Dean, my Dear.

I'm gay. Gay, gay, and triple gay. I'm gayer than a greased-up sailor on a pink pogo-stick listening to Waltz of The Flowers and Kylie on his Ipod Nano. I'm gayer than Oscar Wilde's right hand. I'm gayer than a boxful of chocolates covered white roses  sent to a neckerchief-wearing ballet-dancer named, "Brucie".

I'm that gay, however - Dean is not.

In fact, I doubt even the merest streaks of homosexuallity grace his mind. It's a shame really, a real fucking shame! I'm not going to rant, I'm going to tell - HE'S SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL AND GORGEOUS AND PERFECT AND, keeping my composure to the silletto-sharp point it is, STRAIGHT! He's straight. It's terrible, horrid, a cruel trick God played on me. I am, or was, in love with him. Each breath was taken in the hope that he'd soon be beside me; each meal eaten with the thought of it sustaining me for him; each day, hours spent pruning myself before I walked to his house, strutted my stuff, and ALAS was ignored! He would sit before his computer, tapping away, while I festered and wallowed in the corner, nibbling on my nails. Perhaps, and GOD ONLY KNOWS HOW HE COULD MISS IT! - he does not know I'm gay. Maybe he thinks I'm eccentric. Or nutty. Or just acting - I do do acting, and singing, and horse-riding (not even the sight of those slim high boots can turn him); I mean, I may as well walk into his house and grab his face and kiss him -

What an idea! I could just imagine his big, puppy dog face, those owl-eyes, staring at me, as I draw away from him, and then he says "Oh. Maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore..."

Aw, what a cruel thought, oh my reader! What a cruel thought! Maybe I should just tell him I'm gay? Mmm? Just splurt it out, perhaps in mid-conversation, so it seems trivial...

"Did you see the match last night, Jamie?"

"Yes, it was very good, Dean, very good - but I wouldn't know that: I'm too gay. Could you pass your pencil?"

I'm sure that would be a brilliant idea. He'd probably ask me to repeat it.

"What?"

"Gay. Me. I am."

"You."

"No, the other me... Yes, me. I'm gay. I'm gayer than a greased-up--"

"Woah. When were you planning on telling me this?"

"Oh, about now, I suppose. Maybe later."

"Fucking hell. Maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore..."

Ah! How could I bear to loose his silky hair, black as soot, and his rosy lips, and his fragrance, ooooh that gorgeous burst of freshness just WAFTING up my nose! How could I bear to loose the sight of his hips swaying to that music he listens to, or the way he smiles at my many, MANY feeble jokes. How could I, reader? Tell me that!

My phone is ringing. It's Him! My Dean!

"Hello, Jamie?"

"Yes, m'dear?"

"I've something to tell you..."

"Oh, really? Whatever could it be?"

"I'm...well...don't get mad, or nuthin, but I'm gay."

I'm gobsmacked. The phone is limp in my hand. My jaw is limp in my head. Then I suddenly jump for joy!

"Gay! You! OH MY GOD, that's amazing! Ahhhh!"

This is my moment, my final, gorgeous time! It'll all be fine! A romance begun! I'm happier than the guy who cleans Donald Trump's safe!

"And," Dean says, "I'm going out with Harry."

Oh, for fuck's sake.