MY TWO DADS

It’s becoming increasingly common to see two men or two women pushing prams, beaming with pride at their beloved bambinos.

But what about those who’ve grown up with gay parents at a time when society was even less comfortable with the idea? Here, Sam Muir (he’s a heterosexual don’t you know) tells us about having two daddies…

As these things go, I’d always considered myself to be amongst the happier of children from broken homes. I was only four years old when my parents split, although their parting never seemed (to me at least) the cataclysmic event attested to by some.

The rows stopped and the absence of my Dad, who had taken to switching off the telly as soon as he returned from work, meant unfettered access to cartoons.

Of course, there were the standard internecine exchanges that come with a divorce but on the whole; my Mum was happier, my Dad was more relaxed and I got to watch as much TV as I wanted.

After the separation, Dad moved in with his friend Russell and I went to stay with him there every other weekend.

Russell was a theatre designer, so the weekend visits meant that I got to hang out in Russell’s workroom with its scalpels and glue guns, fantastic model stage sets and vast collection of source books on fashion, history and mythology.

During the day I’d build models for Russell’s sets or dress them in tiny mock-ups of his clothing designs, or go for bike rides with my Dad, and in the evening we’d watch old movies in bed ‘til I fell asleep.

The mercenary little shit that I was, Russell was also able to further cement his place in my heart by introducing meticulously composed Christmas stockings to the festive season.

“I learned what a cock ring was by finding one on the kitchen table”

At no point during this period do I recall any of the feelings of insecurity described by other children of divorce, and I think Russell was a big part of that.

I can honestly say that it never occurred to me to question their relationship; they never felt the need to hide their affection for each other, and my infantile pragmatism meant that I immediately accepted things as they were. Dad and Russell were clearly happy together, what was there to question?

Senior school proved to be something of a wake-up call. The casual homophobia that peppered the fairly brutal exchanges that are the norm amongst adolescent boys was something entirely new to me.

Being the child of earnest middle class liberals that I am, I probably would have taken my friends to task for the crass stupidity of their words, even if my Dad hadn’t been gay, but I soon realised the futility of it.

There was no reasoning behind their words; they were simply following the herd. Besides which, my stance marked me out as different which made me a target, and I soon found myself getting ostracised.

 In the interests of self-preservation then I dropped that particular fight, choosing instead simply to not join in the homophobic fuckwittery myself. There was obviously no question of bringing up my Dad’s sexuality – even to my closest friends.

it would have been social suicide. Not that any of this was something I cried about; the kids who were actually gay had it far worse than I ever did.
During sixth form, people furiously attempted to distance themselves from adolescence in an effort to carve out their adult identity and for most, the attitudes of the past were written out of their history.

It was something of relief to then ‘out’ my Dad. Not that he was ever knowingly ‘in’. From that point on I never again concealed that aspect of my Dad’s life, not that your father’s sexuality comes up all that often in conversation.

In fact, when I made my faltering first steps into the adult world; I discovered that my gay Dad was quite cool. I never declared it in a ‘My Dad’s here and he’s queer, get used to it!’ sort of way, but it was always a conversation stopper just the same.

Surprisingly (for me) when my friends met him they still thought he was cool.

Ultimately, I think most right thinking people have had cause to be embarrassed by their parents at one time or another. For me it was never my Dad’s sexuality, watching him dance will always be far more excruciating.

Sure there are stories I try not to dwell on, like how I learned out what a cock ring was by finding one on the kitchen table (‘Dad, why is this napkin holder so small and where is the napkin?’). But I love the old bastard and Russell too, we have our ups and downs but what family doesn’t right?

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