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;” 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 sitting around naked in a hot sweaty room.

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 while 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!


Fucking Arseholes!

While recently having a prostate examination, I had decided to make a stupid camp joke. Even though my doctor is a super lovely man, it led to one of those awkward silences that suggested that I had tumbled across an invisible line. I was lying on the examination table on my side and he had informed me that he would be inserting a couple of fingers (what we in the UK call a “Kit Kat”) and I remember feeling relaxed; so, for some unknown reason I had said.

  • “You know me, I’m always up for a cheeky finger.”

In my head I had thought that this would be okay, but as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I was reminded of the desolation wrought by a piss poor stand up comedian. It was a terrible moment of contemplative silence during which I had a chance to consider what a pain in the arse it is being a bottom in a gay man’s world. I used to mainly top, but having since discovered the delights of oriental orgies and decadent fuck pits, I have been exploring the realms of my own brown Narnia. Also, it has become more apparent to me just how arrogant strict, “top,” men can be, and how much they confuse the act of penetration with social interaction. 

It’s so much hassle being a bottom:

You have to watch what you eat, keep yourself clean, keep yourself dosed with potions and creams, and now there’s even talk of, “the pill,” which makes you seem even more like a slutty teenage girl from the 1960’s. On top of that, the aesthetics of cleaning and preening and plucking and shaving take up so much time; in fact, keeping your arse fuckable is a full time job! So, if you are an arrogant top who believes a bottom exists only to be fucked, let me spell this out for you – it’s my arse. The only reason you are fucking it, is because I want you fucking it. 

A few weeks ago, I had been talking to a guy on Grindr and we were exploring the idea of fantasy role plays. He is a wealthy asian guy working in the financial service industry and living in Farringdon. He was specific about his desires and wanted darkness and silence. 

He wanted me to come inside his apartment in total darkness, undress, leave my clothes by the door. On no account was I permitted to speak. There is something particularly urban about this kind of fantasy. It’s something that I adore about cruising, the faceless blind groping that allows for ultimate surrender. You have to trust a virtual stranger with complete intimacy. It turns me on. 

This is all well and good in the conceptual world of fantasy; however, in the harsh reality of mid-winter London, this presents many problems. In fact, all of the romantic allusions to urban alienation are niggled away by the crushingly dull practicalities of being a bottom. It is the seemingly insignificant things that ultimately render any serious scenario quite ludicrous. My full, thick coat was wet with rain, I had a dripping umbrella which puddled water all over the lobby and I dribbled in the elevator up to his huge loft. 

I opened the door as quietly as possible and disrobed, leaving my clothes in a sodden pile as neat as possible. And then I was naked in complete darkness in a strange flat, trying to find the bathroom while clutching a travel case which contained all of the hot bottom essentials. On entering the bathroom I shut the door and groped around for the light switch. It’s times like these you learn to hate innovation in interior design. What’s wrong with a handy switch by the door? Needless to say after around about 20 minutes I began to feel incredibly stupid. As my eyes became slightly more accustomed to the darkness, I eventually made out the familiar shape of a medicine cabinet over the sink which contained a switch for a small shaving lamp.

Even with the light on, I felt like I was an intruder, so I crept around trying to make as little noise as possible. Has anyone ever tried to douche in complete silence? It echoed around the enormous space and sounded like a disastrous plumbing incident. By this point I had spent about 30 minutes getting clean, which had felt like a painful eternity. I headed back into the vast darkness of his loft.

There is something erotically charging about being watched by a stranger. It’s a beautiful feeling. I was alone in the dark in unfamiliar surroundings being hunted. Naturally this was his plan. He wanted me to feel uneasy, it gave him an advantage and clearly it was that sense of empowerment which had motivated him into instigating this scenario. He had opted for a power relationship that had given him the upper hand – it would appear that I was to be conquered. 

I moved with as much stealth as you can in a strange place in the dark; suffice to say, I bumped into obscure furniture and found myself in a corridor slowly walking through blackness towards blackness. I was aware that my heart was beating heavy. I could here the sounds of drunk people on Saffron hill, but the blinds were closed and no light from the street entered the apartment. 

I felt breath on the back of my shoulder and I recognised the feeling of being scrutinised. I turned around and with my hands I traced the sweat on his pecs and let my hands drop to his cock. It was an average cock and hard. It pulsed upwards with every heartbeat. He didn’t move, speak or make a sound, he just stood there, breathing. I started sucking at his nipple, with the my tongue I flicked at the hardened gland and let my hands close around his waist and trace a line up his back until I was kneading his shoulder blades.

The more I played with his nipple the more I noticed his cock rhythmically pump against my abs, he was so hard. I moved my head up and brushed my cheek against his open mouth. I licked the side of his neck and tasted his ear. His breathing became heavier, I felt his hand slide down and he grabbed my buttock, he explored my crack and his index finger gently swabbed the lube around the brim of my arsehole. He stood solid in the dark, so much so that I could relinquish some weight into his hands and I opened my legs a little to let him grab me and greedily finger me. 

It is one of the most exhilarating sexual encounters I have had for a long time.

I become conscious of the wash bag I had let fall to my feet. Suddenly, all I could think of was the condom and the lube. I bent down and as I did I felt his grip tighten and I winced as his fingernail scratched the lip of my hole. He took my hand and led me into the darkness and I was trusting him in silence.

He led me to the edge of what felt like a huge bed, but I was disorientated. Getting the condom and sachets of lube from my washbag proved easy, but trying to put the condom on him without making a sound was really difficult; in fact, it took several attempts by which point the mood had altered. He made no effort to help. His cock wilted slightly and before I put on the condom, I sucked and pushed his column up to the roof of my mouth and I gulped at him, he quickly inflated.

I climbed onto his bed on all fours. He silently grabbed me and without using his hands to guide him, he softly nudged the brim of my arse. I sensed the familiar metallic smell of nitrate. He inhaled deep, and before I knew it the bottle was open beneath my nose. I breathed deep and slow and bucked backwards, in one motion, I engulfed the full length of his cock. I puckered the lip of my arse and tightened, his length was pushing against the inside of my pelvic floor, he let out a moan. I had him exactly where I wanted him.

We fucked like this for an hour or so, the hits of poppers kept us going and the sweat made our bodies make slapping sounds, once again the fantasy of the situation was completely intoxicating. My senses were tuned into the animal pleasure of the moment, and I tingled with every brush of contact. Always the sensation of his cock inside me, testing the limits of my hole.

The fantasy ended,  he withdrew and there was a faint, familiar rotten smell, not too bad, but off-putting. He backs up and speaks, which breaks the mood of the moment. 

  • You are dirty, you must go now.”

And who said romance was dead. What a fucking arsehole. 

Of course this is exactly what he wanted from the situation, he wanted to humiliate me, if I had been less self confident, then I might be mortified by the whole thing. He wanted me to feel unwelcomed in his pristine world of sanitised perfection. As it is, I’m a man of the world, I understand that there are some things that you can never cheat –  if you fuck an arsehole, sometimes it stinks.

I stared at a blank wall in the surgery, sometimes I forget that not everyone can be so confident about their bodies. I wanted to apologise to my doctor, and I turned to look him and I saw that he was trying not to laugh. 

  • Everything is fine back here,” he said, “you’re really funny by the way, if I wasn’t a happily married man, then dinner with you would no doubt be a real pleasure.”

We don’t live in a germ free, perfect, sanitised world. Sometimes we all have to deal with a little shit. That’s life. 


Plugging myself back into the weird and wonderful media matrix that is London life, I am more conscious than ever of the frightening narrative that permeates my old home. It’s a perpetual misery memoir that ritually chants the language of self improvement. Everywhere I hear the soft, middle class voice as it speaks the language of compassion continually reminding us of our faults…

You don’t get enough exercise. You are not having the right kind of sex. You don’t work hard enough on your relationships. You drink too much. You don’t relax enough. You don’t make enough money. You eat the wrong kind of food. You’re wearing the wrong clothes. Your house looks dated. You don’t do enough for the environment. You don’t care enough about international problems. You are too fat. 

…On and on it goes; a barrage of what is essentially good advice, but delivered in such a grinding way, that however strong willed you are, you end up feeling slightly inadequate. And of course, the underlying message is undoubtedly, “It’s all your fault!” It’s your fault you haven’t got a faithful husband, it’s your fault you are struggling financially, it’s probably your fault you have HIV you rancid old slag!

Everything is played out for the spectacle, a slight of hand that diverts us from mentioning the unmentionable fact that no matter what we do,  our lives will never be perfect.

I recently came back to London and I have realised that I no longer belong here. I love the idea of the place, but the reality is awful. It’s that horrific moment when Dorothy has looked behind the curtain and seen the tiny fraudulent Oz. Of course there’s so much to do here if you happen to be a tax dodging billionaire, or at the very least the lover of someone who works in the financial service industry (yeah, you may call yourself, “an artist,” but it could be said that you are fucking a guy for your rent).

All of a sudden some gay men appear to have hijacked the language of progress and compassion and turned it into a campaign of moral outrage. More and more tragic misery memoirs are appearing. I know many guys who have been really slutty in the past, but are now happily on the road to marriage and talking about how terrible it is that some gay men are still recklessly fucking.They shake their heads when they talk of their lurid pasts. It’s at this point during dinner that they undoubtedly dip their eyes from me.

I used to be very prudish about sex and sexuality when I was young, and my friends and people I knew on the gay scene were always really slutty; however, now that I am discovering a new found confidence and a love of liberated, fun sex, they are discovering pre-nup agreements and matrimonial indiscretions. In fact, I was really quite saddened to find out on my return that the biggest critics of my blogs were my friends who were also gay men. I apologise unreservedly. It was never my intention to allow an authentic representation of my happiness get in the way of your redefinition of sexual morality. Even “Beige,” magazine has got in on the act, writing a series of articles that I swear read exactly like they were taken from, “The Daily Mail.” They paint a grim picture of desperation, a horrific narrative of degradation and excess. It’s  almost as if nobody at, “Beige,” has ever really experienced sex, or drugs – I suppose they’re not those sort of gays.

I had met a couple of young, handsome gay guys at the hilarious “Sink the Pink,” in The Bethnal Green Working Mens Club, and while we waited for two hours for the trannies in the cloakroom to grasp the concept of exchange (here’s a handy guide you can cut out and keep girls: 1- Read the number on the token,  2 – Find the corresponding coat, 3 – Hand over the coat), they had time to talk me through some recent developments in London gay etiquette.

I had arranged a hook up for later the Sunday night, and as I was messaging him on Grindr, one of the handsome guys said;

  • “Oh Grindr… Ooooo. Don’t you think that’s just full of really desperate old slags?”

I laughed and said,

  • “So, are you calling me desperate old slag then?”

There was a really awkward moment when the boys retracted from their previously cheeky conversation with me, and I was isolated in the queue – then they began a more sober conversation about people I didn’t know. So, in answer to my question; yes, it seems that in the eyes of the beautiful young things of London, I am a “desperate old slag.”

Brilliant. It was actually one of my life goals.

The week before, I had been in the gym and was walking back through Soho at midnight when I felt my phone vibrate and heard the ping-pong cluck of Grindr. It was a message from the Korean guy. We had arranged to meet the night before, but he had stood me up, which is fucking annoying, but that’s life. He’s in his mid twenties and quite cute. He asked me if I wanted to go to his house, him and his friends were drinking. I agreed, even though I don’t really drink anymore, what else are you going to do in London on a Wednesday night?

His flat is somewhere between Soho square and Charing Cross road, 5 minutes walk, but by the time I had found a shop that would sell me a bottle of rancid, overpriced cava, it was almost 12.30pm. I arrived at the end of the party, which had clearly been going on for several days. The owner of the flat was obviously away and the younger tenants were living the Soho dream of hosting a house of craziness. Clearly, I was supposed to be Asian, and the two other guys were visibly disappointed by the fact that I wasn’t, so they decided to stare at the TV screen and repeat the highlights of their twisted coketalk. I guess this scene would probably appear cooler if you picture it in black and white, with some emo playing in the background.

They quickly crashed out and went to bed and the Korean guy and I went outside to sit on the bench and have a chat. We looked at the crisp sky that was chilled to perfection. He was charming and funny. One thing led to another and suddenly, almost by accident, I was sucking his cock. It was a reasonably small cock, but perfectly formed – a good cock. This being a 2 bedroom flat with 2 people sleeping we had nowhere to go, he certainly wasn’t about to schlep out to my place in Old street. So, he led me down the concrete staircase to the floor below. Through a glass door I could see the shadows of an empty reception desk and he pushed me against the glass and roughly pulled at the elasticated waist of my sweat pants.

Like many smaller guys who are eager to top, he was trying way too hard. It was like a particularly randy Jack Russel trying to dry hump a Labrador. In situations like this, it’s best not to panic, keep calm and take control. Without bruising his ego, I let him know that the only people who are impressed by this sort of rough-play are binge drinking teenagers. Within minutes we were both naked in the hall, which is one for the CCTV. Luckily for me I had dressed casual, gym clothes were made for fucking in public, “dogger chic,” I learned that from Jeremy Kyle.


As my grandmother probably never said, “the bigger the pole, the slacker the hole.” Which means the great thing about NOT being a size queen is you keep it all pretty tight “down there.” So, if your partner is not particularly well endowed, you can really work your tight little hoop and bring a smile to his moony face. If he takes you from behind, standing (on an upturned crate), then you can still take control. With a little lube and maneuvering, you can back onto his cock without having to use your hands, it’s like netting for minnows. Grip his shaft with your bottom and let him know that you feel it. Really work your pelvic floor muscles here to tighten in around his penis and flex your abdominal muscles like you are doing a stomach crunch. Pull him in. As my gym is, “The Sweatbox,” I always carry condoms and lube – and I always have a hit of poppers handy, incase of emergencies, you never know when you might need instant dilation. It’s good to do a little hit even with a smaller guy, it helps you find a better rhythm; also, it’s really cold in London and you are in danger of feeling a little bit silly getting banged by a munchkin against an office window.

There is something truly exhilarating about naughty public sex, I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. We were lying naked on my coat, warm against the chill, and it was an incredibly tender moment, his body is firm and I enjoyed touching his face as he spoke of Korea and the future and the past. Then as we spoke about the present, it became clear that the guy upstairs is his long term partner, they’re getting married, and so now he only likes fucking “slutty guys,” he meets on Grindr. So, I guess in the eyes of an adorable young Korean, I’m that slutty guy from Grindr.

Amazing. Yet another life goal ticked off the list.

I completely understand what this is all about, it’s a sort of twisted one-upmanship. It’s a language that somehow makes some people feel they are better.  I can’t help thinking that legitimising gay marriage has had something to do with this moralistic regression to old schoolyard name calling.

I don’t have a problem with people wanting to get married, I’ve just never seen the whole gay marriage debate as anything progressive, and it was never something I was interested in while I was protesting for gay rights and equality. In my humble opinion, marriage is a reactionary institution. But anyway, this is how we live now and that’s fine. Marriage has now become the defining institutional model of homosexuality, and all the self deception and lies that have forever dogged heterosexual relationships have now come to define gay relationships. It would appear that many people who step outside the paradigm of marriage are now successfully marginalised by the gay community as well as the heterosexual community – and we’re labelled, “slutty old slags.

Here’s a thought, don’t judge me on my ludicrous sexual exploits, and I won’t judge you on the endless deceptions that some of you weave in your pilgrimage towards an ideal marriage. I’m sure people who can actually maintain an honest, open relationship might criticise my life choices; however, from my experience, those in stable relationships don’t need to bother with how other people find happiness. Perhaps some of you will soon be bothering divorce lawyers with broken hearts and bitter recriminations, so you probably don’t have the right to label me a “slut,” or a “slag,” but it’s okay. Call it a midlife crisis, and you may be right, but whatever it is, it’s just the way things are at the moment – and that’s fine. It is our imperfections that make us perfect.