The Things That I Hide

Started February 17th, 2022.

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Note: this chapter contains sexual description.

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1986

A lick on the tips of his fingers prepares him to turn the next page of the magazine he holds in his hands. With the satisfying sound of the paper being flipped, the twenty-three-year-old scans his amber irises across the brightly-coloured page; full of images of the latest models and the on-trend fashion, makeup, and hairstyles of the year. But this isn't what he's looking for — instead, as he furrows his brows, he eyes-up the glossy photograph printed before him; of an attractive man holding hands with a woman. His eyes slowly trace every detail of the two-dimensional male sat in his lap; the sleek, dark hair, and the muscular build. This flawless man is the exact antithesis of himself — a slender, tall-framed individual; with mousy-brown wisps of hair combed upwards into a messy quiff, arched brows and Greek features inherited from his father.

"George?" He is startled, as he hears his girlfriend's voice call from upstairs. Abruptly, he closes the magazine to rid all evidence of what he has been looking at; before leaning back into the cushioned bliss of the sofa he's sitting on. His arms reach behind his head; the epitome of a relaxed demeanour.

She bursts through the door, with rollers in her dark hair. "Babe, are you sure you're alright with me going out tonight? You're not mad about it?" Her eyes hold a level of uncertainty within them; she has been damaged before as a result of control from another man.

"Steph, I've already told you before — you can go out whenever you like, just so long as we can afford it." George sacrifices the comfort of his seat, to stand himself up. He invites her into his embrace, which she takes with no reluctance. "I'm not him."

"I know." Her words almost seem to serve as a reminder to herself, as well as reassurance to him. "I just like to be sure."

"Well, you can be sure," George returns softly, as not to frighten her. "You look lovely, by the way. I'm ... incredibly lucky. And whoever is at this party tonight is also lucky, if they get to see your face." A chuckle, which reveals his pearlescent grin, tickles his mouth.

"Thank you for always having my back." In gratitude, she moves up onto her toes, stretching herself to reach his lips with her own for a quick kiss. Upon withdrawal, she peers at the watch on her wrist. "I have to go soon. I need to finish getting ready."

"Go ahead. I'll be sitting, waiting." He gestures with his head towards the door she entered from a few moments previously, as he steps back to perch himself on the arm of the sofa. "Go and enhance your natural beauty."

With a flattered smile, she exits the room; isolating George with his own thoughts once more. He daren't pick up the magazine again until Steph has left for her party, just in case she should decide to come and talk to him again. He gives it a side glance, spotting that same captivating male on the front cover. Despite the rush from seeing this stunning image, a pang of guilt also consumes him. It's an awful, aching mix of dissatisfaction deep within; and of frustration, that he cannot truly be happy with the way he is currently living his life. For the last few years, at the very least, George has been existing in a lie of his own creation. He has built up an image of being a kind, considerate soul with eyes strictly for women. The socially-accepted heterosexual man. This, however, could not be further from the truth. In actual fact, this poor individual has known since he was a fresh-faced fifteen-year-old, that he is homosexual. For eight years, he has yearned for nothing more than to be his raw and unapologetic self around those who know and care for him — but in a world where a man loving a man is so narrowly accepted, he knows it's a big risk to take; to be free and authentic.

He met Steph at a job he had at age twenty-one, back in 1984. They both worked together at the entrance doors of a cinema in Watford, ripping the corners of tickets to signify each customer's legitimacy (or lack of) before allowing them access to the big screen. They bonded over their common ground, of falling asleep in the back row during all the latest blockbusters. Steph had once taken a Polaroid of George sleeping, and hidden it in his wallet for him to discover later on. When he had found it, he vowed to do the same to her as a form of revenge; but never followed through with the scheme because she conveniently never fell asleep again during films after that. The pair grew close in their work; playful jibes at one another as friends transformed into casual dates; which quickly became intimate evenings together; before blossoming into a formal relationship. The entire time, George knew that what he was doing was morally wrong — such with his hidden sexuality — but Steph was the first girl he'd ever felt a close connection to, so he had somehow convinced himself it was true love.

Two years later, George has dug himself into a deep hole that he is now struggling to push himself out from. He and Steph now live together; the home is rented by George, but he kindly offered her permanent residence once their relationship surpassed the year-and-a-half mark earlier in the year. She moved in on George's twenty-third birthday, on June 25th 1986. Since this, she has hinted strongly at them becoming engaged; which of course fills George with horror most days. Steph is a lovely, down-to-earth girl — granted, she has her flaws and her problems like everyone else, but she is as close to an ideal partner as any woman-orientated person could find in a lifetime.

"Maybe I should tell her." He presses the palm of his hand to his forehead, trying to find the motivation or the strength to bring himself to do it. "The longer you leave it, the deeper it'll get."

Once more, she pops her head around the door. "I'm going now, babe. I'll see you later, okay?" She blows a kiss, "Love you." With those words spoken, she disappears out of sight for the evening; not even giving George the opportunity to respond. Perhaps this is for the best — as he hates to tell her he loves her, for it isn't strictly truth.

The slam of the front door is his signal that she's gone from earshot, so he swipes the stack of vibrant pages from the sofa beside him; flicking through to find where he left off. Once he has tracked down the same photograph as before, he continues to analyse every fine, immaculate detail of his face; his body; and his stance. His eyes close, as his wild imagination soars to forbidden places; he fantasises of this appealing specimen touching him where would normally be deemed inappropriate. Thoughts of kissing a man; of being in a man's embrace; of the physical contact; and of making love cause him to start feeling delicate arousal pulsate through him. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, his hand moves downwards; towards his lower half, in order to self-satisfy the intense erotic desires his mind is painting pictures of. The beautiful imagery continues to whirl around in his head; resulting in soft, slight gasps which are barely audible in the otherwise-silent room. It doesn't take long — nor does it take much work — for George to sense the slow buildup of ecstasy increasing within his stomach; sinking down into the deepest, most pleasurable depths of his body. The high kicks in, leaving him breathless as his limbs begin to shake. Sweat forms tiny beads that drench his forehead, and they contradict the shivers that chill his spine. As the tingles subside gradually, he regains his normal respiratory pattern; the freedom he has just felt brings a smile to his face.

Once he has recovered, he stands himself up; moving to the bathroom to tidy himself up. As he catches his reflection in the mirror, he can't refrain from experiencing the wave of shame. It seems that, no matter how much he attempts it, he cannot shake the personal hatred he holds inside. Just a single glance at his own face evokes an anger that he can't explain; nor that he can really justify. He is fully aware that he can't control the path his life has taken him down in terms of who he loves or finds attraction in — yet, regardless of this, he still finds himself cursing it whenever he's alone. He isn't ashamed of his sexuality; however, he is ashamed of the way he has chosen to deal with it. To forge a relationship with an unsuspecting woman is so incredibly wrong, and he is conscious of it.

"You were raised better than this," he spits to himself, his head shaking in disappointment as he zips up his grey skinny jeans. "You need to grow the fuck up, and tell her everything." His agitated facial expression dissolves into a forlorn one; he heaves a saddened sigh to himself, "Why did I ever allow myself to get this far into a straight relationship? What a tosser you are, George. A complete tosser." He raises his arm, slicking some of the frontal locks of his hair back into the scruffy mop; which was once a feeble attempt at a quiff. Due to a lack of hairspray or gel in his hair, these strands bounce right back over his forehead, rendering his previous gesture pointless. His eyes roll, before he decides to leave the bathroom in favour of the living room.

Upon entering the room, he notes the magazine is strewn on the floor carelessly; the heat of the private moment he just shared with himself must have provoked him to toss it aside without a second thought. He bends down to pick it up, releasing air from his nostrils as he realises that the pages are now creased every-which-way. Closing the cover as best as he can, he throws it onto the coffee table; Steph can take a look at it in her own time, now he's finished with it. The question then comes to mind, what will he spend the remainder of his evening doing? His mind ponders over the possible options, eventually settling on writing in his diary. He does this when nobody else is around; he feels it is his safe haven to jot down anything he could never dare say to another soul. The small book of secrets hides in the drawer of his bedside table, securely locked with a minuscule padlock.

After retrieving it, he chooses to settle himself at the dining room table; so that he has a flat surface on which to write. The key to the padlock is kept on a keychain with his car keys, in an attempt to blend in inconspicuously. While deciding on what words to address to himself, his fingers aimlessly toy with the pen that sits against the length of his thumb. His lower lip tucks in to his mouth; his teeth gently biting against the supple skin to eradicate the urge to fidget. Finally, he finds the vocabulary he requires, scrawling it down on the paper to immortalise his thought processes.

Stephanie,

You are the most wonderful person I've ever met. You bring a smile to my face every day. I'm incredibly fortunate to be able to know you. You are a complete sweetheart, and I know that any man would be so, so lucky to be yours.

But there is something I need to tell you, and the words don't come easy. It breaks my heart knowing that what you're about to read could shatter your soul, but I know I can't keep lying to you the way I am doing.

The truth is, I'm not the man you want. Our relationship has been built upon a lie of my creation, and I feel guilty for every single day I've led you to believe that we were meant to be. It was stupid of me, so foolish. If I could turn the clock back, I'd never have done this to you at all, and I'm so sorry.

The truth is, I'm not attracted to you.

His free hand rubs aggressively at his temple as he grimaces; the wording seems too blunt for his personal taste. He scribbles a solid line through the sentence; rewording it to appear more empathetic.

The truth is, I am not attracted to women. I've known for a while, but I've never told a single soul. I'm so sorry Steph, but I'm gay, and I find great attraction in men. Physically, emotionally, romantically. Every way imaginable. I've never been with a man, but I can feel it in my core that it's just ... right for me.

"You can't tell her like this, you bastard." Disgusted in himself, he tears the page out of his diary; scrunching the letter into a ball with his hands. In anger, he hurls it across the room — it lands in the small waste bin that lives in the corner of the vicinity. Realising that Steph may find it, he removes it from the metal receptacle; instead ripping it into pieces so that it becomes illegible. Once more, he disposes of it, before irritation causes him to pace around in circles. His partly-curled fingers claw at his scalp; he feels as though he's slowly becoming delusional with how much of a calamity he's gotten himself into.

With a low growl to himself, he takes his place on the chair at the table once again; this time, to compose something more honest — already an easier task for him, for he knows nobody else will see.

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Chapter one! Should I continue? Let me know your thoughts! xx