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

Friday, March 01, 2013

Of Fennel and Fisting

So much has changed since I was dating previously, like the invention of Grindr, the automobile and penicillin. It seems that the mobile gay-on-the-go facility just gives Gentlemen Who Can't Catch a chance to be flakier at a distance accurate to plus or minus 65 meters. And they are even more demanding too: conversation is often limited to a couple of letters and numbers, a demand for cock shots and then delivery of a postcode and before any rational sense takes you, you've dabbed your undercarriage with a Johnson's Wet Wipe and are on a bus to Streatham.

I was summoned to an orgy in this manner one Saturday morning. I was on the day shift; apparently they'd been at it since 8pm the previous night, whereas I'd spent a lovely evening with a decent bottle of red and a jigsaw of Balmoral castle. As an aside, do you know the Queen is a member of a jigsaw club? I love the idea that she'd done the same one as me, nudging Phil and pointing at the picture, "I told you the guttering needs painting." Anyway, they'd been lazily shagging for a good 18 hours before I'd arrived... The men, not Phil and Liz. And it transpired that you can't really do anything for that length of time without it becoming boring and having to dress it up anyway you can in order to keep it fresh. To my left was a man apparently getting MDMA inserted up his backside, to my right someone being paddled with some MDF. The hosts offered me some drugs put I declined; my history with narcotics is not a pleasant one and I get a come-down off Night Nurse. So I Just Said No, or as my mother politely taught me: just say no, thank you, it looks delicious but I'm as full as an egg.

In retrospect, I don't think you can't really do bacchanalian in Balham. The hosts buzzed around making sure everyone's glasses were topped up which was fine if they weren't tapping on your shoulder while you were being bookended by two men. "Oh do pop out and have some of the lamb casserole if you're peckish. The fennel's from the back garden," he trilled, moving through people with the seasoned ease of an air steward as his partner was nuts deep in a newcomer.

By this point I'd been there for two hours, so they'd been at it for at least 20. I doubt people were tired of the current cut-and-shunt going on, but the host was most insistent on keeping everybody buoyant by any means necessary. "Oh we'll be at this all weekend," he confessed. "Mario and I -" he laid a hand on his partner's sweating shoulder swinging back and forth "- we've had everybody over." I politely emptied my mouth before asking who.

He loaded up Grindr, Scruff and then a couple of sites on his laptop I'd never heard of and pointed over and over, with the running commentary usually going "He's been over, he has an ENORMOUS penis. Oh and he's been over. Also enormous, eh Mario? Mario..? Well anyway, he may be coming along later. And he..." It went on and on and on. Pages and pages of people, face, chest and dick shots, all tagged and collated. It was like a gay Pokémon collection.

I came and went as it was all a bit too strange if I'm honest. I kept wondering about the conversation between the host and his partner about what colour bedsheets they should get for the sex room. I imagine the host gunning for purple because it matched the Venetian glass they'd bought on holiday, whereas his partner would have been utterly indifferent. As it was it was a huge mistake: 20 hours in and it looked like someone was slowly finger-painting little silvery maps of the Philippines on them.

I imagine after the weekend you could have sold it a Jackson Pollack print.

Friday, February 22, 2013

Fountain of Youth

When I was much younger - when Bakelite was a thing and decimalisation was a shiny glint on the horizon - I was quite struck with the idea of a sugar daddy. A few years of therapy later would reveal this was due to the uncompromised distance between me and my own father and that I was trying to cross that emotional wasteland in whatever manner I knew how. I nodded quietly when my therapist, the semi-glamorous Dr Susan Rayner, had come to this conclusion. She's previously decided that I revel in good music whenever I feel emotionally unstable, so after this session I then went and bought that Sugababes CD I'd been hankering for a while. Dr Rayner may have had a glorious pair of hoop earrings, but she wasn't completely infallible.

So prior to that, as a fresh-faced ingenue on the Leicester scene, I'd gladly drop my handkerchief to any decent elder gentleman who'd give me the time of day (or at least hinted at the time of my life). The purchase of a half-pint of cider was merely a formality; a transaction to enforce that I'd already been bought by his soft words and rhumy eyes.

Clearly as I've gone on, there's slim pickings in the line of 'elder gentleman' unless you want someone who can pop their hip out during the reverse cowgirl, or buttocks that feel like two semi-deflated Christmas balloons found behind the sofa when you're packing the tree up.

However, as I screech towards my forties, I have discovered there's a swathe of emotionally-stunted youngsters who want a daddy. Completely unbidden, they are mesmerised by my Greek God beard and are in love with my more... Greek yoghurt physique. 'U is HENCH man!' someone sent me, who frankly looked like they should have been watching Blue Peter instead of chatting people up on Grindr. I had to google what hench meant. Apparently means fit. Fancy that.

Thus I also discovered how... Energetic the young are. You're bound to have heard this revelation so many times before its about as shocking as the end of The Crying Game, but still. All over the place! And at some considerable speed too. Prior to this, my sexual activities were akin to playing the board game Buckaroo: just keep twitching the odd thing until it all gets too much, a leg kicks and there's now a mess all over the table.

So this is by means of a thank you to all the daddies I used to know. I salute you (although it's probably more correct to say 'rest in peace', I suppose). I'm now taking up the position and definitely gaying it back.

Friday, February 15, 2013

The Reason I Now Have Short Hair

I hadn't been single long, still finding my feet - which it turned out were more often than not in the air - and managed to find this hulking great man via Dr Grin's Patented Finder of Gentleman Friends (To An Astounding Accuracy of 65 Meters). Good body, face less so, but I was simply after a little slap, tickle and pointless validation. Which he was giving me in the strangest way: he kept stroking my hair. No, not stroking - petting. My hair was shoulder-length at this point; I recommend to almost anyone to at least give it a go growing it. Plus I'd had a new passport photo taken at that time, so I could flash it and at least pretend I was rock 'n' roll at one point in my life; that I'd travelled the world and done all the drugs. These days I think being a rebel is not piercing the film on a microwave meal, but in flashing my passport I could hint at another life where I'd tried licking toads and owned a pair of flip-flops.

I was slightly conscious of a figure of the Virgin Mary rocking back and forward with each shunt.'Dirty cow,' I thought. 'She wants in on this. Virgin my beautiful bouncy ass.' But it was only til we finished did I start to take in exactly how much religious iconography was around the bedroom. I got no problem with diddling the God-botherers - they tend to be ten times more vigorous, having finally smothered their pent-up self-loathing with brief relief, and never really want to engage with much chit-chat afterwards bar 'is that your sock or mine?' And 'You're going to Hell, you know.' Yeah well so are you for that polyester bed set, but I didn't want to be the first one throwing stones honey.

This guy, whereas: he held me for a long time after we got dressed to the point where my arms fell to my side, but he carried on. "Thank you, thank you,' he whispered. I patted his back in distracted consolation; I mean, I was ok but definitely not worth what looked like tears forming in the corner of his eyes. Blimey, perhaps this rickety old body still got moves after all. "Thank you," he repeated. "I finally fucked Jesus."

And I got out of there at the speed of God.