Since my dangerous - and frankly idiotic - experience of unprotected sex, I have endured much scrutiny. Many of my friends reacted with sheer horror.
I know I made a huge misjudgement and I understand why my actions may have offended or upset some people, but I honestly don't see why the regrettable situation has provoked such unanimous disapproval.
Some of my (straight) female friends regularly have sex without a condom, yet because they are on the pill they are not subjeted to these judgemental diatribes. Just because they can't get pregnant from a one-nightstand, they think that they are "safe". Well, I can't get pregnant either. Does that make me safe too? It's such an outrageous double standard.
When I expressed my indignation, my friends were extremely defensive. "Yes, but... well, it's different for you, isn't it?" they stammered.
I was outraged. "No," I replied. "The idea that HIV is a gay disease is so 80's."
I made a mistake and I know that it was foolish, so please don't think that I am blase about it. I mean no disrespect to anyone who has contracted AIDs or HIV - or any other STD, for that matter. I am not ignorant to the dangers of unprotected sex and to say that I am disappointed in myself is an understatement.
In 3 months' time, I will get tested - apparently, the HIV virus can take that long to be detected in the blood.
In an attempt to console me, my friend Garv revealed that he has had sex without a condom "many, many times." I was quite disturbed by this. Instead of comforting me, Garv's words left me feeling cold and unsettled. I was traumatised that I had sunk to his dangerously depraved level.
I contacted Itallian Stallion aka Mark to express my concerns. He assured me that he got tested just over a month ago and that he has only had sex with one person apart from me - he said that they used protection.
Even if I assume that he's telling the truth, I know that I'm still in dangerous territory. I will make damn sure that I never place myself in this compromising position again.
Monday, 24 September 2007
Monday, 17 September 2007
Unprotected sex
Oh dear...I think I may have taken this mission to become a slag a bit too far.
Finally, I had a message from Italian Stallion over the weekend. He suggested meeting up on Sunday; I presumed that he wanted to rendezvous for a quick shag, but to my surprise he wanted to go on a date. Somewhat predictably, he suggested going to an Italian restaurant. I had no plans for Sunday, so I gladly agreed to meet him.
We met at the restaurant and, thankfully, he was stunning in the flesh. He had flawless, bronzed skin and intriguing dark eyes. Contrary to his username, he spoke with a strong Welsh accent and his name was Mark - not Marco or Gianni, as I had been expecting.
The food was lovely: I had spaghetti with meatballs, but I was too nervous to eat.
A hour later, his meatballs were swinging in my face while I gently took his cock all the way down my throat. We had struggled to maintain a decent conversation throughout the meal, but he was so hot and I was unbelievably horny so sex was inevitable.
After we sucked each other off, I pawed his glistening six-pack and demanded that he fuck my brains out immediately - if not sooner.
It was then that I realised that I didn't have any condoms in the house; I had given my last one to Garv so that he could have a shag in the nearby park with some fifty year-old going through a midlife crisis.
Mark informed me that he didn't have any condoms either.
I have only once ever had unprotected sex - I was seventeen and foolish. I swore that I would never do it again; I just don't think it's responsible.
But I was so desperately gagging for it that forgoing the sex was simply not an option. I pulled Mark closer and asked him to fuck me anyway. He was more than happy to oblige; he promptly bent me over my bed and fucked me doggy-style. I knew that it was careless, but it was so damn hot. As I felt his hot spunk explode up inside my arsehole, it felt amazing.
After our bareback session, we cuddled on my bed. But after the intense climax of the hot sex, I was crushed by overwhelming guilt and I couldn't wait for him to leave. I felt like I had compromised my principles. I had betrayed myself.
Mark eventually left and promised to call. I could feel him inside me for hours after - literally. I had my first experience of what Garv tastefully called "throw-back."
I really do feel like a shameless, immoral slut now.
And not in a good way.
Finally, I had a message from Italian Stallion over the weekend. He suggested meeting up on Sunday; I presumed that he wanted to rendezvous for a quick shag, but to my surprise he wanted to go on a date. Somewhat predictably, he suggested going to an Italian restaurant. I had no plans for Sunday, so I gladly agreed to meet him.
We met at the restaurant and, thankfully, he was stunning in the flesh. He had flawless, bronzed skin and intriguing dark eyes. Contrary to his username, he spoke with a strong Welsh accent and his name was Mark - not Marco or Gianni, as I had been expecting.
The food was lovely: I had spaghetti with meatballs, but I was too nervous to eat.
A hour later, his meatballs were swinging in my face while I gently took his cock all the way down my throat. We had struggled to maintain a decent conversation throughout the meal, but he was so hot and I was unbelievably horny so sex was inevitable.
After we sucked each other off, I pawed his glistening six-pack and demanded that he fuck my brains out immediately - if not sooner.
It was then that I realised that I didn't have any condoms in the house; I had given my last one to Garv so that he could have a shag in the nearby park with some fifty year-old going through a midlife crisis.
Mark informed me that he didn't have any condoms either.
I have only once ever had unprotected sex - I was seventeen and foolish. I swore that I would never do it again; I just don't think it's responsible.
But I was so desperately gagging for it that forgoing the sex was simply not an option. I pulled Mark closer and asked him to fuck me anyway. He was more than happy to oblige; he promptly bent me over my bed and fucked me doggy-style. I knew that it was careless, but it was so damn hot. As I felt his hot spunk explode up inside my arsehole, it felt amazing.
After our bareback session, we cuddled on my bed. But after the intense climax of the hot sex, I was crushed by overwhelming guilt and I couldn't wait for him to leave. I felt like I had compromised my principles. I had betrayed myself.
Mark eventually left and promised to call. I could feel him inside me for hours after - literally. I had my first experience of what Garv tastefully called "throw-back."
I really do feel like a shameless, immoral slut now.
And not in a good way.
Friday, 14 September 2007
Halloween
Even though it's only September, a gay couple I know named James and James (yes, really) have announced that they are throwing a Halloween party this year. They are typically flamboyant and have plenty of single, slutty friends so naturally I can't wait.
I love Halloween; it's such a sexy occasion. It's the only time of year that you can rub shoulders with Elvis, Madonna and Marilyn Monroe without the aid of hallucinogenic drugs.
People tend to be so horny at Halloween. Hidden behind gory masks or caked in make-up, everyone seems to lose themselves in their alter-egos and shed their inhibitions. In fact, it's the most prolific date in my sexual calendar.
Over the years, I have been rimmed by Tutankhamen in the toilets of a club, been bent over in a dark alley by a pair of randy Oompa Loompas and had a blow-job from a filthy Mickey Mouse in the back of a taxi. The possibilities are endless. What other time of year could you hope to end your night in a phone-booth, ripping off Superman's clothes?
Needless to say, I intend to maximise my shagging potential this year. I plan to wear an irresistibly come-hither outfit that will hopefully end up crumpled on the floor of some stranger's bedroom.
I love Halloween; it's such a sexy occasion. It's the only time of year that you can rub shoulders with Elvis, Madonna and Marilyn Monroe without the aid of hallucinogenic drugs.
People tend to be so horny at Halloween. Hidden behind gory masks or caked in make-up, everyone seems to lose themselves in their alter-egos and shed their inhibitions. In fact, it's the most prolific date in my sexual calendar.
Over the years, I have been rimmed by Tutankhamen in the toilets of a club, been bent over in a dark alley by a pair of randy Oompa Loompas and had a blow-job from a filthy Mickey Mouse in the back of a taxi. The possibilities are endless. What other time of year could you hope to end your night in a phone-booth, ripping off Superman's clothes?
Needless to say, I intend to maximise my shagging potential this year. I plan to wear an irresistibly come-hither outfit that will hopefully end up crumpled on the floor of some stranger's bedroom.
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
A Quick Fondle
This afternoon in work, I made my first tentative steps towards shagging Paul, the young temp. It wasn't exactly hardcore sex, but we had a brief - yet tantalising encounter - in the office restroom.
I was feeling horny all morning. I don't necessarily advocate masturbating in the workplace - especially if you're a chef - but sometimes it's absolutely compulsory. By lunchtime, my hard-on was threatening to tear a hole in my trousers, so I had to do something about it.
As I limped awkwardly into the men's toilets, trying to conceal my straining bulge, I saw Paul washing his hands in the basin. Just as I was ogling his firm arse, he spoiled the moment by humming Kylie's "Better The Devil You Know" to himself. Honestly. He literally couldn't be more of a cliche if he tried.
Paul turned towards me and I straightened up to maximise his view of my erection. He looked at me with a strange look that I couldn't quite interpret...was it lust? Disgust? Disappointment?
But then he stepped closer and grabbed my crotch with both hands, fondling my hard cock. He leaned closer so that I could feel his bulge and then he slowly slipped his tongue in my mouth.
There was a cacophony of voices in the corridor and we both jerked away; I could feel myself blushing. Paul flashed me a sexy smile and sashayed out of the room, while I nipped into the nearest stall to finish off the job.
The situation looks extremely promising. Surely a nice, illicit fuck-fest is just around the corner?
I was feeling horny all morning. I don't necessarily advocate masturbating in the workplace - especially if you're a chef - but sometimes it's absolutely compulsory. By lunchtime, my hard-on was threatening to tear a hole in my trousers, so I had to do something about it.
As I limped awkwardly into the men's toilets, trying to conceal my straining bulge, I saw Paul washing his hands in the basin. Just as I was ogling his firm arse, he spoiled the moment by humming Kylie's "Better The Devil You Know" to himself. Honestly. He literally couldn't be more of a cliche if he tried.
Paul turned towards me and I straightened up to maximise his view of my erection. He looked at me with a strange look that I couldn't quite interpret...was it lust? Disgust? Disappointment?
But then he stepped closer and grabbed my crotch with both hands, fondling my hard cock. He leaned closer so that I could feel his bulge and then he slowly slipped his tongue in my mouth.
There was a cacophony of voices in the corridor and we both jerked away; I could feel myself blushing. Paul flashed me a sexy smile and sashayed out of the room, while I nipped into the nearest stall to finish off the job.
The situation looks extremely promising. Surely a nice, illicit fuck-fest is just around the corner?
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
A Potential Conquest
Cassie, my sleazy inspiration for this depraved mission, has been pressuring me to start ticking off my check-list. She has given me list of slutty challenges which I must complete in order to become a fully-fledged slut.
I have decided that my most likely challenge at the moment is 'Sleep with someone in the work-place.'
I've always thought that Paul - a temp in my office - was quite cute, yet he has queeny tendencies that I find slightly off-putting. His clothes are a little too tight, his mannerisms can be distinctly OTT when he's excited and he seems incapable of walking without affecting a sassy strut. Despite being just twenty-one, he recently married his forty-something boyfriend of six months, who left his wife of thirty years for him.
Nevertheless, I have decided that I am going to fuck Paul.
Correction: I am going to fuck Paul's brains out.
He has made it blatantly clear that he fancies me. The lingering looks, smutty innuendos and cheeky smiles have become less frequent since he tied the pink knot, but I know that he would jump into bed with me given half the chance.
I'm not being arrogant or presumptuous. He once actually left a note on my desk saying "I would jump into bed with you given half the chance."
Before the month is out, I am going to shag Paul. I haven't decided where yet. Possibly in the showers on the second floor, or more likely in the privacy of the basement. One way or another, I will be giving Paul more than half a chance.
But not quite yet; I can't even think about sex at the moment. My sleazy encounter with 'Rob_1980' is still taking its toll on my body - or, to be precise, on my arsehole. I loved having all nine inches of him inside me last night, but it still hurts to sit down.
I feel like I've been fisted by Edward Scissorhands.
I have decided that my most likely challenge at the moment is 'Sleep with someone in the work-place.'
I've always thought that Paul - a temp in my office - was quite cute, yet he has queeny tendencies that I find slightly off-putting. His clothes are a little too tight, his mannerisms can be distinctly OTT when he's excited and he seems incapable of walking without affecting a sassy strut. Despite being just twenty-one, he recently married his forty-something boyfriend of six months, who left his wife of thirty years for him.
Nevertheless, I have decided that I am going to fuck Paul.
Correction: I am going to fuck Paul's brains out.
He has made it blatantly clear that he fancies me. The lingering looks, smutty innuendos and cheeky smiles have become less frequent since he tied the pink knot, but I know that he would jump into bed with me given half the chance.
I'm not being arrogant or presumptuous. He once actually left a note on my desk saying "I would jump into bed with you given half the chance."
Before the month is out, I am going to shag Paul. I haven't decided where yet. Possibly in the showers on the second floor, or more likely in the privacy of the basement. One way or another, I will be giving Paul more than half a chance.
But not quite yet; I can't even think about sex at the moment. My sleazy encounter with 'Rob_1980' is still taking its toll on my body - or, to be precise, on my arsehole. I loved having all nine inches of him inside me last night, but it still hurts to sit down.
I feel like I've been fisted by Edward Scissorhands.
Monday, 10 September 2007
Finally... seedy, anonymous sex!
Finally, I have an authentic conquest to write about!
This evening, I sheepishly logged onto Gaydar in the hope that Italian Stallion had replied to my message. He seemed to be playing hard to get, however there was an inviting message from 'Rob_1980' who had attached a picture of himself, along with the words:
"Hey, sexy. U fancy a fuck?"
The prude in me was slightly offended by his abrupt approach, but when I viewed the photo of his tanned, handsome face I quickly changed my attitude.
"Hell, yeah," I responded. "You're sexy as fuck!" I sent him the now infamous "tipsy" picture of me on the beach in Greece.
To my surprise, he replied almost immediately:
"Mmmmmm, you're SO hot. Can you meet now? Gagging 4 it!"
My stomach started churning. I was gagging for it myself and I had the house to myself. Garv had gone to the cinema and he wouldn't be back for a couple of hours.
Less than thirty minutes later, I was lying on my bedroom floor with my legs looped over Rob's muscular shoulders, while he pushed his rock-hard cock inside me. He thrust himself deeply into me and fucked me aggressively for just over twenty minutes. It was the sexual equivalent of a Big Mac meal - fast, deeply satisfying and with a lingering sense of guilty delight.
After Rob came, he gave me an intense blow-job that resulted in Exorcist-style projectile ejaculation. It was amazing. The feeling of intense intimacy mixed with dangerous anonymity was mind-blowing.
Rob quickly dressed and mumbled "Goodbye" before quickly leaving. His hasty exit was uncannily reminiscent of someone evacuating a burning building, but I didn't care; it somehow made the experience seem deliciously seedy. For several minutes, I remained sprawled on my terracotta rug, shuddering and glistening with post-coital sweat.
I felt like a stinking slut. I felt utterly abused. I felt used and objectified, like a piece of meat.
I felt on top of the world!
I recovered in time to watch Britney's shambolic performance at the MTV awards in Vegas. I curled up on the sofa and relived my slutty encounter.
My legs were aching, I had carpet burns on my back, my balls were throbbing and my arsehole was raw, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so good.
This evening, I sheepishly logged onto Gaydar in the hope that Italian Stallion had replied to my message. He seemed to be playing hard to get, however there was an inviting message from 'Rob_1980' who had attached a picture of himself, along with the words:
"Hey, sexy. U fancy a fuck?"
The prude in me was slightly offended by his abrupt approach, but when I viewed the photo of his tanned, handsome face I quickly changed my attitude.
"Hell, yeah," I responded. "You're sexy as fuck!" I sent him the now infamous "tipsy" picture of me on the beach in Greece.
To my surprise, he replied almost immediately:
"Mmmmmm, you're SO hot. Can you meet now? Gagging 4 it!"
My stomach started churning. I was gagging for it myself and I had the house to myself. Garv had gone to the cinema and he wouldn't be back for a couple of hours.
Less than thirty minutes later, I was lying on my bedroom floor with my legs looped over Rob's muscular shoulders, while he pushed his rock-hard cock inside me. He thrust himself deeply into me and fucked me aggressively for just over twenty minutes. It was the sexual equivalent of a Big Mac meal - fast, deeply satisfying and with a lingering sense of guilty delight.
After Rob came, he gave me an intense blow-job that resulted in Exorcist-style projectile ejaculation. It was amazing. The feeling of intense intimacy mixed with dangerous anonymity was mind-blowing.
Rob quickly dressed and mumbled "Goodbye" before quickly leaving. His hasty exit was uncannily reminiscent of someone evacuating a burning building, but I didn't care; it somehow made the experience seem deliciously seedy. For several minutes, I remained sprawled on my terracotta rug, shuddering and glistening with post-coital sweat.
I felt like a stinking slut. I felt utterly abused. I felt used and objectified, like a piece of meat.
I felt on top of the world!
I recovered in time to watch Britney's shambolic performance at the MTV awards in Vegas. I curled up on the sofa and relived my slutty encounter.
My legs were aching, I had carpet burns on my back, my balls were throbbing and my arsehole was raw, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so good.
Gay Myths Exposed
Over lunch today, my promiscuous friend Cassie lamented her flagging sex-life. She had hit a regrettable dry-spell, meaning that she had gone without sex for over a week. For most people, that's quite normal. To Cassie, it's a crisis.
"I'm running out of eligible men," she whined, while toying with her vegetable lasagna. Ironically, despite being a ferocious man-eater, Cassie is a dedicated vegetarian. "I could just sleep with anyone if I really wanted to, but I refuse to compromise on quality."
"You shouldn't have to," I agreed.
"You are so lucky," Cassie said. "All of the best men are gay. They all dress so well, they're so handsome and they're the best dancers. It's not fair."
I raised an eyebrow and fixed her with my most frosty stare, which I normally reserve for wife-beaters or double-glazing salesmen.
"That's so not true," I said. "I wish."
As a gay man, I feel it is my responsibility to dispel some tragic misconceptions. Many people have a misguided view of the modern gay man, however most of these stereotypical myths are purely urban legends. Allow me to educate:
Gay Myth 1: GAY MEN ARE THE BEST DRESSERS
This one always makes me laugh. For some mysterious reason, one of the most common preconceptions is that all gay men are groomed, impeccably dressed style icons with wardrobes to die for. This could not be further from the truth. Go to any gay bar or club and you will see exactly what I mean. Are too-tight vests, denim hot pants and thick gold chains the height of male couture? Hardly. And, despite the expectation that most gay men are born hairdressers, most gay clubs are where bad haircuts go to die. Look around and you will see scary skinheads, greasy bouffants and yellow highlights aplenty. It's not a pretty sight.
Gay Myth 2: GAY MEN ARE FANTASTIC DANCERS
Again, you need go no further than your nearest gay-friendly drinking establishment to see the cold, hard truth behind this rumour. The preferred dance-routine of most gay men is a bizarre sequence of moves that comprises half-diva, half-porn star. They will sashay seductively around the dancefloor, while pouting and flicking their non-existent hair extensions; they channel Britney or Kylie while they thrust their hips to the beat - a result of over-exposure to MTV and, more often than not, Class A drugs. Tragically, most gay men are so bad at dancing that they make Stephen Hawkin look like Justin Timberlake.
Gay Myth 3: ALL GAY MEN ARE OBSESSED WITH KYLIE
Errrm.... actually, there is a lot of truth in this one.
Gay Myth 4: ALL OF THE BEST LOOKING MEN ARE GAY
In my experience, this is not the case; if anything, I find the opposite to be true - but I suppose we always want what we can't have. If something is unattainable, it immediately becomes more desirable. By that rule, whenever I find myself attracted to a man, I take it to mean that he must be straight. And 99% of the time I'm right.
I hope that this makes things a bit clearer.
Oh, and just in case you were wondering, I haven't had a reply from Italian Stallion yet...
"I'm running out of eligible men," she whined, while toying with her vegetable lasagna. Ironically, despite being a ferocious man-eater, Cassie is a dedicated vegetarian. "I could just sleep with anyone if I really wanted to, but I refuse to compromise on quality."
"You shouldn't have to," I agreed.
"You are so lucky," Cassie said. "All of the best men are gay. They all dress so well, they're so handsome and they're the best dancers. It's not fair."
I raised an eyebrow and fixed her with my most frosty stare, which I normally reserve for wife-beaters or double-glazing salesmen.
"That's so not true," I said. "I wish."
As a gay man, I feel it is my responsibility to dispel some tragic misconceptions. Many people have a misguided view of the modern gay man, however most of these stereotypical myths are purely urban legends. Allow me to educate:
Gay Myth 1: GAY MEN ARE THE BEST DRESSERS
This one always makes me laugh. For some mysterious reason, one of the most common preconceptions is that all gay men are groomed, impeccably dressed style icons with wardrobes to die for. This could not be further from the truth. Go to any gay bar or club and you will see exactly what I mean. Are too-tight vests, denim hot pants and thick gold chains the height of male couture? Hardly. And, despite the expectation that most gay men are born hairdressers, most gay clubs are where bad haircuts go to die. Look around and you will see scary skinheads, greasy bouffants and yellow highlights aplenty. It's not a pretty sight.
Gay Myth 2: GAY MEN ARE FANTASTIC DANCERS
Again, you need go no further than your nearest gay-friendly drinking establishment to see the cold, hard truth behind this rumour. The preferred dance-routine of most gay men is a bizarre sequence of moves that comprises half-diva, half-porn star. They will sashay seductively around the dancefloor, while pouting and flicking their non-existent hair extensions; they channel Britney or Kylie while they thrust their hips to the beat - a result of over-exposure to MTV and, more often than not, Class A drugs. Tragically, most gay men are so bad at dancing that they make Stephen Hawkin look like Justin Timberlake.
Gay Myth 3: ALL GAY MEN ARE OBSESSED WITH KYLIE
Errrm.... actually, there is a lot of truth in this one.
Gay Myth 4: ALL OF THE BEST LOOKING MEN ARE GAY
In my experience, this is not the case; if anything, I find the opposite to be true - but I suppose we always want what we can't have. If something is unattainable, it immediately becomes more desirable. By that rule, whenever I find myself attracted to a man, I take it to mean that he must be straight. And 99% of the time I'm right.
I hope that this makes things a bit clearer.
Oh, and just in case you were wondering, I haven't had a reply from Italian Stallion yet...
Sunday, 9 September 2007
Return of the Stallion
Today, I tentatively returned to Gaydar. I tried to convince myself that I was nonchalantly browsing, but I was secretly hoping that Italian Stallion had responded to my message.
As I logged on, I was instantly greeted by the machine-gun alert notifying me that I had received a private message.
I'm ashamed to say that I eagerly attacked my laptop with over-zealous fingers. I clicked my mouse on the '1 Message Received' icon so aggressively that the button almost flew off.
Desperate, moi?
My heart was pounding as the message slowly materialised on the screen. I was thrilled to see that the message was from the Stallion himself.
"Hey sexy," he had written. "Love your photo, you're HOT! You look a bit tipsy tho, lol! Love to meet u in the flesh... ;-)"
I was slightly crestfallen by the "tipsy" remark. It's true; I was steaming drunk when the pic was taken, however I was hoping that my squiffy smile and glazed eyes would be mistaken for relaxed, sexy poise. No such luck.
Nevertheless, I was revelling in the compliment. Hot, eh? I would have preferred 'devastatingly handsome' but I suppose 'hot' would suffice.
I realised that he had attached a picture to the message and I clicked on it to reveal a youthful, handsome face. He ticked all the necessary boxes of the Italian stereotype: Black hair, olive skin, dark eyes. He was just my type.
I immediately replied:
"Thanx. Would def like to meet up 4 some fun. Ciao."
The "ciao" was supposed to be a cute reference to his Italian origins, but I hoped that it didn't seem patronising. I didn't want him to think that I was taking the piss.
With trembling fingers, I logged off. I kept the image of the Stallion's bronzed, firm six-pack and sexy Mediterranean smile in my head as I legged it to the bathroom for a quick wank.
As I logged on, I was instantly greeted by the machine-gun alert notifying me that I had received a private message.
I'm ashamed to say that I eagerly attacked my laptop with over-zealous fingers. I clicked my mouse on the '1 Message Received' icon so aggressively that the button almost flew off.
Desperate, moi?
My heart was pounding as the message slowly materialised on the screen. I was thrilled to see that the message was from the Stallion himself.
"Hey sexy," he had written. "Love your photo, you're HOT! You look a bit tipsy tho, lol! Love to meet u in the flesh... ;-)"
I was slightly crestfallen by the "tipsy" remark. It's true; I was steaming drunk when the pic was taken, however I was hoping that my squiffy smile and glazed eyes would be mistaken for relaxed, sexy poise. No such luck.
Nevertheless, I was revelling in the compliment. Hot, eh? I would have preferred 'devastatingly handsome' but I suppose 'hot' would suffice.
I realised that he had attached a picture to the message and I clicked on it to reveal a youthful, handsome face. He ticked all the necessary boxes of the Italian stereotype: Black hair, olive skin, dark eyes. He was just my type.
I immediately replied:
"Thanx. Would def like to meet up 4 some fun. Ciao."
The "ciao" was supposed to be a cute reference to his Italian origins, but I hoped that it didn't seem patronising. I didn't want him to think that I was taking the piss.
With trembling fingers, I logged off. I kept the image of the Stallion's bronzed, firm six-pack and sexy Mediterranean smile in my head as I legged it to the bathroom for a quick wank.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Casanova? I think not
Question: why is it that, no matter how many handsome, sexy gay men you sleep with, it is only when you have bedded a straight guy - no matter how much of a complete loser he is - that you can truly be considered a bona fide stud?
My housemate Garv - who rates sleeping with married men as one of his favourite hobbies - regularly meets up with rotund, balding men in their fifties to have clandestine quickies in the back of his Smart car. He - rather smugly, I may add - considers himself a legitimate Lothario and has often turned his nose up at the slim, young men that I've dated in the past.
Without meaning to sound arrogant, I have dated my fair share of hotties over the years, yet Garv often regards my sex life with a distinct sense of superiority. His "magic number" is almost treble mine, therefore he regards himself as the house Romeo, without the merest trace of irony. Despite my frigid shackles (from which I am attempting to break free) my own magic number is (just) in double figures, yet Garv has affectionately - I think - nicknamed me "The Virgin."
So, what I'm wondering is this: when it comes to being an authentic Casanova, is is quality or quantity that really matters?
My housemate Garv - who rates sleeping with married men as one of his favourite hobbies - regularly meets up with rotund, balding men in their fifties to have clandestine quickies in the back of his Smart car. He - rather smugly, I may add - considers himself a legitimate Lothario and has often turned his nose up at the slim, young men that I've dated in the past.
Without meaning to sound arrogant, I have dated my fair share of hotties over the years, yet Garv often regards my sex life with a distinct sense of superiority. His "magic number" is almost treble mine, therefore he regards himself as the house Romeo, without the merest trace of irony. Despite my frigid shackles (from which I am attempting to break free) my own magic number is (just) in double figures, yet Garv has affectionately - I think - nicknamed me "The Virgin."
So, what I'm wondering is this: when it comes to being an authentic Casanova, is is quality or quantity that really matters?
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Sexy? No, no, no!
On Saturday night, I got dragged out by my eccentric friend, Trish - by "dragged", I mean that she called me up and said: "Coming out tonight?" and I responded with "Nah, I'm not really in the mood." She said: "Oh, come on, I'll come over with a bottle of wine and we'll get pissed before we go out," to which I begrudgingly replied: "Oh, go on then. I'll start slapping my fake tan on!"
Honestly, she didn't give me much of a choice!
Over our first (of several) bottles of Pino G, I confided that I was determined to become a slag. She gave me a lingering, patronising look.
"Oh, Josh," she said. "You could never be a slapper. You're too nice."
She raised a manicured hand to affectionately ruffle my hair, but prudently thought better of it. She was well aware that a handful of hair-gel, twenty minutes with the hair-straighteners, a smidgen of putty and half a can of hairspray had gone into creating my casual, couldn't-care-less hair style. Every seemingly random strand of hair had been meticulously positioned and accounted for and every eventuality had been considered, from the slightest drizzle of rain to the fiercest hurricane. Nothing short of an apocalypse could compromise my rock-hard barnet.
Eventually, we staggered into town and, over a few more bottles of vinegary wine, I reiterated my sleazy mission. Trish thought that it was hysterical.
"I'm sorry," she guffawed. "I just can't imagine you as a man-slag!"
I attempted to act affronted, but hearing her utter the word "man-slag" in her characteristic girly-voice caused me to start laughing myself.
"I'm serious," I insisted.
Trish brandished her blood-red nails and wiped her short blonde hair away from her face. "Please don't be a slag," she said pityingly. "It just won't suit you. You're handsome, sexy, stylish and funny. You don't need to do it."
I was going to suggest going to a club so that I could embark on my slutty endeavours. I had donned my sexiest shirt and slipped on a brand-new pair of baby-blue Calvin Kleins especially for the occasion, but the wine had rendered my legs wobbly and unreliable; I shuddered to think what other parts of my anatomy had been similarly affected.
"New underwear?" Trish said, when I told her about my pulling outfit. "I thought only girls wore special underwear to impress blokes?"
I shook my head gravely. Underwear, I informed her, was crucial to my confidence and I had several favourites to help get me into my best seductive frame of mind.
For a first date, I always wear a crisp, white pair of CKs - I never have any intention of letting them be seen, but just knowing that I'm wearing them somehow makes me feel sexier. Despite my distinct lack of pecs or a six-pack, as soon as I slip into them I somehow manage to convince myself that I've got a body to rival Marky Mark.
For a second or third date, I've got my trusty Diesel briefs - in white, grey or black, depending on my mood. For a night out on the town, I've got my grey-and-red striped Topman boxers which are a size too small but always make me feel sexy. And when I definitely know I'm going to pull, I always wear my hot-pink g-string with "Sex-Bomb" inscribed on the crotch in silver glitter.
That was a joke.
Eventually, Trish and I tottered home. While she staggered into the spare room, I fell up the stairs and collapsed on my dishevelled bed. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror and told myself that Trish was right. "I am handsome and sexy," I slurred to myself.
I could feel the wine forcing itself back up my throat. I knew that I should try to make it to the bathroom, but I was too dizzy to stand up; I was helpless as a trickle of vomit cascaded down my chin.
Undeterred, I refused to let this minor setback affect my confidence.
"Handsome and sexy," I repeated to myself, slightly unconvincingly. And then I passed out.
Honestly, she didn't give me much of a choice!
Over our first (of several) bottles of Pino G, I confided that I was determined to become a slag. She gave me a lingering, patronising look.
"Oh, Josh," she said. "You could never be a slapper. You're too nice."
She raised a manicured hand to affectionately ruffle my hair, but prudently thought better of it. She was well aware that a handful of hair-gel, twenty minutes with the hair-straighteners, a smidgen of putty and half a can of hairspray had gone into creating my casual, couldn't-care-less hair style. Every seemingly random strand of hair had been meticulously positioned and accounted for and every eventuality had been considered, from the slightest drizzle of rain to the fiercest hurricane. Nothing short of an apocalypse could compromise my rock-hard barnet.
Eventually, we staggered into town and, over a few more bottles of vinegary wine, I reiterated my sleazy mission. Trish thought that it was hysterical.
"I'm sorry," she guffawed. "I just can't imagine you as a man-slag!"
I attempted to act affronted, but hearing her utter the word "man-slag" in her characteristic girly-voice caused me to start laughing myself.
"I'm serious," I insisted.
Trish brandished her blood-red nails and wiped her short blonde hair away from her face. "Please don't be a slag," she said pityingly. "It just won't suit you. You're handsome, sexy, stylish and funny. You don't need to do it."
I was going to suggest going to a club so that I could embark on my slutty endeavours. I had donned my sexiest shirt and slipped on a brand-new pair of baby-blue Calvin Kleins especially for the occasion, but the wine had rendered my legs wobbly and unreliable; I shuddered to think what other parts of my anatomy had been similarly affected.
"New underwear?" Trish said, when I told her about my pulling outfit. "I thought only girls wore special underwear to impress blokes?"
I shook my head gravely. Underwear, I informed her, was crucial to my confidence and I had several favourites to help get me into my best seductive frame of mind.
For a first date, I always wear a crisp, white pair of CKs - I never have any intention of letting them be seen, but just knowing that I'm wearing them somehow makes me feel sexier. Despite my distinct lack of pecs or a six-pack, as soon as I slip into them I somehow manage to convince myself that I've got a body to rival Marky Mark.
For a second or third date, I've got my trusty Diesel briefs - in white, grey or black, depending on my mood. For a night out on the town, I've got my grey-and-red striped Topman boxers which are a size too small but always make me feel sexy. And when I definitely know I'm going to pull, I always wear my hot-pink g-string with "Sex-Bomb" inscribed on the crotch in silver glitter.
That was a joke.
Eventually, Trish and I tottered home. While she staggered into the spare room, I fell up the stairs and collapsed on my dishevelled bed. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror and told myself that Trish was right. "I am handsome and sexy," I slurred to myself.
I could feel the wine forcing itself back up my throat. I knew that I should try to make it to the bathroom, but I was too dizzy to stand up; I was helpless as a trickle of vomit cascaded down my chin.
Undeterred, I refused to let this minor setback affect my confidence.
"Handsome and sexy," I repeated to myself, slightly unconvincingly. And then I passed out.
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