and Tommy met his first boyfriend there. James was a sweet guy, but I often felt like a gooseberry and was massively jealous.

Tommy had someone. I didn’t. In my mind, that meant he was better than me.
Tommy wasn’t a whale of unlovable blubber. I was. Tommy said ‘I love you’ to his boyfriend. I said it to my pillow. Tommy wore nice clothes. I had difficulty squeezing into anything remotely fashionable. If you’re a fat girl, you can get away wearing fat girl’s clothes, put on some make-up and still look pretty. If you’re a fat man, you’re screwed. Buying clothes was traumatic. I refused to have clothes made for me – that would be like admitting I had a problem. Instead, I lived for months at a time in just one pair of 44-inch jeans and a shapeless XXL brown v-neck. Sometimes I wore a Ben and Jerry’s T-shirt I’d got free from the local Odeon. It said ‘Ask me for a free scoop’ on the front. No one ever did. You’ll have seen people like me on the bus or train. And yes, you too may have looked at me with the same kind of disgust and judgment I had for myself.

I wanted a boyfriend desperately, but people only looked at me to point or laugh. The idea of actually having sex with anyone was completely alien. Yet I still held out for my Disney fantasy where I’d be whisked off my feet by a handsome gay prince on a horse. When Tommy and James wanted time alone together, I isolated at home. I hated them and hated myself. Bitterly resentful, I watched crap on TV and binged my face off.

It filled me with horror then, when one Thursday night Tommy suggested we tried going to a gay club. It was the early 90’s when the word ‘grinder’ was still associated with coffee. In London, the scene gravitated exclusively around Soho’s Old Compton Street. Every chrome fitted bar was packed with men standing in packs or standing alone, hoping to pick up.

Apparently, the younger crowd headed to G-A-Y. but in reality, at that point, there weren’t that many young people there at all. The club-kid scene was still a couple of years off, and the place seemed to be a mix of mainly older men in white vests, crop tops and hairy backs, wiggling about to hi NRG Kylie remixes. I of course, wore my black jeans and brown smock to cover myself as much as possible. As we weaved nervously in and out of the crowd, I was aware of being stared at. I remember hearing someone shrieking ‘bloody hell, you’re a big girl, aren’t you?’

I felt hideous and out of place, but I loved the trashy music they played and the buzz of being in a real gay club. I wanted to belong. G.A.Y certainly felt fun and fabulous – but I didn’t. Until, I had a drink.

I wasn’t really much of a drinker up till that point. It was cheaper and more fun to get drunk on food. But I couldn’t eat here. So I drank instead. And it didn’t take much. After two bottles of Diamond White I surprised Tommy and James by randomly approaching guys. One after the other, they blanked me, which made me behave more outrageously until I wondered off around the club on my own. After another two drinks, the only man who seemed to show any interest was just as pissed as me. I was in my late teens, he was in his early 50’s with an unkempt 1970’s style beard. I didn’t fancy him at all. But he looked at me. Finally, someone wanted me. He was no Disney Prince, and neither did he come on a horse. Instead, I followed him to a dark the corner where he came in my mouth. I felt ashamed afterwards, and didn’t want Tommy and James to find out. But they had seen the whole thing. My bearded friend, who we nicknamed ‘ABBA’ because of his uncanny resemblance to Benny Andersson, was nowhere to be seen. Though I felt disgusted with myself, having sex in dark corners of bars, with who ever I could entice, now seemed my only hope of meeting men. And it was about to become as addictive for me, as my relationship with food.

Share your own story with us as jesuisfattygay@attitude.co.uk.

You can read the latest instalment of ‘Je Suis Fatty Gay’ in the current issue of Attitude – available in shops now, to order in print from newsstand.co.uk and digitally from attitudedigital.co.uk.

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Confessions of a Compulsive Overeater | ‘The gay scene made me feel hideous and out of place’

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