Like a recovering drug-addict taking a surreptitious line of coke, I found myself once again logging onto Gaydar. I consoled myself with the usual platitudes: "Just one more hit...after this, I'll quit...this is the last time, honest..." On some level, I almost believed it.
When I logged onto the site, I was alerted that I had received a message. I cringed inwardly, imagining a sordid picture of a spunk-soaked willy or some married man with a dildo up his butt. I almost hit the 'delete' button but, like Alice in Wonderland, curiosity got the better of me and I found myself spiralling down into the rabbit-hole.
I clicked on the message and braced myself, clamping my eyes shut with dread.
When I eventually summoned the strength to open my curious peepers, I was treated to the digital image of a tanned, rippling stomach and muscular pecs. The owner of this divine body (devoid of a head) was 'Italian Stallion.'
Below the picture, he had written:
"Hey, love your profile. You got any face pics?"
I found his username slightly cheesy, but his defined, toned body had provoked a forgiving nature in me that I didn't know existed. If his face was anything as promising as that caramel-coloured, slightly sweaty six-pack then I was in luck.
A cynical part of me wondered if that was really his body or whether he had just uploaded the image to deceive superficial people like myself. Another part of me wanted to know why he was too scared to show his face in the picture. Was he hideous? Or bald?
I was tempted to reply straight away, but the microwave pinged abruptly and I realised that I was starving. Maybe I should wait a while before replying.
Fuck it, I thought. I hit the reply button and channelled my inner sleaze-bag:
"Sexy body," I found myself typing, even though I was turning myself sick. "You're hot! Yeah I've got pics. You got any?'
Before I had time to change my mind, I hastily browsed my recent holiday photos on my digital folder and attached my favourite one. I was standing on a beach in Greece clutching a cocktail while the shimmering sun disappeared behind the sea in the distance. My tan was healthy and glowing (albeit out of a bottle), my eyes were shining (from the cocktail, no doubt) and my smile was relaxed and sexy, if I do say so myself.
Seconds after the picture was taken, the cocktails took their toll and I was sick all over a German tourist who promptly started shrieking in horror and calling me a "Facking twot" repeatedly, but you'd never guess from looking at the photo.
I quickly mailed my sleazy message to Italian Stallion, then went to get my M&S pasta meal out of the microwave.
I always did love a good Italian.
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Thursday, 9 August 2007
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
The perils of Gaydar
My good friend, Garv, has urged me to explore the 'delights' of Gaydar, a website which allows horny men to hook up for sex or (excuse my sceptical cough) a relationship. I have tried Gaydar once before, but the second I logged on I was inundated with seedy requests from fifty-something leather fetishists or sixteen year-old self-proclaimed "cock lovers". Nice. They would attempt to start a private chat with me, often with the charmingly frank: 'Fancy a fuck?' or the time-efficient: 'Meet now?' Some of them were not so direct; they would beat around the bush and enquire 'How are you?' to which the only acceptable response seemed to be 'Bored and horny.'
Entering the dubious world of Gaydar is an eye-opener, if nothing else. Whether you want it or not, you will invariably become the unwitting recipient of vile, stomach-churning photos that challange your faith in mankind. Horny men will sniff you out and post you their 'sexy' mugshots, which usually consist of hard, veiny cocks dripping with spunk - usually surrounded by wiry, grey pubes. One guy even sent me a picture of himself fingering his own butt-hole, which to me just about sums up the whole Gaydar experience. Classy it ain't.
But maybe I'll give Gaydar another chance. After all, I'm hardly beating men off with a stick at the moment.
Entering the dubious world of Gaydar is an eye-opener, if nothing else. Whether you want it or not, you will invariably become the unwitting recipient of vile, stomach-churning photos that challange your faith in mankind. Horny men will sniff you out and post you their 'sexy' mugshots, which usually consist of hard, veiny cocks dripping with spunk - usually surrounded by wiry, grey pubes. One guy even sent me a picture of himself fingering his own butt-hole, which to me just about sums up the whole Gaydar experience. Classy it ain't.
But maybe I'll give Gaydar another chance. After all, I'm hardly beating men off with a stick at the moment.
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Introduction
I've always wondered if I've got what it takes to be a stinking slut. I mean, surely it doesn't require much? You just go home with a bunch of different random guys, put it about a bit... and hey presto! Instant Slut - just add lube! Sounds simple enough. Nice and easy, so to speak.
And it's not as if I've got my work cut out for me; I've got all the necessary hallmarks of a classic shameless slag:
1. Good looking. Check.
2. Decent body. Check.
3. Raging libido. Check.
4. Nagging self-doubt and crippling neuroses. Double check.
Oh yes, and not to forget the all imporant:
5. I'm gay. Check.
The latter point should ensure me a lifetime of brazen sluttiness. After all, as a young, single gay man it's not only accepatble for me to be promiscuous - it's practically mandatory. But then of course there are several obstacles blocking my path to a delightfully sinful town called Shamesless Man-Wench:
1. There's the infamous Catholic Guilt (a legacy from my Irish grandparents on my mother's side, as well as a potentially cliched alcohol problem and sticky-out ears).
2. A built-in sense of moral decency.
3. Incurable shyness (at least around hot men).
4. And, crucially, I've never really felt the need to sleep around.
But now, as I 'look forward' to my impending 26th birthday - as well as the rumoured Sex and the City movie - I am experiencing a sudden sexual awakening. These days, I inexplicably find myself thinking: I want to reinvent myself as a shameless male slag (the assumption being that the word 'slag' is normally reserved for women).
The problem is...can I actually go through with it?
The Muse
My best friend Cassie - whose legs are open more often than my local Spar - is the muse for my seedy project. She's stunning, witty, funny and supremely comfortable in her own skin, so she defies the unfair stereoptype of the typical promiscuous girl: the lonely, attention-starved, insecure wreck who just wants to be loved. In fact, she is a confident woman who thrives on being single and uses sex for pleasure, not to fill a gaping void in her existence.
She is my inspiration. As best friends go, she is up there with the best of them. If you ring her crying at 4 a.m., she will come running in the pouring rain with a box of Milk Tray and a copy of Dirty Dancing, even if she has to be up for work at 6. She was the first person that I went to when I started to contemplate my new slutty alter-ego and, naturally, she was full of enthusiasm.
"It's about time you started to be more adventurous," was her diplomtic response, when clearly she was actually thinking: "Thank fuck! It's about time you stopped this repressed, virginal bullshit and got laid so you can stop being so fucking miserable all the time. Not that you'll actually go through with it."
So, with her as my sexual svengali, I decided to use her experiences as a benchmark for my sluttiness. Her dubious catalogue of depraved promiscuity has now become the template for my mission, so her dodgy exploits now comprise my list of challanges:
1. Have sex with more than one stranger in one night.
2. Have sex with a friend's boyfriend.
3. Have sex with a prostitute.
4. Have sex with someone in the workplace.
5. Have a threesome. (She actually recommended a fivesome, but I couldn't quite bring myself
to add this to my list).
6. Have sex with a gay guy. (Being a gay guy myself, I could already tick this one off - but I have had to amend this to 'Have sex with a straight guy'.)
7. Shag someone of the same sex. (Again, being gay, this one wasn't much of a problem. But I have had to change it to - shudder - 'Shag a woman.'
She assures me that this is just the beginning of the list, but she refuses to divulge her other exploits for fear of judgement. Only once I have lowered myself to an acceptably dirty level of seediness will I be entrusted with the rest of her naughty secrets. I can't wait.
Genetics
Most people would wonder why, as a single gay man, I am not already a self-styled ho. I mean, it's almost a prerequisite. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately - I'm not quite sure yet) I don't seem to have the traditional promiscuous gene that most gay men seem to possess. I was granted with most of the other typical charactistics - an obsession with Kylie, a keen interest in fashion and a tendancy to attract fag-hags - but the need to sleep around (as well as an unnatural fondness of the gym) seem to be missing from my genetic make-up.
It seems rather unfair that I have been denied these stereotpyical traits. As a result, my sex life is tragic and my six-pack is non-existent.
But as I pursue my goal to be a brazen male slag, I aim to change all of this. Hopefully, I will resurrect my ailing sex life.
And maybe I'll even get round to renewing that gym membership
And it's not as if I've got my work cut out for me; I've got all the necessary hallmarks of a classic shameless slag:
1. Good looking. Check.
2. Decent body. Check.
3. Raging libido. Check.
4. Nagging self-doubt and crippling neuroses. Double check.
Oh yes, and not to forget the all imporant:
5. I'm gay. Check.
The latter point should ensure me a lifetime of brazen sluttiness. After all, as a young, single gay man it's not only accepatble for me to be promiscuous - it's practically mandatory. But then of course there are several obstacles blocking my path to a delightfully sinful town called Shamesless Man-Wench:
1. There's the infamous Catholic Guilt (a legacy from my Irish grandparents on my mother's side, as well as a potentially cliched alcohol problem and sticky-out ears).
2. A built-in sense of moral decency.
3. Incurable shyness (at least around hot men).
4. And, crucially, I've never really felt the need to sleep around.
But now, as I 'look forward' to my impending 26th birthday - as well as the rumoured Sex and the City movie - I am experiencing a sudden sexual awakening. These days, I inexplicably find myself thinking: I want to reinvent myself as a shameless male slag (the assumption being that the word 'slag' is normally reserved for women).
The problem is...can I actually go through with it?
The Muse
My best friend Cassie - whose legs are open more often than my local Spar - is the muse for my seedy project. She's stunning, witty, funny and supremely comfortable in her own skin, so she defies the unfair stereoptype of the typical promiscuous girl: the lonely, attention-starved, insecure wreck who just wants to be loved. In fact, she is a confident woman who thrives on being single and uses sex for pleasure, not to fill a gaping void in her existence.
She is my inspiration. As best friends go, she is up there with the best of them. If you ring her crying at 4 a.m., she will come running in the pouring rain with a box of Milk Tray and a copy of Dirty Dancing, even if she has to be up for work at 6. She was the first person that I went to when I started to contemplate my new slutty alter-ego and, naturally, she was full of enthusiasm.
"It's about time you started to be more adventurous," was her diplomtic response, when clearly she was actually thinking: "Thank fuck! It's about time you stopped this repressed, virginal bullshit and got laid so you can stop being so fucking miserable all the time. Not that you'll actually go through with it."
So, with her as my sexual svengali, I decided to use her experiences as a benchmark for my sluttiness. Her dubious catalogue of depraved promiscuity has now become the template for my mission, so her dodgy exploits now comprise my list of challanges:
1. Have sex with more than one stranger in one night.
2. Have sex with a friend's boyfriend.
3. Have sex with a prostitute.
4. Have sex with someone in the workplace.
5. Have a threesome. (She actually recommended a fivesome, but I couldn't quite bring myself
to add this to my list).
6. Have sex with a gay guy. (Being a gay guy myself, I could already tick this one off - but I have had to amend this to 'Have sex with a straight guy'.)
7. Shag someone of the same sex. (Again, being gay, this one wasn't much of a problem. But I have had to change it to - shudder - 'Shag a woman.'
She assures me that this is just the beginning of the list, but she refuses to divulge her other exploits for fear of judgement. Only once I have lowered myself to an acceptably dirty level of seediness will I be entrusted with the rest of her naughty secrets. I can't wait.
Genetics
Most people would wonder why, as a single gay man, I am not already a self-styled ho. I mean, it's almost a prerequisite. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately - I'm not quite sure yet) I don't seem to have the traditional promiscuous gene that most gay men seem to possess. I was granted with most of the other typical charactistics - an obsession with Kylie, a keen interest in fashion and a tendancy to attract fag-hags - but the need to sleep around (as well as an unnatural fondness of the gym) seem to be missing from my genetic make-up.
It seems rather unfair that I have been denied these stereotpyical traits. As a result, my sex life is tragic and my six-pack is non-existent.
But as I pursue my goal to be a brazen male slag, I aim to change all of this. Hopefully, I will resurrect my ailing sex life.
And maybe I'll even get round to renewing that gym membership
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