“That’s a great idea,” I replied.
“I’m not just a pretty face, dear.”
I met Dr Chris three years ago when I started volunteering at the LGBTQ+ sexual health clinic in Brighton. It was a cause that was close to my heart. They were advertising for volunteers to hand out safe sex kits in the local clubs and bars. As I’d worked as a dancer a few years prior, it was easy for me to get into clubs across the city until eventually we were volunteering at Pride and other LGBTQ+ events during the year. Soon we were offering safe sex kits in gay bars, hotels, dance clubs, saunas, and cruise clubs. Most Saturdays I was handing out condoms and lube and offering sexual health advice.
Stacey was a huge champion for volunteer work, and I would be lying if I said she didn’t inspire me, but there was another reason for my dedication to the cause.
“Darling,” Dr Chris said, taking my hand. She patted it and took a deep breath. “It’s coming up to Elliott’s anniversary isn’t it?” I nodded, fearing a sob would escape if I opened my mouth. “I didn’t want you to go away today without me acknowledging it and saying I love you, I’m here for you and Elliott would be so proud of everything you’ve done in his name.”
“Three years,” I managed to get out. “Can you believe it?”
“Time passes us by, Skye. Blink and it’s gone.”
“Isn’t it frightening, though?” I replied.
“Terrifying,” she nodded. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I replied, and it wasn’t necessarily a lie or fabrication, but I did make a habit of moving on from Elliott-focused conversations. Helping out at the clinic gave me focus, something else to concentrate on apart from the sadness of losing my brother when he had his whole life in front of him. Volunteering was my energy, my air, my relief. I could do something to keep busy, avoid thinking about my loss and help others so they never found themselves in the same place as Elliott did. A hatred, a self-loathing that no one should feel about themselves.
“I liked him a lot,” Dr Chris said. “Although it was brief, I thought he was a lovely young man.”
I’d taken Elliott to the clinic three weeks before he died. He had come out to me one evening, when he returned home from a club, dazed and confused after his drink had been spiked. The clinic ran support groups for young people coming to terms with their sexuality and I thought it would help. I already knew Elliott was gay, and I supported and accepted him fully. What I didn’t know was how hard he was finding it to come to terms with it himself. It was only after his death – through his suicide note – that I understood the depths of his unhappiness. Years of bullying at school. His first sexual experience that went disastrously wrong. A best friend he fell in love with but knew would never reciprocate as he watched him dating the popular girls in school. It was another rejection on top of the rejection from our mother. Coupled with the loss of our grandmother, it all became too much.
I found him face down on his bed. He looked so peaceful and still. Will was with me, having just returned from a night out of stand-up comedy and drinks. Never had I felt the preciousness of life more than I did in that moment.
“He was a beautiful person,” I said, remembering his big smile and his eyes that reflected his mood. “I know he’d want me to help other people struggling like him.” And I had. At the clinic and during support groups. I saw too many people who were struggling to come to terms with their sexuality. Not just young people but members of the LGBTQ+ community of all ages who just couldn’t accept themselves for who they are. Their struggles only spurred me to do more. I volunteered more of my time and set up a buddy project linking young people to others who needed support too. It made me feel closer to my brother like I was doing something good in his memory. Making his short life matter. All in Elliott’s name.
“I wanted to talk to you about possibly setting up another support group, or perhaps a steering group,” Dr Chris said. “I’m finding during clinic that I have more conversations with young people about porn and their expectations of sex through watching it.” She tapped her spoon against the cup and Cher woke with a start. “Babycakes, Mummy is sorry.” She lifted him up like a tiny Simba, inspecting him before returning him to her knee. “It’s really rather disturbing and terribly sad.”
“You don’t agree with porn?” I asked.
“I do agree with porn, dear. My goodness, I have quite a collection!” I laughed. “But what concerns me is the many different types of porn. It’s a multi-million-pound business with every fetish and kink catered for. Stuff you wouldn’t have thought of. Everything exists, Skye. Young people are impressionable, and porn is so widely and readily available. The swipe of a screen and you can access positively anything when you’re sitting on a bus for heaven’s sake! In my day you would have to go to a seedy back street sex shop and pray that you wouldn’t be seen coming out with a brown paper bag under your arm.”
“So, how does this relate to sexual health?”
“Expectations, darling. If you’re young and curious, porn will be the next step. And if you’re watching something where there are multiple partners, one after the other, gang bangs, rape scenes, bestiality, you name it, impressionable minds may believe that’s what sex is. They get a skewed view of loving relationships, of what boundaries are and should be. I’m not saying
