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.
Friday, 14 September 2007
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?
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