The female of the species is more deadly than the male

‘The thing about gay men, I believe, is that they are not that different from us’, I explained to three 40-something women, who were sharing a taxi ride with me during a recent work trip to Malta. As I was uttering this banality during a bigoted discussion the women had started about homosexuals, my heart was sinking. How had I come to this? How was I betraying my own people and pretending  - years after my coming out - that I was one of THEM? It’s all, of course, the Boychild’s fault.

In our world, most people understand the following equation:

MAN + WOMAN + BABY = STRAIGHT MUM AND DAD

and some have come to understand the following equations:

MAN + MAN + BABY = GAY DADS

and

WOMAN + WOMAN + BABY = LESBIAN MUMS

No one, however, is really ready to face the complexity of:

MAN + WOMAN + BABY = LESBIAN MUM AND GAY DAD

Everyone who knows me, of course, knows what ‘the Situation’ is. But when I come across complete strangers, and for some reason the topic of babies comes up - either because someone else mentions the fact that I am a new dad, or because they spot some compromising evidence (in the shape of the Boy Child’s picture) on my phone’s wallpaper or my laptop’s screensaver - it is impossible to stop them from assuming I am straight. The whole thing starts off quite innocently:

- Ohhhh he’s really cute! How old is he?

- 8 months old.

- You and your wife must be sooooo proud.
- Actually... we are not... er... married, we...
- Oh well... you know... I just used the word ‘married’, the way one uses this word... you know...
- Er... yes, of course... but what I meant was...
- Anyway, you must be soooo happy. First one, isn’t it? When my wife and I had our baby girl, we simply couldn’t stop looking at her, we just sat there for hours adoring this little human being, our hearts filled with joy. Make sure you make the most of these first few months, because, let me tell you...

And the train has gone. By the time - 15 minutes later - the long tirade on the joys of parenting takes a breathing pause, it’s too late for me to finish my opening statement and explain that I am gay, that Lady V is this ‘special’ friend with whom I decided to have a child, that we have our own partners, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Besides, these days the simple act of explaining ‘the Situation’ fills me with dread. Every time I talk about our special arrangement, a fragment of its magic dies. We are our own thing, our own feelings, our own relationships. It’s nothing to do with labels, sexuality, who is on the birth certificate, who isn’t, what the details of the arrangement are... Like every other human being, I have become quite protective of my family, I don’t like people snooping around it just because it’s a little different. To me, it feels natural and warm like a sunny spring day. For lack of words and for the growing reluctance to disclose to strangers my family ‘situation’, I have now taken to silently acknowledge whatever people assume. People believe I am straight when they hear I am a dad? So be it. What harm can it do? Is it really such a big deal?

Well, it wouldn’t be if it weren’t for the female of the species. Let me explain why.

I am one of those gay men known on the scene as ‘straight-acting’. That means I am not flamboyant, I do not look like an inflated rubber doll, and I do not talk in a high-pitched voice using the expression ‘OH MY GOD’ every 3 sentences. In fact, I don’t even look Italian (an appearance which people often mistake for gay). I don’t have to try hard to look straight. I simply look straight: I wear corduroys, I usually look unshaven, I like videogames and indie rock music. And for a long time, I even behaved like a straight man in the bedroom, sleeping with girls and leading a parallel secret gay life (like many ‘straight’ men do), until I accepted the fact that pussies weren’t really my thing and women were much better as friends than as dates.

Once I realised this, I had to develop a series of sophisticated but effective strategies to make sure women did not consider me potential prey, but understood despite my straight appearance that I was into men, not them. Tricks include: dropping into a conversation how much I hate football; offering spot-on fashion advice; dropping into a conversation what a complex relationship I have with my mother (*this only works outside Italy); revealing how much I love cooking (**this also only works outside Italy - now you understand why it’s so hard to tell Italian and gay men apart). In rare but desperate situations, I resort to uttering a couple of strategically-positioned ‘OH MY GODs’ and revving up my inner campness a little (every man has a little lurking underneath the surface, even the De Niros and the Brandos). These strategies have never failed to switch the ‘husband-hunting’ mode off a woman’s brain and to switch the ‘gay best friend’ mode on. They have worked seamlessly for years, and I have never found myself in awkward situations with women wanting to get more than just smiles and kind words from me.

But as soon as I started walking down the street with the Boy Child strapped to my chest, my entire sexual camouflage was shattered to bits. Suddenly, I became VERY visible to the female of the species, and started attracting the kind of looks a fat gazelle might get from a pride of very hungry lionesses in the savannah. The term ‘predatory’ is an understatement. Women spot me at a distance, notice I am with offspring, as they get closer their eyes lock me like an F14 Tomcat jet (remember Top Gun?). Since my reproductive organs are clearly functioning - the evidence is wriggling in my Baby Bjorn - I am immediately categorised as straight and potential prey. Sometimes they smile coyly as they walk past, but most of the times they don’t even bother. They just cruise me the way sailors cruise each other in the dark recesses of harbours: with a long, hard stare straight into the eyes. I never thought women could be so blunt about their sexual appetite. Sometimes I wonder whether other fathers - the straight ones - ever take advantage of this sudden reversal of roles. Then I remember that the sight of a dad with a baby and without the mother is pretty unique, and I realise why. Women know VERY WELL what lurks out there: thousands of other females ready to pounce on their husbands. As the predator-in-residence, they are not going to run any risks. One careless oversight, and they will be raising their child on their own.

Back to Malta and my work trip. The female of the species - I discovered on that occasion - has little consideration for the one who is left at home with the screaming bundle, as her ‘husband’ goes out in search for food and public contracts. In fact, this is the PERFECT opportunity for an easy hunt. After the taxi dropped us back at the hotel where we were all staying, one of the women who was with me - an attractive 40-something MILF whom I had barely met a few hours before at a workshop - declared that she needed a drink and wanted ‘a young attractive man’ to be her chaperon, as she was not in the habit of drinking in hotel bars on her own. I looked around in search for someone else she might have been talking to, but immediately realised that she had set her eyes on me.

I obliged with a half smile, hoping the other two women might join us too, but these quickly disappeared into the elevator, probably obeying some unspoken hormonal orders of the alpha female in the group. I found myself sitting on a sofa at a disturbingly close distance from the woman, sipping a G&T and using all the lines in my dissuasion repertoire. All of which failed in quick succession. A trickle of sweat suddenly appeared on my forehead. The MILF moved closer, a hand dropping nonchalantly on my knee, fingers wrapping firmly my kneecap like it were a doorknob. I started talking about my child and ‘my lovely life at home with Lady V’. She blanked me, drawing even closer and letting her hand slip up towards my crotch. I watched in horror as years of carefully-constructed protection had been destroyed by the mere existence of the Boy Child. Then, as she finally pounced and reached for my lips, I jumped away from her, yelling - a little too loud for a fairly crowded hotel bar in which we were - that I was gay!

She straightened herself with an incredulous look in her eyes:

- Gay?

- Yes. I’m sorry - I explained hastily - I should have told you from the start, but... well... it’s not easy... the situation... you see...

- I am a very desirable woman - she replied, ignoring my remarks.

- What...? Yes, of course you are... but...

- Shut up. You lead me on until here and then you come up with this preposterous excuse?  Are you not man enough to say you love your wife?

- But she’s NOT my wife! And I am gay!
- No you are not. I know a gay men when I see one. You are not. And that baby of yours is the living proof you aren’t. You are not gay, and you are certainly not a man.

And within seconds she was in the elevator, heading back to her room, and leaving me shaking in the lobby, under the bemused eyes of other hotel guests. That was my first real post-paternal encounter with the female of the species.

And it was scary.