80. Dex

Dad, I'm bisexual.

Dad, I'm dating a woman… and a man.

Dad, I tried so hard to tamp it down, but I couldn't. I'm in love with two people, and we're all together.

I can confidently say, after sleepless hours and worried weeks and uneasy years that there is no way to tell your religiously radicalised father that you are not only queer but in a happy, healthy relationship with two other people.

I know.

Believe me, I've employed every neuron in my usually dexterous brain to find that way.

The crux of the matter is that, as the boys agreed, this situation is binary. There is no possible way for me to live in the wonderful fullness of who I truly am with the people who make me truly happy and not break my father's heart.

That said heart resides in a dark place of false piousness and fear and fucked-upness is immaterial. I can condemn and despise my father's beliefs as much as I want. I can know, with unwavering certainty, that his worldview is wrong, that he's been barking up the wrong spiritual tree for decades now, but it doesn't stop the fact that his warped, bigoted version of the truth is just that.

His truth.

None of us humans can handle having our truth threatened, especially not by the people we've brought into the world—brought up in the world. And I wish it didn't have to be like this. I wish I didn't have to choose between my own happiness and self-actualisation and my father's love and respect for me.

As it is, I'm fairly sure I'll lose the former and I know with certainty I'll lose the latter.

All I can cling to is our conversation last weekend on the golf course. Telling my father is the respectful thing to do, no matter how unwelcome my message will be, and how he reacts to my life choices is not my responsibility.

I've picked Belle up from her home in Holland Park so we can go for dinner with our parents in Knightsbridge. A tiny, cowardly part of me flirted with the idea of going to a restaurant. If I told them in public, Dad couldn't make a scene, right?

But I've decided to be mature and rip off the bandaid. It's better to get it done. Max heads off on the IPO roadshow next week, and the idea of him jetting off to Europe without me having made the commitment to our future that he needs from me is unbearable. (I will admit, I also gave serious airtime to having Max here tonight to lambast Dad into acquiescence. Can you even imagine?!)

My only comforts right now are these:

One. My sister is here and has my back.

Two. Darcy and Max love me. Unconditionally.

And three. By the end of the evening, it'll be done, for better or for worse.

I just have to get the words out.

I saw something on Instagram the other day where a guy came out to his family and he said it had gone as badly as it could possibly have gone without physical violence occurring. I swear, when I read it I finally understood what it felt like to have your blood run cold.

My fears are pretty complex. They run somewhere between actually being scared of my father, who is a major believer in lashing out and whose fury is of the cold, poisonous sort, and knowing how much pain I'll cause him and Mum. A few years ago, I would have expected her to follow his lead and comply with any insistence he might have on cutting ties with me. But when she showed up to give my sister away at her wedding, it showed me that she's learned to stand up to him.

So I hope she can love me for who I am, and I hope I'll get a chance to introduce her to the two incredible people I love, too.

‘Maddy told me,' my sister says, linking her arm with mine in the cab, ‘that the most painful thing is when your family has never put boundaries in place, so you have to.'

I'm so fucking sick of hearing the B-word, but I know she's right.

‘Yeah,' I say, rubbing the point of my shoe against the cab's scratchy carpeted floor. ‘And honestly, it pisses me off that we have to do it.'

‘It helped me to think about it visually,' she says. She lays her golden head on my shoulder. ‘I imagined building this physical fort around myself where his toxicity couldn't get to me, you know? It made me feel protected.'

‘I'm visualising it more as a full-on hazmat suit,' I deadpan, and she giggles.

‘God, where's an emotional hazmat suit when you need it?'

‘Seriously.' I sigh. ‘But it's a good analogy. The major issue is that he's not rational, not from where I'm standing, and he's not stable, either, not in an emotionally healthy way. It makes trying to communicate with him on topics where we disagree really, really tough.'

‘Maybe that's a comfort. If you know you're not dealing with a rational being, then you know he won't follow your logic. There's no point in trying to explain it, even. Why bother justifying yourself to someone who has no intention of meeting you halfway? When someone's as hardline as he is, you have to be equally hardline. Here's who I am. Here's where I stand. You can be in my life or not, but I won't have you disrespecting me, my lifestyle or my partners. Boom.'

‘Yeah, you should definitely tell them for me,' I say, and she squeezes my arm more tightly.

‘I would if I could.'

We have some champagne.

We chat about the Wolff IPO in a way that's vague enough not to give away the fact that Wolff's much-lauded new CEO fucked me up the arse in his gigantic bed last night and made me come very, very hard.

We dine.

I've purposely shelved my bombshell for after dinner, so as not to disrespect or waste Mum's efforts in the kitchen. She's served up the most incredible supper—boeuf bourguignon and potato dauphinoise. Normally, I'd be shovelling it up like a student who's slunk home from uni for some home cooking, but it's an effort to get every mouthful down my constricted throat.

Perhaps it's a blessing. I absolutely do not need to be digesting a stomachful of beef if Max claims my arse later.

Happily, my angel of a sister holds most of the conversation, telling my parents about a swoon-worthy new artist her gallery, Liebermann's, has brought in and suggesting which pieces they should take a look at. Mum and Dad are major art whores, so this is their kryptonite, and the fact that I have nothing of value to add here gives me a little breathing space.

How the absolute fuck am I supposed to do this?

How to break news like this in a way that's forthright and respectful of who I am while also holding space and compassion for two people to whom my lifestyle will be incomprehensible at best and contemptible at worst?

There's a voice in my head, and it's Max's. I can almost feel his warm breath on my ear as he held me in his arms this morning and delivered his parting shot.

Who you are is nothing to be ashamed of. You're the most lovable man I've ever met. If they don't love you as you are, they don't deserve you.

Facts. Facts will be my friends here. I'll try to keep emotions out of it. I won't succumb to the temptation of preempting any issues they may have.

I'll tell my truth, and that'll be it.

It feels like I'm underwater. Everything is slower. Slightly more surreal. It's the nerves, I decide. That edge-of-the-precipice, I can't believe I'm about to do this feeling.

I meet my sister's gaze and take genuine comfort in the unconditional love I see there.

Then I clear my throat and raise my eyes to my father.