I’ve always loved Brighton. Growing up in Portsmouth, I felt it was the far superior seaside town. Even though it’s just an hour away on the fast train, for me, in 2003, it felt like a different world. In Portsmouth, I felt trapped. I knew lots of people and I’m from a big family, so I always felt like I was being watched: I wasn’t. I would get on the train at Fratton, she would jump on at Chichester and 60 minutes later I would be looking out on Brighton beach.
I was 17, slightly awkward, always trying to be funny, often on wheels (skateboard or blades) wearing very baggy jeans and No Doubt blasting in my ears. We would get the first cheap train and spend the day skating up and down the seafront, sharing chips and occasionally holding hands, but only when we were 100% sure there was no one from school or college nearby or, worse, someone who knew our families.
Brighton was the perfect place for a little gay to have a go at being “out” for an hour or so before going back home and pretending to have a crush on Leonardo DiCaprio (when, in truth, I just wanted to kiss Kate Winslet).
She was fit, cool and had a really good MP3 player. I guess it was my first flutter of feelings for someone. I don’t think we were a couple, we never had that chat, we just both knew we were a bit different from everyone else, and in Brighton that summer we felt normal. I remember seeing older girls on the seafront; pretty, cool and happily queer. I would stare at them, besotted, and wonder what their lives were like, if their families knew or if they had been kicked out of home. Were they ashamed like me? They seemed happy and they were having a laugh. It gave me hope that coming out wouldn’t ruin my life. That summer, I felt alive, I felt free. We shared roll-up cigarettes and the occasional kiss under the pier, talking about who we were going to become, where we were going to live and the adventures we would share.
The six-week summer break came to an end and so did our brief romance. She decided to come out when we went back to college: she was telling everyone, even her mum. I thought she had completely lost her mind (it took at least another five years to get me out of the closet). We had a huge row on Brighton pier just in front of the waltzers; a few people stopped to watch, which felt both exciting and embarrassing. She called me a dyke, I called her a bitch and we barely spoke again.
It wasn’t exactly the perfect ending to my summer of love. After the row, she stormed off and I jumped on my skateboard and flew down the seafront with tears in my eyes and sea salt in my hair. I felt like I was in music video, which was thrilling, until I clipped a stone, came tumbling off and ripped my favourite pair of Dickies jeans. I vowed I would never love again, in that way that only a 17-year-old can.
