The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 13

Until recently, the word gay didn't have any actual connection to me. Sure, in occasional moments of clarity, I recognised what I felt inside. But I kept it buried beneath an impenetrable layer of bullshit.

There was that incident at my previous school, and its unseemly aftermath. I airbrushed that out of the mosaic of memories in my mind. I was attending a new school now. Aside from Robbie, nobody had the slightest inclination of what was hidden behind my quiet persona. And Robbie, he might have suspected, but he didn't know.

Know. I pretended not to know myself.

The thing about keeping secrets is you become a well-skilled, practised liar. So adept at the art of deception, you reach the point where you can even con yourself.

You construct the dam. But the pressure keeps building behind the walls.

After suffering another of my chest-pummelling, mind-fucking episodes, I did some research on the matter. I came across a ring binder of health magazines sat on the teak bookshelves, bunched in between a copy of The Godfather and Go Tell it to the Mountain, in our sitting room.

Anxiety-attack. That was the medical term for my episodes. The good news; despite being terrifying, they are not life-threatening. Reading that was reassuring, as was the helpful reminder that panic attacks always end. Deep breathing, walks, patience, and distracting oneself were some of the ways listed to cope with the overwhelming sensations.

Possible causes; Work pressure, financial problems, divorce, excessive caffeine use, drug or alcohol dependency, or certain medications. None of which applied to me. Which left one option. Stress.

What had I in my life to cause me stress?

Unable to think of anything offhand, I contented myself with perusing through the pages, paying scant regard to the content, until I happened on a page concerning the male reproductive system. Underneath the labelled drawing of the penis and testes, a colour photograph of a nude adult man captured my full attention.

Though I'd seen naked males before, after gym practice, at the swimming-pool changing room, I'd never allowed myself more than a quick sideways glance. Invariably, preceded by a nagging sense I was about to commit an immoral act. I had trained my eyes not to see what they shouldn't. I never spent a second longer in the communal showers than necessary. Unfailingly, first in and first out, struggling to pull my underwear up beneath the tightly wrapped towel, staring at my toes, while guys paraded around carefree like denizens of the Garden of Eden. That strange sensation of relief I'd feel stepping out of the leisure centre into the open air, where I could breathe freely again. Never truly understanding—or maybe not wanting to figure out—the reason behind my paralysing anxiety.

Though not designed to stimulate arousal in the viewer, the picture had that precise effect on me. A pulsating force surged like electricity through me. I studied the image intensely, breathlessly. Eyes devouring the once forbidden fruit, now opened to the truth.

I unclipped the binder, folded the page, and placed it in my back pocket, rushing upstairs to hide it in a magazine in my wardrobe, where it lay for the rest of the day.

I finished my homework, watched the X-Files on TV, listened to the new Suede album. Only one thought dominated my mind.

My mum banged on my bedroom door around eleven, ordering me to knock that racket off. Music muted, I heard the click of my parent's bedroom door closing over.

I lay perfectly still in the dark, accompanied by the sound of my distorted breathing. Anticipation building, until I could take no more, and succumbed to the insurgent urge.

I crept out of bed and moved catlike across the carpeted floor, and cautiously opened the wardrobe, wincing at the sound of the squeaking hinge. I stood motionless for a moment, like a thief, listening for any discernible noise.

I sat up in the bed, knees bent, naked under the covers, reading lamp on, eyes feasting on the flesh portrait held in my trembling hands. Bewitched. Entranced. That familiar feverish energy swelling inside me, demanding an outlet.

My free hand descended under the duvet.

The figure seemed to rise from the wavering page between my fingers and enter my mind's eye, visible after my eyelids had squeezed shut. The face morphing into a likeness of Noely, a classmate I found appealing.

Gradually, the mental image of my lust transposed into a vision of Robbie.

It took longer than usual for my breathing to return to its natural rhythm after I'd finished. Still surfing the wave of exhilaration, yet to disembark into the sea of tranquillity.

For a few blissful moments, at peace, at one with myself.

The pleasant calm soon subsided, rapidly replaced with self-reproach and recrimination. Not unexpected, given the Catholic stance on masturbation embedded in my mindset from an early age. Except it was. I had crossed an imaginary line, passed through the event horizon. No returning from. Now, I knew. Tonight I had received the empirical proof.

Undeniable.

No longer an easily dismissed theory.

A small voice in my head assured me I'd done nothing wrong. Hadn't it been an enjoyable experience? I'd been building toward this for years. Wasn't it the great William Blake who said he'd sooner resort to infanticide than nurse unacted on desires?

That small voice soon got drowned out by a tidal wave of counter-argument. Guys are supposed to like girls. The equipment fits for a reason. Marriage/kids/grandchildren—this is the goal of the male species.

Not normal.

It's a sin.

All that learned experience. Ingrained.

I am Pavlov's conditioned dog.

Nausea rose in my tight chest, heart palpitating alarmingly.

Fear took a firm grip on my mind.

Deep breathing didn't work.

Terrible thoughts kept thrashing through my brain.

My mind was whisked up in a wild typhoon of conflicting emotions.

When the storm subsided, another Blake quote echoed through my head. Oh, why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like the rest of my race?