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...
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