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.
BETTER BUMMING TIPS:
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.