T he first time I saw gay people on TV, it was during an ABC news package about Sydney’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. My Egyptian parents were chomping through a bag of dried pumpkin seeds when the assault on our eyeballs took place.

Muscle bears in backless chaps, shirtless lifesavers in tiny budgie smugglers, chunky women with buzzcuts and saucer-plate nipples revving their Harley-Davidsons down the strip. It was too much for my father, who announced: “ Atstaghfurallah : they should not show such things.” Mum just sucked her teeth in dismay. But the sight of all the handsome, gleaming men sent a hot flush of excitement up my 12-year-old cheeks.

For the next 20 years, deep in my closet of internalised homophobia, I would struggle with these competing forces of faith, family and community, in silence. Early on, I promised myself I would never be gay like that , never be so unashamed as those men on the screen. I would be dignified, respectful. A working gay in a collared shirt and sensible trousers.…