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Authors: Geoff Dyer
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Jaffa oranges, having service washes at the laundry or reading Martin Amis.
Now she was explaining to me how we were all bisexual really.
‘But I don’t want to sleep with men,’ I said.
‘How do you know you don’t?’
‘That’s a daft question: you might just as well ask me how I know I don’t want to eat concrete. I just don’t want to.’
‘That depends on how deeply you may have repressed the homosexual side of your character.’
‘I think I’d know by now if I had any homosexual inclinations.’
‘Not when you’re brought up in a culture that makes you think of homosexuality as abnormal, wrong.’
‘I still think I’d know by now.’
‘How do you feel about gay men?’
‘Fine.’
‘Are any of your friends gay?’
‘Not close friends really.’
‘Are you homophobic?’
‘No, I’ve just said: hardly any of my best friends are gay.’
‘What?’
‘Well all the time we’re told that every anti-Semite or racist starts by saying that some of his best friends are Jews or blacks or whatever . . .’
‘Very funny.’
‘True too, actually. Almost all of my best friends are heterosexual.’
‘D’you ever hug your friends?’ (Talking with Mary I quite often had the impression that I was being vetted for membership of some obscure new men’s group.)
‘No.’
‘What if one of them needed comforting?’
‘Comforting and hugging aren’t the same thing. Personally, I’ve never really taken much comfort from being hugged.’
‘And what about kissing? When you meet women you know you kiss them. Why don’t you kiss the men you know?’
‘I don’t always kiss the women I know. Generally I prefer to shake hands with people. The handshake is one of the great conventions of civilised living. Kissing is something else
altogether.’
‘In different cultures men kiss each other.’
‘But we’re in this culture. Men kissing each other in this culture is just an affectation.’
‘What about crying? D’you feel embarrassed about it? D’you think men shouldn’t cry?’
‘I prefer it when they don’t.’
‘When did you last cry?’
‘I can’t remember. Ages ago.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Look, I mean crying is not that easy. It’s not something that comes naturally. You have to work at it like everything else. What’s so special about crying anyway?’
‘There’s nothing special about crying. It’s just that men are conditioned to repress their feelings. Do you ever touch your male friends?’
‘Well we touch each other for a drink now and again . . .’
‘Now you’re just being sarcastic.’
‘No I’m not and no I don’t touch my friends that much. But what’s so special about touching? I hate this facile equation of tactility with intimacy.’
‘Men are incapable of expressing affection for one another.’
‘Listen,’ I said, dimly aware that I was using the bigot’s prefixes, ‘look’ and ‘listen’, as if I were issuing instructions on kerb drill. ‘Look,
women are always accusing men of reducing affection to sex, yes?’
‘It’s true – they do.’
‘But in arguing that men can’t express affection for each other because they’re frightened of touching each other you duplicate exactly that reduction of the expression of
affection to the physical.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Look . . .’
‘There’s no need to shout . . .’ (A purely rhetorical ploy, this, designed to make me shout.)
‘I’m not shouting,’ I said, bait taken, voice raised.
‘All men – or most men – it seems to me, are constantly competing, just like you’ve turned this conversation into a competition.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Men are always bullying, either bullying women or trying to prove they’ve got a bigger dick than the next man . . .’
‘These are just clichés,’ I interrupted rudely. ‘You think in clichés – more recent ones than those you oppose but they’re clichés all the
same.’
‘You’re the one that’s coming
Now she was explaining to me how we were all bisexual really.
‘But I don’t want to sleep with men,’ I said.
‘How do you know you don’t?’
‘That’s a daft question: you might just as well ask me how I know I don’t want to eat concrete. I just don’t want to.’
‘That depends on how deeply you may have repressed the homosexual side of your character.’
‘I think I’d know by now if I had any homosexual inclinations.’
‘Not when you’re brought up in a culture that makes you think of homosexuality as abnormal, wrong.’
‘I still think I’d know by now.’
‘How do you feel about gay men?’
‘Fine.’
‘Are any of your friends gay?’
‘Not close friends really.’
‘Are you homophobic?’
‘No, I’ve just said: hardly any of my best friends are gay.’
‘What?’
‘Well all the time we’re told that every anti-Semite or racist starts by saying that some of his best friends are Jews or blacks or whatever . . .’
‘Very funny.’
‘True too, actually. Almost all of my best friends are heterosexual.’
‘D’you ever hug your friends?’ (Talking with Mary I quite often had the impression that I was being vetted for membership of some obscure new men’s group.)
‘No.’
‘What if one of them needed comforting?’
‘Comforting and hugging aren’t the same thing. Personally, I’ve never really taken much comfort from being hugged.’
‘And what about kissing? When you meet women you know you kiss them. Why don’t you kiss the men you know?’
‘I don’t always kiss the women I know. Generally I prefer to shake hands with people. The handshake is one of the great conventions of civilised living. Kissing is something else
altogether.’
‘In different cultures men kiss each other.’
‘But we’re in this culture. Men kissing each other in this culture is just an affectation.’
‘What about crying? D’you feel embarrassed about it? D’you think men shouldn’t cry?’
‘I prefer it when they don’t.’
‘When did you last cry?’
‘I can’t remember. Ages ago.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Look, I mean crying is not that easy. It’s not something that comes naturally. You have to work at it like everything else. What’s so special about crying anyway?’
‘There’s nothing special about crying. It’s just that men are conditioned to repress their feelings. Do you ever touch your male friends?’
‘Well we touch each other for a drink now and again . . .’
‘Now you’re just being sarcastic.’
‘No I’m not and no I don’t touch my friends that much. But what’s so special about touching? I hate this facile equation of tactility with intimacy.’
‘Men are incapable of expressing affection for one another.’
‘Listen,’ I said, dimly aware that I was using the bigot’s prefixes, ‘look’ and ‘listen’, as if I were issuing instructions on kerb drill. ‘Look,
women are always accusing men of reducing affection to sex, yes?’
‘It’s true – they do.’
‘But in arguing that men can’t express affection for each other because they’re frightened of touching each other you duplicate exactly that reduction of the expression of
affection to the physical.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Look . . .’
‘There’s no need to shout . . .’ (A purely rhetorical ploy, this, designed to make me shout.)
‘I’m not shouting,’ I said, bait taken, voice raised.
‘All men – or most men – it seems to me, are constantly competing, just like you’ve turned this conversation into a competition.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Men are always bullying, either bullying women or trying to prove they’ve got a bigger dick than the next man . . .’
‘These are just clichés,’ I interrupted rudely. ‘You think in clichés – more recent ones than those you oppose but they’re clichés all the
same.’
‘You’re the one that’s coming
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