‘By 13, I’d lost my virginity’: Author Paul Dalgarno reflects on his Aberdonian childhood

Their alpha status wasn’t up for debate, meaning their sass could never be given back. As an adult, I’ve walked through boarded-up housing schemes in Glasgow at midnight, through the darkened back streets of Rio de Janeiro before dawn, have spent time – albeit as a visitor – in a Bolivian prison, but nothing has filled me with more dread than those days at school in Aberdeen.

As an adult, I’ve spent time – albeit as a visitor – in a Bolivian prison, but nothing has filled me with more dread than those days at school in Aberdeen.

The boys were part of a bigger group who had all gone to the same school as each other previously – an army, or at least a battalion, in my adolescent mind. I cowered from them while growing ever more desperate for their approval.

A similar see-saw dynamic was playing out at home. I had a close and happy relationship with my mum – at least until the cops came knocking for the first time. Things were more complicated with my dad. Back then, he would have been known as “strict”, and that’s how I thought of him. Now, we’d call it “abusive”.

With my own kids, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve slapped them on the back of theirs – in fact, on two fingers. They remind me of it, periodically: “You’re a terrible dad – you hit my hand that time …” I’m flooded with sadness and guilt every time they say it – which, of course, in the moment, is what they want.

My impulse originally was to tell them about the kicks and punches I received from my own dad. But they don’t need to hear that, certainly not yet, and in many ways it’s beside the point: I shouldn’t be hitting my kids, even a controlled hand slap at a time of acute childhood naughtiness.

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And then, exerting what can feel like another type of violence during adolescence, there are hormones: that pipeline of souped-up emotions, flowing into an engine that’s not quite ready for the extra torque.

It’s discomforting for me – especially looking at my own kids – to think that I felt under pressure to become sexually active at 13, as if I’d left it too long already and needed to grow up.

The first time I tried, I failed. I had no idea what I was meant to be doing. Bodies moved on top of each other, right? You’re supposed to push, yeah? The second attempt, with a girl slightly older and more experienced than me, went much better.

In terms of sexuality, I was safely heterosexual, it seemed. The alternative – being gay – was to be avoided at all costs and policed accordingly.

I remember my mum and grandma in our kitchen, giggling at something I’d done, saying: “Do you think he’s gay?” I remember my mum being fine with the Marilyn Monroe posters all over my bedroom walls because – leaving aside Monroe’s status as a bona fide gay icon – it meant “at least he’s not gay” (although in truth I was obsessed with her femininity rather than her sexiness, but I suppose they were connected. I loved how she sang, played that ukulele and, maybe more than any of those, how she moved).

I remember – was barely allowed to forget – that my sister used to dress me in her clothes, the taunting for which I still think of every time I wear my partner Kate’s dresses, make-up and hot pants, which is, frankly, as often as I can (Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis dressing as Josephine and Daphne in Some Like It Hot were as much of a buzz for me as Monroe). Back then, being enthusiastically “not gay” seemed so completely integral to survival that my mind and body, even though it might have enjoyed it, refused to go there.

Being “not gay” seemed so completely integral to survival that my mind and body, even though it might have enjoyed it, refused to go there.

I remember my dad making homophobic jokes – or, more often, camp impersonations of gay people based on one or two stereotyped characters on TV shows such as Are You Being Served? – and people, including me, laughing. I remember the kids at school would call everything that was undesirable for boys – singing, crying, dancing, colourful clothes, hairstyles that strayed from the norm – “gay”.

I remember the poor boy who actually was gay, who operated as part punch-bag and part scarecrow to warn all others that the flock had to stay together and peck others’ eyes out to save their own.

With a time machine, I’d go back and stick up for that boy, apologise for my complicity, for the impressions I did of him to make others laugh, much as my dad had done at home. I felt relieved by his relative weakness and would have pushed him into a puddle if it came to it, to hide my own. I hope that his life improved from that point, that he’s still around, that he loves and is dearly loved.

Support is available from the National Sexual Assault, Domestic Family Violence Counselling Service at 1800RESPECT (1800 737 732).

Edited extract from Prudish Nation: Life, Love and Libido (Upswell Publishing) by Paul Dalgarno, out now.

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