The lowly suburban queer….

When I think of suburbia I think of neatly trimmed hedges and lawn lines; pretty flowers in pots, baskets and borders; the sound of petrol mowers on a Sunday afternoon; people-carriers parked on driveways; children playing outside and older people tending the vegetable patches in their back gardens.  The suburbs are often viewed as middle-class, conservative both with a big and small ‘c’ and predominantly white in terms of ethnicity.

Yet within all this blandness lives a species we shall call the ’suburban queer.’  I know this person exists because I’m one of them.  Do I look any different from anyone else in my road?  Nope.  Does my presence advertise the fact I’m ‘on the team’ as it were?  Nope.  Does anyone know about me?  Well, Mum does but you could hardly call her the typical suburbanite.  Or is she?

That’s just it, because suburban living is so seemingly sedate, no one knows what’s going on underneath the ultra-ordinary exterior.  Growing up, I often heard gossip about “him at No. 37″ or “her at No. 6″ and “have you heard she’s only got pregnant by the milkman?  Yes, her!!!!”  This was often accompanied by vigorous shakes of the head from others present, looks of disdain and the set response “you’re kidding me?!?!?”  So, there must be all sorts of things that occur that very few of us ever have an inkling of.

Take for instance, the chap across the road from us.  His wife left him 3 or 4 years back now but because I see her daily in her car driving to and from the house, I assumed everything was hunkydory.  It took our neighbourhood gossip to inform me recently that “oh no, they haven’t been together for ages now” before giving me all the ins-and-outs pertaining to their break-up plus some associated venom which I could have well done without.

I would never have guessed that what I was seeing was in fact a mirage, an illusion.  Who knows then what is going on in the rest of the street?  There are more than likely other gay people.  There’s bound to be a bit of transvestism going on behind closed doors.  Affairs.  Maybe even a bit of bondage thrown in for good measure.

Do the neighbours know that I’m gay?  That I keep a blog pertaining to my homosexuality?  That I have a weekly column at a queer website?  That I’m in close contact with a South African dyke whom I think the world of? That I like watching gay adult movies where guys are doing all sorts to one another? That I’m friends with, gasp, another gay guy who lives not a mile away from here? I doubt it.  I live in suburbia and that means giving as little of myself away to the outside world as possible.  Is that a good thing?  I’m still deciding on that.