Fucking Tops: Better Bumming Tips.

So there was me thinking that the world of gay was a rainbow flag of versatility and unhindered sexual experimentation. I believed that we had transcended oppressive hetero-normative identities and we were free to give anything a go, as long as it didn’t involve kidnapping or Rohipnol (yes, I’m still looking at you Boy George) – not so! It seems quite a few men out there still like to assume the polarizing sexual roles of being either exclusively ‘top’ or ‘bottom’.

As we trudge our way through the crisis of masculinity, I witness the young gays of today dressing like their forefathers, or even their grandfathers; they appear to seek the comforting aesthetic of nostalgia through the medium of facial hair. Lots of beards. Beards are everywhere. Pop beards, hipster beards, otter beards, nerdy beards, it seems everyone who is anyone has got himself a beard, even George Clooney (a bid for the White House perhaps?). You’d think that with all this beard induced testosterone flying about, exclusively bottom guys would be less… Well, I don’t know, how can I put this…Um… ‘Bottomy’?

Last week I posted ‘Fucking Bottoms’ in an attempt to help out the strictly top guys who think ‘smashing the back doors in’ is aspirational. As the universe is all about balance, this week I pose the idea that,


If you are one of those gay men who assumes that the whole world revolves around your hole, maybe you might want to think about a few things that can be disconcerting to the average Joe who’s kindly taken it upon himself to bum you into next week. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about the power bottom (and more power to you); but, it’s one thing to own your sexuality and another to take into account the person attached to the cock that you are sitting on. If you haven’t figured this out yet, then maybe you need to stop reading this, head over to ‘Prowler’, and get yourself  one of these bad boys.

I can’t speak for every gay man out there, I can only speak from my personal experience, so please feel free to disagree, but here are a few myths that I’ve encountered along the way that tend to make a bottom ‘bottom’.


Now before the gender police call me out on this one, please allow me to clarify. I have a pretty high voice; so, on the telephone I sound like a slutty old women; which proved useful when I worked the dirty phone lines back in the 90′s, but there is having a laugh with your mates and then there is ‘talking like a bitchy, airhead, ‘girlfriend’ while you are having sex. You might love all of those stories like ‘Gossip Girl’ or ‘Legally Blonde’ and why not? It’s a free world! You can watch whatever makes you happy. If, however, you find yourself echoing the lines of Karen from ‘Will and Grace’, or over-using words such as ‘like’, ‘wish’ or ‘whatever’ during sex – then you might want to take a step back and think about the definition of ‘man on man’ sex (hint – it doesn’t feature any of the stars of ‘Sex in the City’ including Samantha or Stamford Blatch).


We live in an age when even the poorest of the poor can fashion a douche out of a discarded Evian water bottle, so really, there’s no excuse for a gritty ride – unless you’re into that sort of thing. Anal hygiene is pretty important. Too many enemas and powerful douches can be problematic – so don’t go hosing yourself down with bleach every 5 seconds, but  you might want to spare a thought for what’s really going on back there and take a break to have a little rinse out.


Is it needy or just plain greedy? I admit; unless you’re an aspiring pop star, or you’ve recently been sent to an elite boarding school, having someone put their penis inside of you is a pretty big deal. You could say it’s one of life’s more intimate encounters. One of the wonderful lessons we can learn from the halcyon days of glory holes is that sometimes human contact can inhibit the process of penetration. The guy fucking you needs room to maneuver, and he might not want to come across as an insensitive rapist by suggesting that you don’t look at him or touch him. Don’t be afraid to get three dimensional in the space provided. If you want to grab hold of something while you’re being pounded, why not use a cushion or the edge of the bed? Alternatively, if you’re living the George Michael dream, why not grab a branch or the cistern or a passing lamp-post?

For more on utilizing the space around you read,

“Fucking Racists.”

“Fucking Three Ways.”


One of the more tantalizing mysteries of the universe is trying to decide where an object ends and a hole begins. Indeed, it seems crazy to think about, but you are made up of more space than physical matter. Your whole being consists of more gaps than a queue of supermodel’s smiles waiting to shoot up in the bogs of a trendy east London bar. There’s a fine line between playfully demanding what you want and being a ‘passive/aggressive’ nightmare, and often this line gets blown up a super model’s hoop in the name of ‘keeping the talent happy’; especially in the bogs of trendy east London bars. Anyway, I digress, nobody likes a spoiled, demanding princess in bed. Think of other ways that you can excite the man fucking you, or at the very least keep him interested, which brings me to my final point…


Get rid of the voice in your head that is telling you that the ‘active’ guy in this scenario needs to do all the work. The biggest mistake you can make is to assume that being ‘passive’ means that you can just lie there waiting to be pounded like a pig in an abattoir. Be creative! Work out ways to work your bottom and make it interesting for the guy who’s topping you. If he’s wearing a condom, the chances are he’s going to take a long time to come. Think about trying more athletic positions. Think about using your tongue or your hands to stimulate his joy zones.

Once again, communication is the key here people. We don’t have to be embarrassed about talking about sex. Don’t be afraid to experiment. Undoubtedly things will go wrong. My hope in writing this blog is that it will in some small way help to debunk the terrible myths that sanitize and dehumanize our sexual experiences. Perhaps we all need to be more prepared to laugh about these things and not take it all so seriously. I can’t speak for everyone, but I know it’s working for me. Sex should be fun, enjoy it!

For more sexy stories and embarrassing examples of what not to do, you might want to check out,

“Fucking Bottoms: Better Bumming Tips.”

“Fucking Arseholes.”

“Fucking Hypocrites.”

“Fucking Racists.”

“Fucking Idiots.”

I’ve also written a collection of literary short stories that have been banned in most Asian countries. Nightmare. However, it’s still available from Amazon and kindle, so check it out. You never know, you might just like it.

“A Year in  Shorts…” 

Fucking Bottoms: Better Bumming Tips.

For some reason I had it in my head that deep down everyone is essentially versatile, turns out I’m quite wrong. Even here in rock and roll London there are men who prefer never to stray from their chosen sexual identities. I can’t help feeling that this leads to some pretty weird sex myths developing on the hook up scene, particularly with guys who identify as ’100% top’. Here’s a thought,


If you are one of those gay men who confuses penetrative roles in sex play with preconceived notions of masculinity, then you need to stop having sex for a while, head to a halcyon world that has only ever existed in shitty porn films, like a public school or a prison, and beg to get punch-fucked by a retarded drug addict; because, generally speaking, gay porn is fucking awful at representing mutual pleasure in sexual intercourse. Gay porn exists for onanism, which is fine if you don’t take it literally, it’s about sitting on your own and masturbating. If you haven’t figured this out yet, then you really need to stop having sex for a while…etc..etc…

The other day I read on my friend’s Facebook feed that some gay guys were organizing workshops here in London in order to become ‘better bottoms.’ Well, having been sexually versatile, it is my opinion that we really need to start at the ‘top‘ and work our way down.  Looking back over previous posts, I tend to blog about the comedy fails of my sexual shenanigans, and guess what, the over-whelming majority of these failures occur when I have hooked up with a really terrible top.

So, if you consider yourself a totally top ‘top’, let me dispel a few ridiculous myths for you.


Butch talk can be a turn on; however, unless you’ve agreed a role play session or scenario, try to avoid it. It’s way too easy to end up sounding like Joey from ‘Friends’. Also simply repeating the phrase…

  • “You want me to fuck you? Yeah? Yeah? I’ll fuck you… You want me to fuck you? Yeah? Yeah? I’ll fuck you…You want me to fuck you?..”

…doesn’t make you sound like a porn star. It’s something Bubba Gump might lovingly say into a bucket of shellfish.


Here’s an experiment you can try at home, stuff your finger up your bottom. No, don’t spit on it, just shove it up there now! That’s right, keep pushing all the way up, don’t stop… Are you having fun yet? Feel anything uncomfortable? One of the characteristics of the human finger is the external keratin claw that we call ‘a fingernail’. It’s a really useful aid to climbing trees and pulling apart an array of wonderful foodstuffs, such as shellfish in a bucket. However, it’s pretty uncomfortable when scratching away at the inside of your un-lubricated rectum. There are a whole range of sex toys available in all different shapes and sizes – for more information check out ‘Prowler’. 


Get rid of the voice in your head that tells you that ‘harder faster’ is somehow ‘better.’ If you happen to be a teenage kid at a death metal concert then yes, ‘harder and faster’ can be ‘awesome’, if you are fucking another man (which presumably you are if you are reading this) it’s not. Communication is the key word here people. If you’ve been smoking crystal meth for example, a hardcore fuck is great and sometimes we all like to get banged like a turnstile on lesbian day at Dollywood, but unless you are desperate to get the whole thing over and rush home to your long suffering husband, why not take your time?

Check out my post “Fucking Idiots,” for more on this topic.


How do we define ourselves as human beings? That’s a tricky one isn’t it. It could be argued that we are a complex mesh of independent and interdependent objects that give the illusion of a singularity in any given moment of time in space. Alternatively you could argue that, like a baby dangling on its mother’s tit, you are the center of the entire universe and everything exists to service your needs. The hoop that you are so fond of pounding serves a variety of functions, sometimes accidents happen… You know what I am talking about… Shit happens… Grow up.

Check out my post  “Fucking Arseholes,” for more on this topic.


It’s true, we live in an age where modern medicine can treat the vast majority of sexually transmitted diseases; however, there are still a number of pretty nasty things flying around. Just like a suspect list of celebrity paedophiles from the 1970′s, many of our old school favourites are making an unexpected comeback. How would you like a bout of Hepatitis C? What about a dose of antibiotic resistant syphilis or gonorrhea?

Now we all know that despite all of the best marketing and PR campaigns in the world you are never going to make a condom feel as great to a dedicated top as a bare-back raw-fuck. But I really want you to just hold this thought for a second. If a bottom guy is going to let you raw fuck him having never spoken to you before, chances are, he’s let other guys, which means for whatever reason, he’s got nothing to lose. I’m not slut-shaming here, but you’re potentially facing at the least a few embarrassing trips to the GUM clinic – or worse, a liver transplant. So, it’s probably not in your interest to expect a raw bare-back fuck within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone.

Communication is the key people… Tune in next Sunday for ‘Fucking Tops’.

I’ve also written a book which has been banned in most south Asian countries for mixing culture, politics and anal sex. It’s available for a limited period on Amazon. Follow the link, you might just like it…

“A Year in Shorts.” 


Please forgive the irrational tone of this post. I’m angry and I’ve not had a chance to properly think about this issue; however, it has been aggravating me for some time, and I think I need to share.

I really, really don’t want to be a part of your bullshit ‘open relationship’!

I’m a reasonably good looking, single man in my 40′s, which means that more and more often these days I am confronted with the line,

  • “My boyfriend and I are in an open relationship, we operate a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy.”

Like today for example, this man nonchalantly said this to me right before we were about to get it on, hence the fact I’m quite angry (I have just spent hours douching and trimming my pubic hair and I’m horny). More than a few times hook-ups or fuck buddies have said similar things after I’ve had sex with them, which makes me feel horrible. Well, seeing as more often than not you probably don’t ask’ me what I think about this, let me take this opportunity totell’ you exactly what I think.

FUCK YOU! (and not in a good way)

It is NOT okay for you to pull this kind of shit; and no, it’s not because I’m being a prude, I simply don’t want to be involved with anyone who has this arrangement. Letting me know about your relationship status as an afterthought is completely unacceptable, by doing that, I end up feeling like an irrelevant factor in your decision making process. I’m not jealous of the security blanket you call a home life, I just don’t want to play a part in your awkward deception. If you operate a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy, doesn’t that suggest a level of emotional attachment that is potentially problematic?

Why would you assume that I would be okay with this? Is it because I’m a 40 year old man who has chosen to liberate my sexuality from the confines of a socially expected monogamy; therefore, I will be fine with being a distraction in the narrative of your life? Thanks for that. Assuming that I won’t care about this issue because YOU have decided not to care about this issue tells me everything I need to know about you, and I really don’t want to fuck you – no matter how attractive you are.

I hate to be the one to break it to all the Pollyanna advocates of the whole gay marriage thing, but boyfriends, long-term partners and now even husbands are hitting on me in ever increasing numbers and here’s why I think it is insulting and shitty and really should stop.

  1. I have made a conscious decision to avoid monogamous relationships – that includes being a part of yours.
  2. You are imposing your relationship privileges on me and expecting me to respect your discrete indiscretions.
  3. You are being selfish.
  4. Invariably if anything goes wrong, I will be the one who comes off bad.
  5. By assuming that I will be okay with this, you are belittling my life choices while at the same time enforcing the validity of your own superficial monogamy.

This scenario has happened to me so many times over the last few years, and now I’m pretty sick of it. It was funny when it happened once or twice, but I don’t want to end up in that situation again. So here’s a thought for all of you gays out there intent on having your cake and eating it; you’re not ‘progressive’, ‘open-minded’ or ‘cool’; if anything you are being greedy. You’re selfishly not looking beyond the bubble of your own relationship. You’re maintaining the financial and social security of a ‘couple’ status, while exploiting the genuinely progressive attitudes of my single queer life. Do you want to know the really insane thing? When talking to other guys about this, I am the one who gets slut-shamed. Yes, apparently because I’m out there being openly polygamous, I should somehow expect to end up fucking married men.

Believe me, I am well aware of the hypocrisy of blogging anonymously about ludicrous sexual encounters and then bitching about people being less than honest with their relationship status. I have paid for my life choices. From the guy who called me a ‘fucking old slut’ at a party last year, because I had unwittingly slept with the significant other in his ‘open relationship’; right the way through to the guy who stalked me over the internet for several months and then raped me because, unbeknownst to me, his boyfriend in France had finished with him after reading about a sexual encounter on my blog. I have the right to choose to avoid being a walk on part in the melodrama of your tired sex life.

Regardless of whether or not you and your boyfriend have decided to have an open relationship, I don’t care. You can do whatever you want to make yourselves happy, just don’t involve me. I don’t want or need to be a part of the duplicity, emotional mind games and downright deception of your reactionary partnership. I’m not just a bit on the side, I deserve some agency and some respect. I’m genuinely happy to be single and self reliant.

For more on this issue check out my posts,

“Fucking Hypocrites!” 

“Fucking Liars!”

Fucking Stopovers!

Malaysia is predominantly a Muslim country; which would be fine, if you weren’t a dirty old queen on a 24 hour stop over desperate to get laid.

Recently the government has had a clamp down on gay venues and sites.

*sad face*

Even the shitty Gay dating site, ‘Planet Romeo’ (which I loathe) is not accessible on many internet browsers; however, hackers have already come up with an alternative IP address that gets around this ( The really shocking thing is that officials have insisted that all bath houses and saunas are not permitted to stock condoms or display safe sex posters. Apparently this might promote homosexual activity. I suppose the logic is that men might be tempted to have sex if they are all sitting around naked in a hot sweaty room looking at prophylactics.

Malaysia, like many multicultural societies, finds it quite difficult to negotiate acceptable moral compromises. Compared to other Islamic states, parts of Malaysia are incredibly progressive in this respect, perhaps this is due to the influence of the Chinese and Indians? Whatever it is, Malaysian people in KL appear to be quite tolerant towards LGBT folk. Perhaps this is due to the large Buddhist and Hindu populations? I don’t know.

That being said, gay people are certainly not celebrated here, and they are considered in many ways to be quite shameful.

So what does this mean to the average gay on the street?

Well, from my brief stopovers in KL, on my way back to London, it would appear that a disapproving society is great news for illicit cruising in public places. Nothing makes you want to suck a cock more than knowing it’s illegal.

Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something quite turned on about this town, it’s on heat.

I remember my first visit to KL. On the swift KLIA express into town I got eyed up by a Malay muscle boy who suggested a gym sauna club that would be good. The Indian guy who checked me into my hotel offered to pop up later with a beer, and then I got cruised by a guy in the convenience store, who followed me back to my hotel, helped carry my bag (like I was some kind of colonial memsahib), and then – well, nothing illegal.

*cheeky wink*

So that was a brief breakdown of my first ever hour in Kuala Lumpur. I’ve had a lot of fun returning to Malaysia since, and exploring all the hospitality; trust me, there are some lovely diversions for any slutty queen on a stopover.

The area around Bukit Bintang monorail station, right in the center of town, is where most gay men congregate. Handy, as this is also the tourist center with some AMAZING street food on offer, and some very cute cruisy guys hanging around.

I went to the gym recommended by my rugged, muscle friend and what can I say? I have been to many male clubs in Asia, and this was by far the friendliest. ‘Day Thermos’ sauna used to be great. Many people were smiling and happy to talk in English… Within 10 minutes I had been pulled by a really cute guy called Kit; he was a passionate, frenzy of a man who even took the time for a private massage (note – you might want to consider taking your own condoms and lube, just in case).

Naturally we never had sex, because people don’t have sex in Malaysia – that would be illegal. Oral sex and sodomy are not permitted for straight people or gay people; it’s like the 50′s. Everyone is supposed to get by on heavy petting, and we all know how that turns out… Back street abortions and STD’s galore.

However, since my first visit, ‘Day Thermos’ sauna has been raided by the police and is now a strict no fun zone. It’s vaguely reminiscent of a school changing room i.e. loads of stolen glances and awkward pick ups. But it does seem that out in the street people are cruising more feverishly than ever.

The moral of this story?

Well, if you make something illegal, perhaps you end up making it much more sleazy and fun?

*happy face*

Fucking Foucault!

I’m sure that every queer cultural theorist has thought about it at some point haven’t they?

I was first fucked by Michel Foucault during the nineties when I was a raver/rock star and all round fuck up. It wasn’t until I was a mature student, when I was reading articles on discourse and power, that I thought to myself, I actually love this man.

I have never been literally fucked by him of course, but I have in a literary way, which is often much more intimate and powerful – and I suppose in some way it’s all about the power isn’t it?

Anyway, being incredibly vain and sexually unfulfilled as a performer (exclusively top), I naturally thought that in some way my life mirrored his; indeed, as I flounced across stages, and tripped through a myriad of alien, urban sprawls (oh so bohemian and clever); I stupidly imagined myself to be his successor. Yes, I alone would weave the power of his madness into my own duvet of sexual discovery, because I was unique – it was like he was speaking to me, and me alone.

I told you. I can be an idiot sometimes.

I like to indulge my imagination in what Virginia Woolf refers to as, “a room of ones own,”  but always the crushing reality of a poor, protestant upbringing dragged me back to earth. I would never be as privileged, rich or arrogant as my heroes. I am just a farm boy who had looked at the stars and fashioned a persona from the gales that had ripped through a patchwork of valleys and muted tones. I was eternally restless and greedy to appropriate any fantasy into my life. I often imagined while sitting on a bench at a cliff – the kind that people install at a favourite spot when somebody dies – that I was communing with the spirits of my long dead mentors.

Instinctively, as many gossipy young queens do, I couldn’t just read their works…No… I had to dissect every nuance of their lives, and in so doing, I felt validated and brave enough to seek out the insalubrious pleasures of whatever I desired. Suddenly, by comparison, my life had seemed rather bland. I hadn’t been thrown out of a country or involved in a passionate exploration of sadistic, violent sex – I hadn’t even contracted a decent STD (crabs don’t count, you can catch them from trying on trousers in Fosters apparently).

I had been fingered by a dirty farm boy in a hay barn once; but then again, who hasn’t?

I had aimlessly lived out the cliché of hating my violent father and loving my mother in a thoroughly boring re-imagination of the oedipal myth. So naturally my imagination and sense of entitlement flourished. My life was a quilt of stolen texts; the lyrics of Lou Reed and David Bowie, the operatic drama of Star Wars, the poise of Isadora Duncan and the mincing of Mick Jagger and Morrisey.

Later, after my stint in the limelight, upon formally meeting the mind of Michel Foucault, I was hungry to feed on the faceless fucks of all the dark rooms and orgies and seek out the crevices of the unexplored bottom.

Yes with Foucault by my side, I felt I wasn’t just another dirty, pretentious old, ‘has been’ queen. NO! I was a poet, viciously pounding out a path laid by the philosophers of the past.

Like I said… I can be fucking ridiculous sometimes.

So, now I travel the world passionately professing the virtues of enlightened literary discourse, and I consider myself a very lucky man indeed. How many other people get to do something they love? Indeed, how many people have the luxury to reflect upon a life lived in extremes? I have lived a life most people have dreamed about, and now I am content to revel in the written word. So imagine my joy when I read this:

  • “Foucault’s Daughter will let herself be fooled no longer. Her life must be at the cost of the death of the father. The death of the author. The reader is the writer. The reader is the critic. The reader is the subject. The reader is the lover. The reader is the killer. The reader is the reader. The reader. The reader. The reader.”

I don’t consider myself a professional writer. It is not my job. There are far too many so called professional writers who litter the world with nothing authentic, just endless dull tropes to pay for their self indulgent lifestyles. I don’t consider myself a critic either, there are far too many of those. I like to consider myself a passionate disciple of the power of the word – however ridiculous that sounds.

When I read, “Scribbling on Foucault’s walls,” by Quiet Riot Girl, I adored the way that she passionately expresses how reader and writer can be intimately entwined. At times this is so naked and raw that I was taken aback by the bravery. She lays out an intertextual quilt that can be so tender, and then she punches you from between the sheets with a force that is truly breathtaking. She scribbles a jagged line. From an aristocratic,  French philosopher, to a young girl finding her way in the world of words, right the way through to an aging, insecure, old queen in Bangkok reading the work in his lunch break.

I felt like she has seen my pilgrimage from Cornwall, to Berlin, to San Francisco, to London, to Paris, to Bangkok and beyond (always in search of the authentic queer fuck) and she has expressed it so much better than I ever could. Indeed, “A Year In Shorts,” seems incredibly guarded and contrived in comparison. Foucault’s Daughter has inspired me to work harder and to take these ideas further, push the boundaries, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Oh yeah…


She writes gay sex better than many gay men.

In fact, at times, I’d go so far as to say she understands gay sex better than most gay men.

It’s high camp for the literary minded, and yes, il faut toujours qu’il en fasse tout un drame, so I thoroughly enjoyed it; but any lovers of queer culture should consider this a must read. You can download a free copy here from here…



Mr E

Fucking Songkran!

SongKran festival in Chiang Mai is everything good about Thai culture.

There, I’ve said it.

For those of you who know – well, what more is there to say? For those of you who don’t know, it’s the Thai new year holiday. It’s the time when everyone stops the madness of everyday Thai life for a few days, and throws water at each other. It’s a Buddhist time for new beginnings, resetting the balance in the cosmic order of things.

We live in a world of opposites.

Arriving in Chiang Mai the other day, I experienced everything bad about Thai culture. A gang robbed me; so, several hours were spent in a Police station talking to a grown man who was polishing his pistol and watching cartoons on the telly – “Power-Rangers,” is his favourite apparently. I then had to direct another taxi driver to my hotel, because he didn’t know the way; but he loved his Isaan techno, I still have the tinnitus to prove it.

I wanted the madness to end.

Then, I thought about the balance. When I was younger, I welcomed the irrational side of life with open arms. I worshipped at the alter of “all or nothing,” completely oblivious to the fact that we do not live in a world of absolutes. There’s a fine line between lunacy and playfulness, and I’m happy to say, I licked it off a super-model’s tit, and blew it up a rent boys arse.

Now, the pendulum has swung to the other extreme. I never party. I drift. I go home alone, and read and write. I put on plays that nobody understands, in countries where I don’t belong. I have given up drinking because – well, to be honest, I drank my fill in London, and didn’t like the man it made me.

I wanted the madness to end.

Looking for inspiration, I open a local gay guide for things to do in Chiang mai. It falls open on an avertisement which says:

“Hi I’m joke! Do you want a home in Pattaya?”

Why not? Invest in a joke. It has to be better than investing in the comedy that is my day to day existence. I feel tempted to do it, move to Pattaya, set up a home with a smiling chap who is balanced.

When I left London, my friends were all finding balance with partners. They are brilliant and wonderful people. I am blessed to know them, but I felt that it wasn’t for me – hearth and home. It’s not like I think no-one’s good enough, it’s more that I don’t think I’m good enough, I’m not balanced you see. I rage between timidity and opulence, happiness and sadness, irrational fear and rational subsistence.

The punchline is, of course, that I can be so quick to blame everything else for my misfortune, while completely forgetting my good fortune. As if it’s Thailand’s fault that I am here? It is what it is. We all have our imperfections, that’s what makes us perfect.

I put on my hat, string a few Lou Reed numbers for the entertainment of the lovely people in the guesthouse, and I step outside into the glaring heat. A young chap runs up to me and hands me a water pistol; as I stoop to receive it, he throws a bucket of iced water over my head, and then gives me a beer.

I laugh a little teardrop. I laugh from the place that is darkness and light. I stand in the street and get soaked. I feel quite balanced. Perhaps there’s something in this whole cosmic order of things? The pleasure in being dry, is knowing that you can always get wet.


FUCKING ART PART 2 – “fucking installations!”

“Wank,” is a word that is often used to describe art installations, but here at the “House of Male,” in Chiang Mai, they’re inverting this notion, and banking on wanking to make them more relevant and daring than anything Clayton Pettet can come up with; and I have to say, I love them for it.

In Thailand, the term “development,” appears to have become synonymous with the building of over-priced condos and shopping malls that nobody can afford. Art installations here are seldom very challenging, and those that are any good, are probably copies from a graduate show at central St Martins – see FUCKING ART PART 1, for more on performance art.

Like Antony Gormley’s work, The “House of Male,” plays on the intricate relationships between human beings and their environment. Unlike Gormley’s work, many of the figures are sculpted to a more classical ideal, with more gym worked torsos and ripped muscle tone. It’s definitely a more fuckable exhibition here than anything you might see in London.

Wandering through the exhibition, I felt moments of solitude – “How do I relate to the world?”

Other times, I felt a deep affinity to my fellow man – “Aren’t we all just a bunch of dirty old wankers?”

There are many wonderful eye-catching exhibits from around the world on display. In fact, I’d go as far as to call the whole experience seminal.

I was initially drawn to, “Anger Wank!” a pushy piece from China, which pins you to the wall with purpose. It tears at your nipples with a furious rage, and it shouts butch obscenities at you. It delights in making you feel particularly worthless, but this is all just empty bravado, face up to it and it crumbles. Similar in rhythm and pace is, “Speed Wank!” from South Korea. This is no doubt inspired by a mild amphetamine induced psychosis; yet it has a much gentler delivery than the Chinese work, at times it is almost apologetic – I’d be tempted to call it tender.

“Lazy Thai Wank!” Offers a completely different experience altogether. It clumsily fumbles for your attention with a disinterested aura, at times you wonder why it’s even there; does it care? It is a complete anathema. It retains the capacity to stimulate your interest with one hand, while up-loading pictures onto Facebook with the other. All in all, it beautifully counters the other exhibits, and perfectly encapsulates the modern aesthetic of alienation.

For me, “House of Male,” is a masterstroke on the canvas of international relations. It manages to deliver on the promise of its name, without conforming to too many preconceived notions of masculinity. It has been interesting to go to an exhilarating exhibition that is self consciously, a load of wank .

FUCKING ART – “Sexy man Show!”

The fact that there isn’t a “Babylon,” in every “civilised,” capitalist metropolis on the planet is proof positive that the capitalist arts are perpetrated by a few unimaginative hypocrites.

‘Sex sells’  is the mantra that perpetuates all marketing propaganda. Oh Yes indeed, every aspect of desire is endlessly commodified. Apparently clothes make you sexier; make-up makes you sexier; gym memberships make you sexier; i-phones make you sexier; alcoholic drinks make you sexier; money makes you sexier too! However, it would seem, actually engaging in a diverse sex life actually makes you a bit of a slut in the eyes of today’s gays.

I blog about sexual encounters not to bore, brag or even shock; but to celebrate this part of my life – and to be clear – it is just a part of my life, I am not a full time gayer, I have a real job too. I believe that one of the roles of an artist is to challenge preconceptions. Art should be a free space to explore and share ideas and opinions. Despite the oh so liberal identity politics of capitalist cultures, it would appear that sex is a great topic as long as someone is making some money out of it.

Sometimes even in the arts sex can be portrayed in a clumsy, rather awkward way. Yes, I’m talking to you central St Martins – posh boys pretending to lose their anal virginity is the fag end of performance art.

For me, the highest form of human artistic expression can be found within the dramatic arts. An effective combination of visual art, movement, music and poetry, has the ability to move us in a way that transcends all other art forms. At Babylon sauna, I witnessed one of the most intriguing pieces of contemporary theatre I have ever seen.

“Sexy Man Show,” is a production which disregards all conventions, clothing, and completely abandons any concept of a 4th wall by peppering it with glory-holes. The producers of this piece are clearly influenced by the epic theatre of Bertolt Brecht, in that we are invited, as an audience, to contemplate on contemporary political issues. At least, that is how I read it…

“Sexy Man Show,” is a beautiful example of the minimalist ethos. There is no stage, no lighting rig, no heavy sound equipment; it is a clutter free performance culminating in a visceral meditation on the moment of penetration. In essence, it poses the question, “aren’t we all continually fucked for the amusement of a privileged elite?” Yes, the show features explicit scenes of a sexual nature, but these are entirely justified artistically. The sex is used as a metaphor for the unequal distribution of wealth in contemporary capitalist cultures. I believe it is a conceptual work of the most subtle sophistication. The actors hardly speak, and when they do, their lines are spoken in broken English, with a wonderful mix of pleasure and pain…


As you can see, the piece is wonderfully scripted, with dialogue reminiscent of a Mike Leigh improvised scene. The voyeuristic audience themselves become an animated backdrop to the action. Overall, it is chillingly prescient of the end of commodity fetishism, and it is jaw-droppingly effective. At times you feel that the actors are actually enjoying themselves, and they are not merely engaging in gratuitous fucking for the amusement of wealthy ASEAN CEO’s. I left Babylon with this image forever ingrained in my mind.

You cannot sell this madness enough. If you are gay and single and in Thailand you must go to Babylon.

Fucking Taxis!

Culture shock is really strange. Sometimes you feel like losing your temper over the most ridiculous things.
Today, for example, I nearly lost it with my taxi driver. At first I loved him, because he was rocking that whole 80’s thing of love bites and skinny jeans. He reeked of whisky and fingering. Nasty. He even managed to find the time to argue with various girlfriends on his phone, while we were doing 80 on the overpass. He was Motley Crue incarnate. Then I noticed this…


Okay, I understand the, “no cattle or weaponry,” policy; but this is Bangkok. If I can’t fuck in the back of a taxi then I might as well move back to London. Isn’t there something in the Geneva conventions about this? I had to take a deep breath and refrain from going all Jeremy Kyle on the man.

However, on closer inspection…


As you can see, there is a distinct lack of breasts on either of these figures; which means that this driver has clearly banned gay men from engaging in the missionary position while travelling in his cab.

I had to agree with him on this. It just isn’t natural. If the Gay Gods had wanted us to look at each other during sex, then they wouldn’t have given us dark rooms or glory holes. The name alone conjures up images of oppressive, joyless pricks sucking the fun out of life.

Most of the Thai “queens,” (their term for exclusively bottom) I have slept with really love the missionary position. I’m not sure why. I feel it can be a little too, “needy,” and constrictive. I think it has something to do with assuming a passive gender role, or absent fathers; or something like that anyway. Maybe it’s just me? How would I know? I’m not Camille Paglia. Whatever the reason, I feel it’s rather self absorbed and impractical.

Who are these people who have time to kill, gazing into each others eyes while they’re having sex? There just aren’t enough hours in the day to study the sweaty gurns of the man fucking you. The great thing about anal sex is that you can get fucked from behind by a horny chap, and do some housework, or catch up on a little reading. This afternoon I got fucked by a really hot guy, while giving my abs a great workout, and reading “The Society of the Spectacle,” all at the same time.

It’s called multi-tasking.

We’re homo’s; it’s what we do.

Fucking Passives!

I’d made it a rule never to trust a man who had begged me to piss on him; but on this occasion, he turned out to be right.

It was later at the bar, after he had scrubbed himself clean, that he told me he was a writer for an ex-pat newspaper here in Thailand. As the Vodka flowed, his conversation became loose and he bragged about his career. He bragged of his, “success.” He told me of the formulas and structures that dictated his work. “Make your work read more, interesting, exciting and credible,” he said.

  •  “Mainly use the active forms – nobody trusts the passive voice.”

I could tell by the number of half naked, Thai muscle men that surrounded him, that he was reasonably rich – and that he liked Thai tops, or “Kings.” ‘Kings’ are active. They go to the gym, they have shit tattoos and many bully their wives etc… In contrast, exclusively bottom, “Queens,” look fem and flouncy and wear far too many skin whitening products. Subsequently ‘queens’ tend to be ridiculed more often - is that because, “nobody trusts the passive voice?”

Maybe it’s because I’m 40; but, conforming exclusively to a sexual role/gender stereotype seems ludicrous to me. To be frank, I believe anything can go anywhere with anyone, it’s all good fun as long as nobody gets tazzered, or arrested (take note all you 80′s pop-stars! YES BOY GEORGE I’M LOOKING AT YOU). So, where do the truly versatile homos fit in? The pissed up journo is on to something here. Take this phrase for example:

  • I did not piss on the arrogant journalist.”

This is an active sentence. It is direct, to the point, it is culturally infused with positive connotations. It screams, “indisputable fact!”

  • The arrogant journalist was not pissed on by me.”

This is a passive sentence. The basic components are the same; we are explaining the fact that a urination did not occur. However, the second sentence, seems to be less trust-worthy. There’s room for doubt, something that is culturally abhorrent.

Did I really not piss on him? Did somebody piss on him for me? It raises more questions than it answers. Even the term, “passive aggressive,” implies something insipid and dishonourable. The passive should be reclaimed by writers. I’m on a quest for balance!

He recommended a book from the, “Writer’s digest,” edited by Michelle Ruberg, “The handbook of magazine article writing – All new second edition.”

It’s packed full of really great tips for anyone who is considering a career in the publishing industry. 

It concisely explains many of the grammatical structures we writers employ in order to cast our illusions. The subtle tricks of artifice. Oh yes, there is cunning to our craft – just ask Max Clifford (it’s going to take a miracle to spin your way out of that one Max). 

The journo wanted to know why I always seem to write indulgent blogs about Thailand. Usually, I welcome criticism, but I don’t think he understands my motivation. It’s not all about the money. I have a job. He thought my blogs were “trite and boring.” My response? Why bother writing anything weighty? What’s the point? The truth of the matter is that the most interesting and valid things I could write about Thailand are forbidden. So… You know…

I might as well write about wanking in saunas. Which I do.

What is the message? What is the motivation for writing? There are millions upon millions of, “interesting, exciting and credible,” articles online; active structures that shout for your attention. Think about it, what information inhabits the space between the screen and your eye? Is it something that is fundamentally untrue, yet, “interesting, exciting and credible?”

The journalist is right. I should improve my technique, then I could write for an ex-pat,  “newspaper.” I could be, “successful” too! I love writing credible facts instead of incredible ones. Let me try that out for a minute…

  • By avoiding writing about the institutionalised misinformation which prevents this country from developing in line with its neighbours; the drunken journalist forgets his professional integrity. He becomes a success. While he is pissed upon by passing strangers, he brags about his job, hoping they are suitably impressed by his great wealth.”

Hmmm – It’s not really “exciting,” enough is it? Perhaps if I made it more, “interesting and credible,” like this:

  • Journo begs strangers to piss on him and gets fucked by Thai man-whores in Babylon!”

We should learn to embrace our inner passive. I think that calls for a celebration! Golden showers all round!