There's no great nickname for gay uncles, guys like me who don't have children of our own, but are in our mates' kids' lives enough that we get climbed on whenever we open the door. "Fairy Fagfather" is not quite right; "Guncle" sounds like a medical condition involving fluid retention in the ankles. But it doesn't matter: I love how my pals Archie, Jesse, Rocco and Valentino happily call me "Uncle Ben", although I also dig how Daniel and James refer to me as "Benjamin Law" – full name – as if I'm receiving an Order of Australia (note: more people should address me this way, frankly).

Still, I'm not going to pretend I'm essential in their lives. I'm not there for the rigmarole of toilet training, feeding and bedtime. If anything, I'm the idiotic buffoon who arrives with picture books and treats, and hypes them up so they refuse to go to bed, much to the delight of their parents, who stare unblinking into the middle distance, having forgotten what a normal night's sleep feels like. I'm not very helpful.

llustration by Simon Letch

In fact, I'm a bit useless. But as these kids get older, I like to think my boyfriend and I can increasingly be a dumping ground for them, too. Then their parents can finally – finally – go on a date again, while we play them DVDs, take them to a zoo or a film, or to browse luxury menswear before returning them smelling of cologne and probably with a new scarf.

I also think there's one vital thing gay uncles can offer: simply being visible. As a closeted gay kid in Queensland, where homosexuality was a criminal offence until I was eight, I didn't meet an openly queer person until well into adulthood. Looking back, that contributed a lot to me being unnecessarily torn up about my sexuality, and it made me cruel about other people's, too.