Fucking Censorship!

Hello there gorgeous folk!

Happy Hanukkah! Merry Christmas! Happy solstice, whatever your celebration may be, I wish you well. As you have probably guessed by now…


I’m not just saying this to be cool, I truly believe that censorship is the root of all evil; and I mean all censorship. I consider myself an old school libertarian; which means that, in my opinion, anyone has the right to say anything they like – even if it’s something that I don’t like. At times this attitude has brought me into conflict with many people, even within the queer community. I don’t think anyone should be banned or censored from saying anything. For example, if you want to go on a homophobic diatribe in public then I support you; why? Because that way I know where I stand. Hello Westbro baptist church, you hate queers? GREAT! Tell me about it so I don’t have to waste my time listening to anything else you have to say… I’m grateful that you advertise your cuntishness. Bring it on!

Unfortunately, many people don’t feel the same.

A large part of this blog has been written in Thailand while I have been working as a lecturer. You might be mistaken for thinking that Thailand is a gorgeous, utopian ‘land of smiles’. This is completely understandable. It’s actually subjected to a very oppressive military regime, with pretty strict media censorship that affects most foreign reporting. In order to combat this, I have disguised many of my essays as harmless pornography by using the power of metaphorical language. Unfortunately I have managed to upset the wrong expats; men who are currently living an apathetic life of luxury in a regime that actively oppresses the voice of the majority of the Thai people. Here is a good example of one article that was originally published in ‘Out There’ magazine, “Fucking Passives.” 

Long story short, my work is being censored. My book has been banned, and WordPress is not happy about hosting this site.

I wish to archive some of the stories and essays from my book, so I have recently paid for the domain www.magicalmretour.com, and I will be moving my content there in the new year. That way, if any other hosts of my site are unhappy with the content, I can maintain the domain name without losing the content.

The first edition of my book “A Year in Shorts” will be going out of print in 2 weeks time, I hope to find another publisher in the future, if you wish to order your copy, it will be available from Amazon for another 2 weeks. Follow the link:

A Year in Shorts.

I do not write for the fame or the money. No, it’s not about that at all. I do not wish to monetize my content or sell you lots of things you do not need. However, it takes a lot of my time to write and to entertain in an authentic and honest way. I will continue to produce free content, and if any of you wish to contribute financially, this would be a great help. Please follow the link to become a patron:

Support MrE 

I look forward to entertaining you with authentic, free content from Asia in 2015! Don’t forget to catch me at www.magicalmretour.com

Happy new year


Mr E xxx


Fucking Queers!

I’ve always had a problematic relationship with labels. I called myself ‘gay’ even when I was having sex with a woman. Partly because I’m a flouncer, but mainly because I instinctively knew that some people scare easily, even on the gay scene; if you don’t respect the boundaries, you may end up confusing people. However, I was never completely happy with the term, it implied that I didn’t enjoy having sex with the woman – which of course I did at the time. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself ‘a bisexual’ either, I’ve not been inclined to sleep with women for a long time and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. So, as you can tell, I’m quite sceptical about becoming embroiled in the murky world of identity politics. Not that I disagree with the issues; however, the endless dissemination of inoffensive terminology can, I feel, fracture communities and drive wedges between potential allies. There’s something almost Machiavellian about the whole discourse. It perfectly encapsulates the old cliche ‘divide and conquer’. Who does it really serve to perpetuate vicious in-fighting between various fringe groups in society?


Personally, like many of my friends in London, I prefer to use the term ‘queer’. It’s a progressive movement that I feel is truly inclusive. I suppose the ethos of identifying as ‘queer’ is more about seeing human relationships and sexuality as fluid. Essentially, it doesn’t confine you to any conventional parameters. I have friends who are in homosexual and heterosexual relationships who gladly identify as ‘queer’.

Anyway, I recently managed to head out to Hackney to catch a few events for ‘The Fringe! Queer Art & Film Festival’. As is frequently the case with these kind of super trendy events in London, the PR is all about ‘diversity and inclusion’, but the reality is all about ‘beautiful, middle class gay men’. Yes indeed, that pretty much sums up any fashionable fad in town; if you scratch away the rainbow surface paint, more often than not, it’s almost always about the pretty party boys.

Having completely re-evaluated my priorities in recent years, I have found it increasingly difficult to fit back into my old life in London. I have to say that I now feel totally out of place, and it isn’t simply down to getting older, even though I’m far from being the oldest swinger in town, I feel that I have irreversibly changed. In my 20’s and 30’s I was into looking fabulous and being at the right place with the right people; now, I am thankful to be in a room full of folk who are friendly and funny. I can’t do the drama. Generally speaking the brittle intricacies of abrasively cool kids aren’t that attractive to me anymore.

One day I peered into the darkness of my heart and there I met the elements of diamonds and shit; they collided and cleaved their way through many random collaborations, like strange strangers, every impression they left was a scar. I never considered myself to be a particle of this scene; one who was embroiled in a shallow popularity contest, but it would appear that I was. The youthful pride in my appearance has dissipated, leaving in its wake a grotesque vanity that compels me to think about such things and re-evaluate my story.

“Fucking queers!” The words rattle in my head as remnants of an unpleasant history, things are so much different now I tell myself; or are they?

I was sipping a ridiculously expensive pint of shandy in the Attic of ‘The Hackney Picturehouse’, watching a really long film of the performance of David Hoyle and Christine getting married. Some popular men were holding court in the middle of the room. I recognized a few of them, but they were completely self involved and drunk on all the attention. They clambered over me, spilling their drinks while bitching about who they did and didn’t know, and all I could think about was the fact that I had got old and that the train ride home would be freezing.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. When did I get so boring?

A handsome young man starts talking to me about himself. The less I have chosen to speak, the more I listen, and the more I listen, the less the world makes sense. He becomes a gesticulating blur. I am not drunk but I miss many of his words. I register the ‘I’, ‘I’, ‘I’ and the ‘my’, ‘my’,’my’, and the ‘me’, ‘me’, ‘me'; however, a familiar beast looms into view that I vaguely recognize. He speaks like a blog. He speaks a giddy mesh of self-affirmations and witty quips all contrived to make him seem more interesting, and suddenly I am compelled to open up and let him in. I want to read the affectated gestures, smell the artificial scents and graze upon the shaved skin of his carefully cultivated body, but I don’t. I glimpse a moment of tenderness and mutual satisfaction which fills my heart.

When did I lose the collective ‘we’ and surrender to the solitary ‘I’? Those of us who remember the daily confrontations feel superfluous; the ideals we once had now sound hollow.

Is this it?

Did we go on marches, stand up to all the bullies in the world for this? We keep telling ourselves that we took to the streets for a noble cause, but we did it for ourselves; then we retreated back into the solitary enclaves of our own comfort and we made films about our suffering. Even though the law has evolved beyond our wildest expectations, nothing has changed; the same boys are fucking us over whether we’re fucking each other or not. For a moment I feel impotent and the handsome young man stops talking. I don’t know what to say. It’s funny that even though we feel more free to talk about what we want, we often can’t say what we need.

Fucking Money Boys.

Yep… I can picture the posturing of my nouveau boho homo married friends right now as they envisage this post to be a horrendous apology for human trafficking. “There’s more to being gay than just random fucking,” they might say, and they may well be right. I wonder if they realize how patronizing they sound as they insinuate that I’m merely playing out a ridiculously infantile arrested development? It’s almost as if they can’t hear themselves moan on to me about their relationship troubles as they flit from one self-induced crisis to the next. Have I really failed as an adult because I’ve managed to avoid all of the drama? From house dramas to pet dramas, to ‘he said, she said’ dramas; you know, emulating the worst aspects of bourgeois mediocrity doesn’t necessarily make you an adult.

If you’re still of the opinion that people should never pay for sex; well, it might be worth considering the fact that,


Consider the financial distributions within your own relationships. Are they even? I’m sure you love each other very much, but how many times have you thought of gritting your teeth and finishing him off for a decent nights sleep? What exactly does that early morning blow-job buy you? However much you try to deny it, to a degree, your relationship follows the laws of consumption just like everything else in our capitalist world. If you are taking your lover on holiday to Sitges, buying a gift, moving into his apartment while you tend bar to develop your career as an actor… Whatever it is… We may paper over the cracks with the language of love but the specter of exchange lingers.

There is always ‘quid pro quo‘, and sometimes I would rather give an extra couple of quid to a pro.

On my last trip through Thailand, I had decided that I’d had enough of all the DJ Station bullshit bar boys that inhabit Silom and Boys Town. So, I had decided to take the professional option. The great thing about money boys in Bangkok is that they are pretty easy to locate if you happen to have a hotel room in Sathon and access to Grindr, Jackd etc. It’s shockingly easy to indulge the privilege of your foreign currency, and probably a good idea to leave your privilege of guilt at the airport. It can be disconcerting to think that you are buying another person, but when you really think about the other respectable options such as; dinner, drinks and a taxi fare home, everything adds up.

Now we have the internet.

Anyway, I had been messaging Mr Lion for quite some time and we had built up a very steamy rapport. He had been flirting with me since he had spotted me earlier that day in the gym and he had been upfront about his status as a money boy. I respected this immensely. He was charming and courteous and he took very good care of himself; call me a sentimental old queen, but these things are pretty important. It’s not that I’m attracted to stereotypically good looking physiques, usually I’m not, but I am a sucker for a good salesman and if the product you are selling is your body, then it turns me on that you take pride in your work.

Now, I’m not really a fan of reducing everything in life to a series of lists and bullet points, but unfortunately that’s the world we live in, so here is my guide for the best ‘Way To Be at Fucking Money Boys’.

  • Be Careful! In most countries it is illegal:

I know, in these hyper-textual days it is impossible to take the rule of law seriously. Deep down we all know that if you can afford the lawyers, you can get away with murder. Yes, if you happen to be a Saudi prince  for example, you can get caught red handed beating your man toy to death in a top London hotel and still fly home in a few years. But for the rest of us mortals, the law is the law, and paying money for sex is pretty much frowned upon – despite the fact that the industry seems to be thriving wherever there are men (there are currently no laws regarding prostitution in Antarctica). Essentially, you need to be careful about this. Even in countries that are ostensibly quite relaxed and tolerant (such as Thailand), be discreet and whenever possible use a fake name, and buy a cheap disposable phone. FYI , as a general rule of thumb; never, repeat, NEVER contact the police in Thailand if you can avoid it. It will be expensive as they will undoubtedly try to extort cash.

  • Be Prepared:

If you are going to treat yourself to a dirty weekend with a sexy stud, don’t cut corners on the essentials. Make sure you pack everything you want to ensure you don’t get bored. Take a selection of toys, lubes and poppers as well as plenty of good quality condoms. It’s really important to get a lot of good condoms, whether you are topping or bottoming, you know you can feel the difference and you don’t want to run out. I always have at least 20/30. That way, if you stop for rests during a long session you are never going to run out. Personally, I really like the Japan Sagami original 001.

  • Be Friendly and Polite:

I had spent a lot of time chatting to Mr Lion online, and this is pretty important for several reasons. Firstly you’re setting a mood and this is all about having a good time. The less you make it feel like a business transaction, the more enjoyable it is – unless of course business transactions turn you on (in which case you are probably destined to spend the rest of your life weeping alone in an ivory tower). Secondly, in Bangkok particularly, you need to sign in local guests, so it’s great if you can actually get along like old friends. Also remember your guest is required to leave their passport/ID card at the reception, so try not to get his name wrong. I had met Mr Lion in the bar before taking him to my room. We had chatted and laughed and flirted. He looked really great and was very relaxed and friendly and pretty soon we were heading upstairs to my suite.

  • Be Sober:

You would think that this is pretty obvious on many levels, but judging from many of the horror stories I hear emanating from the gay scene in Bangkok – it isn’t. Even after a few drinks, your judgement is impaired. You need to be aware of what is going on. Some of these guys have very little money and are more than happy to steal whatever they can. Also, it’s worth noting that crystal meth is widely used in most major cities in Asia on account of it being cheap and easily available. It’s not my thing, but if you’re going to go down that route, as many people do, make sure you have a hotel room with a good quality safe (I have heard many stories of things being stolen from the room safe while the guy was passed out), or better still leave passport and large amounts of cash at the reception – and get a receipt. As it is Bangkok, hotel rooms are really quite cheap, so I had booked another hotel room in which to meet Mr Lion for the weekend – thereby leaving all of my valuables and money safely stored. It seems excessive, but for the peace of mind it’s really worth it. Also, I like to fuck in a lovely room with a huge bath. I’m such a princess sometimes.

  • Be Assertive, but make sure he Enjoys himself too:

This is where the whole ‘good rapport’ thing pays off. It’s great to be totally indulged and receive pleasure. But it’s also incredibly fulfilling to give someone else pleasure. I had spent the weekend with Mr Lion trying to ensure that he was getting something out of the experience too. I understand that this is a problematic concept; I mean, who the fuck do I think I am, Richard Gere in ‘Pretty Woman’? And for all I know he could have been bored to tears, right? But, if you are relaxed enough to talk about things, find out what turns him on too. Mr Lion said he liked his nipples to be licked – so I spent a lot of time flicking his nipples with the tip of my tongue and I could feel his cock pulsing harder and harder. This paid off for me in the end when he fucked me nice and slow for several hours, working his way into me deeper and deeper.

  • Be Realistic:

Deception is the name of this game; so don’t delude yourself. I had a whole weekend of fun with Mr Lion, but that is it. Mr Lion has sent me the odd message on Grindr asking when I am next in town – but I just put that down to him being very good at his job. I was a great customer and I even left him a hefty tip. I would see him again, but it’s business, it’s fun. I have seen far too many men become attached in these situations and end up in some pretty unhealthy relationships. It’s probably not a good idea to see the same guy more than once, but if you do, think of him as a masseur or your favourite barbour and keep it on that level.

Hey, I don’t mean to sound like a nanny-state fun killer, you are free to do whatever makes you happy. I’d be the first to admit I’ve made some pretty strange life choices, but I’m just offering you the benefit of my experience. Whatever you decide to do, have fun and take care of yourself because you are beautiful. I’m busy for the next month or two, but I will be posting again in the new year from Asia.

Should you be stuck for a Christmas present, you can get a limited edition copy of my collection of short stories which has been banned in most countries in Asia from as little as $8.99 from Amazon, or $3.50 downloaded to your Kindle. Follow the link below for more details.

“A Year in Shorts…”

Have fun and I’ll see you in the new year.

All my love Mr E. x x

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 a little 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.”

You see, when you say something like that to me, what I actually hear is:

  • “I’m incapable of looking after myself either emotionally or financially; so, I’ve decided it’s much easier to lie to someone that I care about.”

It’s not sexy.

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 clearly someone who has chosen to liberate my sexuality from the confines of a socially expected monogamy; therefore, I will be fine with being a mere 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. If you think about it, you are actually being quite boring.

Do you want to know the really insane thing? When talking to other queer guys about this, I am often 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 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 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.