It’s Pride season. Various European capitals have been doing their thing over the last few weeks, and London does its thing next week. Or the week after. I’m not sure. I don’t participate in Pride events. I’m completely out about my sexuality. I’m just not … out like that.

It may, I admit, have something to do with my own specific personal psychology, which tends not to feel pride about much, to often undermine my own efforts and to call into question my achievements, and which is generally preloaded with a large dose of residual doubt, shame and embarrassment. I was brought up as a Catholic, but my parents were not very religious, and the schools I went to, though run by priests, did not actually fit any current stereotypes about that kind of thing. They were actually, especially when I was a teenager, very progressive and challenging, and instilled, if they instilled anything extra-curricular, a sort of social awareness and sense of justice. But I come from a background that is middle class and comfortable and bourgeois and suburban. Small city, small country. The biggest fear that stalked my family was the fear of embarrassment. Of what the neighbours might say. Fear of shame. Anything sexual was of course wrapped up in that. So none of us kids were expected to be sexual beings. My straight siblings at least had a plotted course to follow. I had to feel my way. Mmmmm.

I think I still carry some of that : my sexuality is my business. But I’m aware of it.

And I’m aware, self-critically, that my sexuality is not just my business. It’s the social and cultural business of my community and my times; as is your sexuality, as is everybody’s. And being part of a minority, with the luxury of being able to be open about my sexuality without fear of repercussion, it would be wasteful of me to be neurotically discreet about it. So I’m not, generally speaking. But Pride plays no part in my propaganda.

I keep an eye on Pride events. All those people, mostly young people, healthy looking – shirtless boys, girls in bikini tops and singlets, men and women and children happily hand in hand, families, couples, smiling, confident … all terribly pleased with themselves. I’ve very little in common with most of those people. All the more reason to be there, you say. These things are supposed to represent all of us.

But they don’t, do they? They present us. Either they present us as faux-straight, wanting marriage and families, just like normal people. Or they present us as in possession of a narcissistic, indulgent sexuality – we are fitter and hornier than normal people and we have so much more fun, so get out of our way sister. Or they present us in costume – drag usually – because gays are so much fun! I don’t want to be part of the presentation. I do not want to be presented. Or represented, as far as my sexuality is concerned. I want to express and enjoy. And I want, in small ways, to queer things up, to respond to people on an individual basis, as the sexual beings that my parents denied they were – complicated, contradictory, unpredictable, unrepresentative of anyone but themselves.

Diversity begins in the individual. Gay Pride is anti-queer.