Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, November 28, 2008

In A Bottle

I'm all for decadence, you know. I'll always go for the M&Ms with the peanuts for instance. No, you can't buy class like wot I have.

So in a rare day off this week, I decided to treat myself to a massage. Now, before I go on, I'd like to say this was at a reputable place, rather than a central London doorway with 'Model Upstairs' in letters made of insulation tape above the chipped lintel. As a sidebar, I'd love to pop up to one of those places and ask the cavalcade of prolapsed hussies whether they actually have any models at all in there. And I don't mean people who actually look like they're from this side of the primordial soup - or indeed, that haven't had a similar soup sloshed up them hourly - I mean an actual Airfix model of the USS Voyager in a dust-proof case. Ah, they'd try and chase me out, but I'd throw a photocopy of a Green Card into the corner and watch them rip each other to shreds to get it.

Meanwhile, back to my reputable place with tinkly music and lesbian tea literally on tap. The charmingly bored functionary asked me whether I'd like a man or a woman at this point. Ah, this is where the joy of being a Gentleman Who Is Excited About The Prospect of a '9 to 5' Musical can excel; I pity the man who goes in and wants to ask for a woman as it has all these strange connotations, or the woman who asks for a gentleman... It feels like you've managed to remove one level of sexuality from it if you're a man asking for a man to massage you - another bonus of being a Gentleman Who Knows How Many Times To Click Your Heels Together at the gym is you get to get a quick squint around the changing rooms. Imagine if you were a man allowed to change in the women's dressing room? Yes, it's like an all you can eat buffet! Carb free, of course.

Anyway, I digress. I chose a man and yes, I think I managed to dispel any sexual connotations from the whole affair, only to later realise that I was indeed in Soho, the mecca of all gay men (where twinks gleefully turn and prey to Jeremy Joseph on the hour, arse in the air, kneeling on their Same Difference prayer mats) and the tinny sound of Girls Aloud was drifting from my dangling headphones as I spoke. Ah well.

At which point, I was introduced to my masseuse, a giant Australian of a man called Matt, who almost knocked me over - such was the power of his handshake. Thank heaven there was a masseuse table to sit down on, my knees were as weak as my resolve.

So there I was in a private upstairs room with all my clothes off, covered in a towel, and slowly being lubed up by hands so large and firm that they could have felled a cow with a single slap... That's not a massage in my head - that's foreplay! I had a very similar situation when I had to go to hospital once for a bit of an inspection of the nether regions after they'd found a lump. An inspection that involved me up on blocks, manhood out to the world, while a TV-pretty doctor smeared my area with KY jelly and then had a jolly old poke around. I tell you, I spent the whole time invoking images of Nicola Girls Aloud splayed on my bed, having not mowed her minky for a good few months. Ee, I tell you, it did the trick to hide any... embarrasment. In my mind's eye it looked like someone had run over the last red squirrel.

There's a short circuit that happens in my head, I think. You are put into a situation that you are familiar with, such as the above, and your body is expecting an entirely different outcome. As I was here with this Matt, I began to find him desperately attractive. I mean, he wasn't - good looking to a point, yes, but not going to get me dripping like a fucked fridge any time soon - but here I was in a situation that had often lead to sex in the past. So my brain had already filled in the parts where we'd flirted over our Babycham, I'd got a bit giddy, and he'd offered to take me back to his Soho penthouse to show me his etchings, and moved in for the kill during a medley of Il Divo. It's like we'd jumped three steps, and I was ready to jump him. It was the most curious sensation.

I'm sure you'll be pleased to know, I managed to say goodbye to Matt with my dignity and my towel raised high, though did almost fall to my knees when he shook my hand in farewell. Well, I find the fantasy is often better than the reality. Besides, I could tell he was deathly straight. Not from his manner, not from his choice in shoes. But because his deodorant was that terrible Lynx. You know, the first choice of hetero boys everywhere because they think they don't need aftershave if they use it, and the advertising states they can pull women from across the bar. The only way that works is to get so close to the girls that they find the stench overpowering and go into a dead faint at the fumes. The rest of the times, I've seen women backing away from a group of straight Lynxed men with their handbags over their noses, gasping for air. Its a shame that you can't smoke in bars anymore - it used to be fun watching pyres of straight men going up in flames whenever someone accidentally let a lighter stray to his mate's armpit. Oh those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Tires

Ah the turn of the season. Isn't this glorious - the leaves, the colours? The chance of bringing out your long coats and pretending you're in a TV show title sequence when a Tube train whizzes by, fooming your hair and coat out dramatically. Me, I make sure I'm listening to the 'Alias' title music as it happens, though I know in my heart I'm secretly more 'Laverne and Shirley'. I'm always loosing my glove on beer bottles, see.

And my balance on whiskey bottles.

And my dignity on vodka bottles.

Anyway, along with the cold often comes illness, and I'm a little under the weather at the moment, and browsing through an online dispensary for something to take the edge off this cold. How wonderfully 21st Century! You can order anything, completely self-medicate! If it was good enough for Britney Spears, its good enough for me - and look how well that turned out. But what's this? click click click Apparently there are Viagra suppositories now. Why? Why go to all that trouble with pills? These are quite clearly useless to any Gentleman Who Can't Catch - I mean, as soon as you stick something up my nethermouth, things are going to rise to the occasion.

And these days, it's such a two-way street! Sometimes you do worry about whether there's going to be any tread left on the tires come old age. I mean, in days of old I used to believe that sex should be like football - half-time, change ends - but with my current relationship... well, lets just say that Ryan swept me off my feet and instantly insisted that they were both pointed at the baby Jesus. And he's 23, for goodness sake, with a drive to match. Its a wonder that have to clench when I sit on a barstool lest I slip down it to the floor. Its starting to look like a bloodied windsock down there. Indeed. I recall the one instance that a doctor once had to give me a bit of medicine via that entrance (this is not a euphemism for once) and he was all "Brace yourself, you may feel a little - oh!" and then had to retrieve his wedding ring with the help of a colleague. And a miner's helmet.

Anyway, before my order is dispatched (and you loose your lunch) I shall top up on Beechams and head out. Maybe some chocolate too - that's meant to help, right? That's what the funny uncle in the local sweetshop of my youth used to say. God, he was camp. You'd go in and ask "Can I have a Twirl and a Boost?" he'll spin around gaily and say "Honey, you look fabulous today!"

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Recommended For You

Now. I usually don't care what most people think of me - clearly with the notable exception of you, darling reader. As a child of the internet age, I've been stationed everywhere - Flickr, Twitter, Blogger, the lot. I've poked around Facebook, and stuffed myself up YouTube. I even had a MySpace page for an afternoon until I realised I was a 33 year old man and not a twelve year old girl into stickers, ponies and self-harm with an ugly penchant for tiled backgrounds and flashing glitter text. And in each of these arenas, you put a little of yourself forward for the internet at large, who will judge you whether you like it or not. Why here alone, I've unspooled with such candid honesty that you are all aware that I would pay good money to have Ryan Reynolds and Matthew Fox diddle me so long and so hard that when I sitting in the back of my limo while leaving our Soho loft love-nest, flicking through approvals for my Fall fashion line (its a very full and varied fantasy) that every time I uncrossed my legs it would be like peeling apart a toasted cheese sandwich.

And then, after all that lessez-faire attitude, I came across Amazon Recommends, the semi-intuitive section of their ordering site that says 'You bought this, you may want this', and spent the next hour screaming "YOU DON'T KNOW ME, YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME!!!" while constantly refeshing the plethora of choices on offer. Why I've taken it to heart, I don't know. Perhaps as A Gentleman With Too Many Storecards, I hope that with a bit of fine-tuning this service will present me the ultimate in shopping experiences; some kind of commercial nirvana that gives me a list of ten things I Simply Must Have each time I visit. As it is, I'm getting presented with choices such as Sylvia Plath because I once bought 'Oranges Aren't The Only Fruit' for a female friend who was so far in the closet she smelt of mothballs. I mean, me! Plath! It's like trying to give a dog a kazoo, or Jessica Simpson an acting role. We'd only deftly fuck it up, but try and look adorable as we did it.

As I've been writing this, I've been clicking the 'Not Interested' and 'I Own This' options on a couple of items (for a while, we got stuck in a whole Ben Elton vortex because I said I owned 'Popcorn' to shut it up. I didn't say it was any good) and now its all SCART cables and chick-lit. If only there was a sliding scale that you could just increase from 'Boring' to 'Fabulous', it would save a lot of trouble of clicking on swathes of Margaret Atwoods, the sheer volume of which you would be quite able to make a pretentious-if-slightly-boring little house out of.

Still, I don't know why I'm surprised as most things I order off the internet are never what you require. I mean clearly - as we're sharing - it was not as disappointing as the time I ordered a six-foot-eight-inches prison warder called Uric of... lets call it a Gentleman's Orange Website - 'EasyGay' if you wish - and he arrived at my chinzy boudoir for a bit of slap and tickle. And as soon as he got there, pitched forward onto the bed like a felled tree, face down, pointing as his rump with a bizarre urgency. I mean, that's not what you want, is it?! It wasn't in the brochure. I feel that you engage a person like that in the capacity similar to that of Dyna-Rod. When they're towering over you, telling you their height, you're all but unable to stop doing your Mae West of "Well, lets forget about the six foot, lets talk about the eight inches" while clutching your pearls, your wallet, or your ankles.

Ah.

Now I'm imagining what the 'Gaydar Recommends' section of the site would be like. When you log on, you'd get presented with such wondrous options as 'You have had "BootedThickFingeredNavvy86", why not try "SurlyPolishWorkman_02" (Rate out of five stars)' I'd probably still spend as long trying to get it all working correctly, but it would be a heck of a lot more fun!

Have a good weekend, y'all.