Gays

a poem by Roger B Rueda 

When you spent the day gadding about
a lot of places and mostly
enjoying yourselves,
boys  bullied you, all of twelve
or fifteen,
into doing something
you didn't want to do,
you’d go back home, crying
or going into a sulk
just like a real girl!
Your mother used to tell you
it wasn't manly
for little boys  to cry.
You were shy
and hid behind some trees.
You seemed so very meek
and mild.
You were not smart enough
to understand life.
You'd got a phobia
about being teased
about how you walked
along the road and how you
spoke to them.
When you had a crush on one
of the boys at school,
you’d hide your eyes
behind your sunglasses.
At university,
you flexed your muscles
so that everyone
could admire them.
You’d go out to lunch
with your girlfriend.
You couldn't keep your hands
off each other,
You never stop kissing
and cuddling.
You’d hold her hand
when you cross the road.
All of twenty,
you two tied the knot.
Now, to some who were born
yesterday, it's
a complete mystery
why you are growing
like cultivated mushrooms.
Never did they know
that you have mutated into forms
that are resistant
to their piercing questions.
You are held up to ridicule,
but you lay yourselves
open to criticism
with such unashamedly
extreme views,
you have a hard-headed
approach to it.
When boys see you,
they don’t get quite a shock.
You are increasingly
commonplace.
They wink at you
as you turn your back.
They are out on the pull sometimes.
They have a small drinks party
sometimes for you.
They lean over
and whisper ‘I love you’
in your ear.
Then when they go abroad,
they faithfully call
you every week
and give you
a laptop or iPhone when they go home.