Matthew Parris. Long-suffering Spectator readers deserve a seasonal break from yet another Remoaner diatribe from me. Instead, I turn to sex. There is little time left for me to write about sex as the thoughts of a septuagenarian on this subject I turn 70 this year may soon meet only a shudder. But I have a theory which I have the audacity to think important. My firm belief is that in trying to categorise sex, sexuality and — yes — even gender, the late 19th, 20th and early 21st centuries have taken the medical and social sciences down a massive blind alley.
Q IF I were to say to you that I am in love, it would be a massive understatement. But love is the only word I can think of that comes close to describing how I feel about the person who is the sole occupant of my thoughts every minute of every hour of every day. I am a year-old male third-level student. Until I came to college, I had very few close friends. Now, I am popular and have numerous friends - for which I am truly grateful.
I was home alone, and it was a celebration of sorts, the kind of merrymaking I reserved for days when I convinced my mom I was not well enough for the politicking of seventh grade. I was mid-spin when the thought stormed in. What begged the question at that moment? I can only assume dancing made me think of my dance studio. Until that moment I never questioned I would date men — straight until proven gay remains the gold standard of compulsory heterosexuality — but suddenly it seemed like anything could be true.
How many times have you sat despairing in the quagmire that is unrequited love? These feelings of confusion are practically a gay rite of passage. You should really stop buying so many books. Why've you bought this many books? We first learn about these constrictions as teenagers crushing on unavailable straight guys, and these gut-wrenching and soul-breaking infatuations, more often than not, end drenched in disappointment, rejection, and pangs of loneliness.