22-year-old Chris says he’s starting to feel sorry for some of his closeted mates. Like vampires, their true selves can only be revealed when night falls…

Of our absurd band of degenerate misfits, I am the only one in our little clique who is out of the closet. As I fast approach my four-year “gaynniversary”, I can’t help but lament how different my life is to theirs.

When I was 18, to say I “burst” out of the closet is a complete understatement. In the middle of an argument with my mother as a result of her going through my phone trying to find some evidence of where her little boy had been spending most of his time, I distinctly remember screaming, “Oh my God, Mum! I like dick; get the fuck over it!”

Looking back, it was a pretty shitty thing to do to her, but after four years of crap, our relationship is back on track and just as strong as ever. On the other hand, none of my friends have even broached the subject of their sexuality with any of their family.

They are all somewhere between their early to mid-20s, and they live completely duplicitous lives. While the sun is up, they are very much “boys”. Unfortunately, they blend completely into the background. At work, they keep to themselves – almost anti-social. They’re beige, and most of the time, pretty bloody boring. When asked by their parents why they haven’t met any of their girlfriends, they tell them that they just haven’t found anyone that special. When we meet in public, a kiss hello is inappropriate, because “someone might see”, so a fake bro-hello must suffice.

But when the sun goes down, my boys become my “gurls”. Their transition is almost frightening. As the gurls get ready, they tell their parents that they’re “staying at a friend’s house” and will probably spend the night. A hop, skip, cab ride and wardrobe change later, the gurls meet me at some skanky club on Oxford Street. We strut in like we own the place, in what most would assume has to be choreographed because of its synchronisation. Everyone knows our names and the gurls start to come out of their shells more and begin to camp it up.

With drinks aplenty and body grinding that would make a porn star blush, my gurls are in their element and within twenty minutes, at least one of them is in a toilet cubical with some random guy(s). But once the sun comes up, their eyeliner has started to run and the smell of amyl fades away, the gurls go back to being their doppelgangers -censored versions of themselves.

Every other weekend, this perpetual bullshit cycle repeats itself. From boy to gurl, my friends transition in a way that is both baffling and exhausting to me. I can barely keep track of the one life I lead (and the dozen voices in my head) let alone the two separate ones that they would constantly have to juggle. Can this sort of personality rift be healthy? And if these two personalities amalgamate into one, which one would win? Or will this new persona fall somewhere in the middle after time?

More pressingly, what if they never come out? What happens then? Sure, it’s fine and dandy to fuck around now while we’re young, but wouldn’t it be exhausting to have to act for so much of the day?

For me, a closeted existence, and this entire boy/gurl dichotomy makes next to no sense. Yes, there can be a whole lot to lose in coming out for my friends, but the question remains: is it fair for them to live a life that isn’t true?

Our clique has the luxury of having a strong support base in each other. We’ll all be here for each other if and when the time comes – when they step into the big bad world for real.

But hopefully it’s sooner rather than later. All this flip-flopping is starting to give me a headache.