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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.