This whole gay wedding thing confuses me. Mainly because I’ve never really been in a relationship of any sort (notwithstanding Curfew Boy, and the definition for that is still up for grabs), and I don’t think I’ve ever thought about a man beyond “Well, once we’ve hooked up, maybe we’ll be able to do it again some time”, but mostly because I’m not sure why either side is so incredibly vehement about it.

I’m not completely clueless. I understand that for gay men and women at least, the social permission to get married breaks one of those many semi-permanent taboos, in that it admits them to the realm of hetero-orthodoxy and sort of makes society as a conceptual whole acknowledge the validity of their relationship (and on a more practical note, confers many legal and fiscal benefits). But the whole idea of marriage, which in my mind seems to be aimed at creating a stable structure in which to produce and raise children…well, isn’t it just a little dated?
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Here’s the thing. I can’t just get up and go. If I could, life would be much easier.

And it’s not just about the family members I need to take care of. Hell, in a weird way, that’s the easiest problem to get around. It’s the simple logistics.

When you’re Pakistani, between the age of 18 and 40 and male, you tend to be subject to a very special kind of regard in matters relating to travel, relocation or employment outside of your home country. Not that it’s significantly easier for too many other nationalities, but simply put, it’s a bitch to get a job in a foreign state. Getting a company to sponsor you for a work-permit involves their having to justify (in the UK for example) hiring you, and said justification has to basically state that nowhere in the entire EC could they find someone with an equivalent skill-set.

I like to think I’m special, but I know I’m not that unique.

So sometimes, although it’s suggested with the best intentions in the world, packing my steamer trunks and heading out to the Wonderful Liberated Rest of the World isn’t an option. Certainly not the US, if only because I don’t think I have enough in the way of spare body-parts and kidnapped offspring to get through the whole bloody visa application process. It’s just not that easy to get up and go. There are hierarchies of acceptability, with me as a piece of paper coming in very low on the totem pole of immi/emigration. And so, while there’s always the tendency to wax eloquent and nostalgic about the good times to be had outside of Pakistan, in countries where 14-hour power outages aren’t treated as standard occurrences and the sight of a policeman doesn’t immediately send you scrambling for your wallet’s “bribe” compartment, well…there’s not a great deal to be done about it. This reality, in turn, feeds into the sense of malaise and general resignation to living and–if only in one’s imagination–loving in Pakistan, because the alternative genuinely is sometimes too difficult to contemplate.

I hope that made some sort of sense, because it was all really bloody cogent in my head as I typed.

Articulating all of this is what led to my friend Coco sitting me down over coffee and biscotti today after work, and led into the explanation as to what was/is/will be stopping me from calling up Curfew Boy to ask him what his take on the two of us is. The short version? I’d rather not rock the boat before I know it’s actually sailing. The slightly longer version? I’m scared that he’s not into this whole thing as much as I am. Coco’s version? I’m a dumbass who not only needs, but also deserves after the effort/time/energy put into this, to ask him whatever the hell I want, especially if all I’m trying to do is sound him out.

Which is all very, very confusing.

I hate being pushy. I hate being needy. But I think about him, and I think about me, and I think about the last decade or so I’ve been alone, and I think about lying in bed with him, giggling as we watch bad TV together, or making him try a bite of sushi, and even though he’s pretty much a straight man in terms of communication/bonding, etc. what with the no phone calls (Coco on his career prospects: “No sales jobs. Ever.”) or text messages, I still like him. I don’t think I’m in love with him, but I think–quite realistically–that the lightning strike of love is rare and infrequent, and as such, I tend to believe in growing into love versus anything more dramatic, no matter how much it may appeal to my sense of drama.

So I’m a little scared that asking questions will precipitate answers that’ll only serve to confirm my innate cynicism about how life is generally out to get fucked, and I’ll spend the next fortnight sobbing into my pillow because, quite frankly, I don’t feel confident enough in myself to sit back and think “OK yeah, you know what? I’m a catch.” Fuck this self-empowerment shit, the last couple of years and the last two decades (give or take) have demonstrated–quite amply–that when push comes to shove, very few gay men give a toss about personality and wit and charm. It’s about six-packs and long flowing locks, and clear skin, and Ken-doll-like waxed chests. I just don’t want to (once again) lose out to that, to re-confront the idea that I am physically unattractive to someone, and to be sad and lonely again. Because I’m not ashamed of that, and I admit it freely: for many years, I have been sad and lonely. Very sad. Very alone. And I didn’t hate it at the time, but that’s because I didn’t let myself feel much during that time.

I’m starting to now. I kind of like it.