Sunday, 26 December 2010


My friends always seem to end up with toxic guys who only leave them in a state. I try to tell them, but it’s like throwing snowballs in a blizzard at the North Pole. There many ways to distinguish a toxic man, so take heed.

1.If he’s ten years older than you, he probably thinks of you as ten years younger. Which means he either sees you as immature and childish, so you should dump him before he dumps you, or he sees you as some easy-to-manipulate boy cock he fuck at whim and abuse as he pleases. Grab a whip and show him who’s boss.

2.If you love him but he doesn’t love you, then that’s a clear sign you should get a grip. If he, despite knowing how you feel, still offers to shag you, slit the smug bastard’s throat and steal his Gucci loafers to sell on eBay. He’s clearly using you for his own perverse amusement and has total disregard for how you feel.

3.If he gives you an STD six months after you both checked out clean, he’s obviously cheating. Put a needle under your tongue right before you go to give him his next blowjob. You get top points if you can slide it down his urethra before he notices.

4.If he spends all his time with his ex-boyfriend but ignores you, even on Valentine’s Day, then chances are he’s boning the ex. Especially if you don’t have sex anymore, you have to call him first and he plans weekends away with the scabby queen he used to go out with.

5.Similar to above, if he always talks about his exes and tells you he loves you after a fortnight, he’s probably a desperate serial monogamist willing to jump headfirst into any doomed relationship he can get his hands on. Pity the poor suckers who end up with his rapid cycling bi-polar and self-harming mood-swings for more than a month.

6.If he makes you clean up his piss from the white carpets after a tragically messy night out, or if he makes you pay his bills and have sex on demand, whilst giving you nothing in return except the clap, he likely sees you as a maid/parent/slave and not the equal you (maybe) deserve to be. Then again, if you agree to do it you deserve everything you get.

With that in mind, it’s always worth a carrying a switchblade in your Vivienne Westwood pirate boots (which are almost as out of fashion now as that neck-scarf thing), just so you can fend of the clamouring masses of toxic boyfriends, who roam the clubs like zombies wanting to leech you of any fabulousness you may possess. As soon as they display any of the above symptoms, aim for the head and then get out of there ASAP. Whatever you do, don’t whinge to your mates, in case they decide to stab you instead.

Ignore these words of wisdom at your own peril.

Sunday, 19 December 2010


Katie Price and Peter Andre, if you´ve been living under a rock and
somehow haven´t heard, are no longer together. Forget their recent
appearances on Graham Norton and Paul O´Grady; forget their marathon
dash. Forget every word you´ve read in any of Katie´s ghostwritten
autobiographies. It´s all apparently rubbish. But let´s face it, who
ever bought it anyway? I wouldn´t be surprised if they switched again
and renewed their wedding vows for a glossy magazine before we even go
to print.

Goodbye ageing obscurity and Hello! magazine.

Peter wants to sing again, but has he asked any of us what we think?
Let´s hope he doesn´t. And will Katie resurrect Jordan? I can see the
wrinkles now. He: parading around across MTV and T4 with his leathery
man-boobs out, grinding to a mysterious (and invisible) girl. She:
baps out, down to her ankles, stretch-marked and leaking milk all over
page three. What a pair of tits!

Maybe I´m cynical (by now you know I am) but doesn´t this just seem
like yet another ploy to get on the front page? Now they get to sell
stories about how bad the other was in bed, who took up the bed
covers, who cheated on who. There will be the custody battle, the
McCartney-style fight for material gain, thew concerned Mitch
Winehouse-type parents, the disturbed children, the public rows, the
general public disapproval, then maybe a reconciliation in time for

Well Max Clifford might find the media circus amusing, but i fancy
setting the elephants loose and dropping the tent on all concerned.
i´m tired of the relentless freakshow. With all her thick make-up she
looks like a Tia-Anna rip off (if you caught the drag queen on
Britain´s Got Talent). Then again, it does seem like a good lesson in
how to cash in during the credit crunch. Maybe MPs will be doing it
next to repay their fraudulent expenses claims.

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 12 December 2010


[Originally published May 10 in Bent:]

Katie Price and Peter Andre, if you´ve been living under a rock and
somehow haven´t heard, are no longer together. Forget their recent
appearances on Graham Norton and Paul O´Grady; forget their marathon
dash. Forget every word you´ve read in any of Katie´s ghostwritten
autobiographies. It´s all apparently rubbish. But let´s face it, who
ever bought it anyway? I wouldn´t be surprised if they switched again
and renewed their wedding vows for a glossy magazine before we even go
to print.

Goodbye ageing obscurity and Hello! magazine.

Peter wants to sing again, but has he asked any of us what we think?
Let´s hope he doesn´t. And will Katie resurrect Jordan? I can see the
wrinkles now. He: parading around across MTV and T4 with his leathery
man-boobs out, grinding to a mysterious (and invisible) girl. She:
baps out, down to her ankles, stretch-marked and leaking milk all over
page three. What a pair of tits!

Maybe I´m cynical (by now you know I am) but doesn´t this just seem
like yet another ploy to get on the front page? Now they get to sell
stories about how bad the other was in bed, who took up the bed
covers, who cheated on who. There will be the custody battle, the
McCartney-style fight for material gain, thew concerned Mitch
Winehouse-type parents, the disturbed children, the public rows, the
general public disapproval, then maybe a reconciliation in time for

Well Max Clifford might find the media circus amusing, but i fancy
setting the elephants loose and dropping the tent on all concerned.
i´m tired of the relentless freakshow. With all her thick make-up she
looks like a Tia-Anna rip off (if you caught the drag queen on
Britain´s Got Talent). Then again, it does seem like a good lesson in
how to cash in during the credit crunch. Maybe MPs will be doing it
next to repay their fraudulent expenses claims.

Sunday, 5 December 2010


[Originally published in Bent:]

It's no secret that language is adapting. Already we have the internet contracting conversations to streams of capital letters and symbols denoting emoticons. But we find it's not quite adapting fast enough. Here at Bent Towers we have a range of emotions and sentiments we'd love to see expressed in more economical terms. So in order to aid the evolution of the English language (and bitch in a more timely fashion), here are our favourite new anagrams.

LOML – Lets out maniacal laughter. For those moments when you laugh like an absolute maniac.

WLC – Wanks like crazy.

LWEG – Laughs with evil glee. For all those Dr Evil moments.

FUA – Flirts unabashedly. For those times you're being an absolute tease.

CS – Cybersex. As in 'Fancy some quick CS?'

CSA – Cybersex addict. Not the now-defunct Child Support Agency.

PW – Phone wank. As in 'Fancy a quick PW?'

ALS – Annoying lesbo sycophant.

AFHS – Annoying faghag sycophant.

HBS – Hot bush sex. I.e., cruising on the heath.

GVBS – Gives virtual bitch-slap. For when cocky little princesses diss your outfit.

SYBH – Slaps you back to Hell.

FOD – Friend(s) of Dorothy. It just saves typing it all out, really.

LGB – Local gay bar.

DDGB – Dirty dark gay bar. The places bears go.

IMNSHO – In my not-so-humble opinion. We already have IMO and IMHO, so why not get cocky about it?

B/T/FOSB – Blogging/tweating/Facebooking out of sheer boredom. We all do it.

RLQ/VLQ – Rancid little queen/vile little queen. This could be anyone.

NAS – Non-anal sex. For the vanilla types.

FOAS – Full-on anal sex.

DBDL – Dirty backdoor lovin'!

DDQ – Dangerous drag queen. Makes sense really.

DIM – Diva-in-making. Should probably be used disparagingly.

CFCG/CFCF – Cruising for cock on Gaydar/Fitlads.

MH(H)G – Minces (her) hips gaily.

BUFS – Butches up for the show. You know, when you butch up to fit in with your hetero mates, or when you do it to attract a scally.

PLDB – Prissy little diva bitch. You know the type. They're four years younger than you and think they rule the scene. Then they get drunk and cry because you call them a PLDB, which only justifies the insult.

BITCH – Beyonce is the coolest homo. And you know it!

Sunday, 28 November 2010


[Originally published in July 2009 issue of Bent:]

So it's here again. Big Brother 302. Or something like that. This year we have the usual smattering of homos, ethnics and fruitbats allegedly representative of the UK. No, actually, even Big Brother doesn't claim its contestants to be anything but the scum sieved off the local public swimming bath. But luckily, this year the contestants don't seem quite as vile and two-dimensional as last year. I even have the fortune of saying I met two of the contestants.

Yes, Rodrigo Lopez is a friend of mine from the Leeds gay scene, where he was often spotted in Queens Court and Mission, until he mysteriously vanished. Now, of course, we know he went into the BB house and had his Facebook profile deleted by mandate of the games rules.

Rodrigo was actually the last person from Leeds I'd have expected to see on BB. He's always been a laugh with his friends and quite a confident, bubbly person, but next to many of the bigger personalities on the scene he's positively . . . shy. He's well-behaved (for the most part), and doesn't even slag it about. Why he chose to enter the programme is a mystery to us all—but we hope he wins.

Charlie, on the other hand, I can understand. He too has been out in Leeds a few times, but I also met him when I was judging Mr Gay UK in 2007. He was Newcastle's heat winner and lost out to the lush Daniel Broughton. I remember the event well, with Andy Scott Lee, Michelle Heaton, James Sutton and The Sheilas all on hand to make it a successful night of oiled nipples and sock-stuffed swimwear.

Charlie was outgoing even then. You could tell he had bags of personality. He was good looking and he knew it, but he was no more arrogant than your average gay man. Indeed, it's no surprise to me at all that so many gay men enter the competition. So concerned with their image and their popularity, entering Big Brother seems almost a prerequisite to joining the club.

Charlie's sexy and feisty, flirty and cool; Rodrigo's handsome and cute, modest and fun. They couldn't be more different. And already our Rodrigo's firm favourite to win (at the time of writing, at least, so he could be out by the time you read this). Well I hate the show and doubt I'll be watching, but I'll dip in every now and again to see how he's doing. Maybe I'll even turn up at one of those godawful Big Brother's Big Mouth shows and worm my way into the audience with a band of scantily clad go-go boys and a drag queen or two. Then we can stand by the sidelines waving inappropriate placards and ignoring Davina when she asks us not to say fuck or bastard.

Maybe if I make enough of a scene they'll ask me to take part next year. No one quite makes a scene like Beyonce. I wouldn't accept their offer, of course, but it'd nice to be asked. Or maybe not.

Sunday, 21 November 2010


[Originally published in Bent:]

Straight boys are always good in theory. But in practice, they can be so disappointing it'd be better to sleep with a waxwork Anne Widecombe for all the fun it'd give you. I learned this the hard way.

A couple of months back I was out with some friends in a straight club. As it got later and later and later, people peeled off from the group to go home, have sex or collapse in a roypnolled mess in the corner, leaving me and my best mate Amy on our own. We went to Club Mission together and this strange, although rather hot, guy came and sat with us. Since it was a gay night, I assumed he was trying to chat her up though. Inevitably, she went off to screw her drug dealer and I was left with him. When I decided to leave he asked if he could join me, and I said yes.

An hour later, my cum all over his chest, I rolled over and went to bed. It was hardly worth it. He didn't have a clue how to blow a guy and had even less of a clue about how to take it. Contrary to popular belief, a guy shouldn't just lie there and think of England.

Then a week or so ago, Amy went out and pulled a guy. He was a bit of a chav but fit. His friend, however, was even hotter, and soon revealed to Amy that he was gay but not yet out. She brought him back to mine as a 'present' and I proceeded to fuck him. Again, it was a bit of a waste of time. He didn't have a clue and I ended up pleasuring myself to get off.

But it got worse. My friend Paul was at the house too and was meant to be staying over. Once we'd cleaned up the mess and the coast we clear, we invited him in to get into bed. Platonically speaking, I wanted him to be comfortable. That was all. But the closet-case had another idea. Instead he spent all night trying to coax the both of us into a threesome and then, every time I went to the toilet, tried to blow Paul off. Paul had a boyfriend so wasn't interested, and I found the whole thing rather cringe-worthy. True, our closeted friend had probably never met a gay man before—at least, not two as hot as us—but was it really necessary to be so persistent? He slipped his hands down Paul's pants on a number of occasions, and I had to physically stop him molesting the poor boy whilst he was asleep. Luckily, Paul was creating a barrier between the closet-case and myself.

The next day was even worse. He wanted my number. He wanted to see me again. I simply said no. Then Paul was kind enough to give him a lift home, and the closet-case tried luring him in for sex. Paul said no and floored the accelerator, left with memories of the closeteer saying how much he'd love to be his boyfriend.

Since then, we've been verifiably stalked. Oh, it's fun to have a few stalkers every now and again, but this one keeps scaring off the boys approaching my house and it's having a serious impact on my sexlife.

So it seems 'straight' men leave something to be desired. A knowledge of the male anatomy, surprisingly, is one. A sense of restraint and decorum is, perhaps, another.

Sunday, 14 November 2010


Okay. This is the curse of the gobby, opinionated columnist. Occasionally (perhaps frequently) we put our feet in it. This is perhaps why we're perfect as columnists. We don't mind saying whatever we want to say. But unfortunately, it will ultimately be our downfall.

Gossips like me can't help but gossip. It's not necessarily about malice (although, when people get angry, we all say things we shouldn't). It's usually because it's expected of you. The columnist is a gossip with the privilege of getting their words in print. When you're out and about, people expect you to regale them with interesting stories, shocking statements and outlandish acts. So you do. Society probably needs it, because without these morsels of salacious interest life would be a hell of a lot more boring. If we can't show people how outrageous and morally dubious we are, how can your Average Joe measure himself against us? How can everyone else know they're not that bad if they don't allow us to be bad instead?

Indeed, there does seem to be a recognition of this. Gossips seem to get away with gossiping, because most people just roll their eyes and say, 'Beyonce's at it again!'. It's kind of our licence to thrill. And in a way, they want us to be naughty. They want us to be bad. It reminds people that even though they abide all the rules and act with perhaps too much obedience, they do have the option of rebelling against social etiquette and being an iconoclast—simply because we gossips do.

However sometimes we cross the mark. It can be easier than you'd think. Especially because we're expected to be controversial anyway and each individual has differing levels of acceptability when it comes to just how controversial they want us to be. Some friends will forgive you for headbutting them during drunken New Year's Eve parties, whilst some will get frosty with you for tugging on their hair. I guess in these cases you have to ride it out. Gossips do get a lot of leeway, and often people will take a while to cool down before coming round anyway, and chalking it up to 'one of those things'.

I'd say, though, that rather than being nasty people, most gossips are the opposite. They are overly social. They flit from crowd to crowd, entertaining as they go along, and usually cock up mainly because they're trying to please too many people at once. Tip: you can't. If you piss someone off, let them cool down and get on with their own lives, and don't stoop to getting petty. After a while they'll realise you have no problem with them and it was just an innocent mistake, and then will feel guilty for holding a grudge themselves, before relenting.

Sunday, 7 November 2010


[Originally published in Nov 2009 issue of Bent:]

I saw a Facebook group calling for people to boycott The Sun. I didn't really bother to look at it, because I didn't realise people still read that thing. But apparently, they do. And what a bastion of impartiality it is, taking a glance at their website! Hype, sleaze, celebrity trainwrecks, immigrant-baiting. You know, the sort of thing you get on the Fitlads forums, but just presented in a much less funny, more sinister way.

Looking over the tabloid press' interests this month, in fact, I've noticed a few things that have pissed me off. First, the obsession with Stephen Gately's death. Sure, he died after drinking for eight hours, but that's the equivalent of going out at 8pm and getting back at 4am. Call me an extreme example (and I am), but I've had 33-hour drinking binges before. Eight hours seems . . . pretty average to me. So to hype it up as if he leads a life of sleaze is just to scandalise a very normal, very down-to-earth bloke. And so what, he and his boyfriend took a friend back to their place? Big deal! Gay men can have platonic relationships. Besides, when 'binge'-drinking, who wants to do it on their own?

Then I ran into my friend Rodrigo from Big Brother. I remember the trashy celeb-gossip magazines messaging Rodrigo's friends on Facebook and offering them money for stories. Unfortunately, they'd already decided what story they wanted to print and were just looking for someone to attribute the made-up quotes to. In the end, they failed, and instead blamed the claims of Rodrigo's alleged family heartache on 'a university friend'. That's press speak for 'someone we made up to tell a good story'. Rodrigo didn't mind about this, but explained people reading the magazines still can't tell when something is patently made up, and then accost him and hurl abuse as if the stories were true. Yet when it came to asking the press if they wanted innocent photographs of his birthday bash (which I helped him organise at Oracle in Leeds), they weren't interested unless they unveiled some salacious gossip they could print on their front pages. Unfortunately, guys, with Rodrigo what you see is what you get. You're unlikely to get anything juicy about him, because he is a genuinely nice guy.

True, writers have creative licence. But surely only if they're writing fiction? Columns and opinion pieces are different. People expect them to be ridiculously outrageous. However, you don't expect cover stories and supposed 'real-life' tales to be made up. Most people, I think, are capable of spotting the difference, but it always surprises me the number who can't.

Just for the record: when the papers start saying Drew Barrymore has been caught dogging with Martians in a pink Skoda off the Isle of White, they're probably pulling your tail. If more people looked at what they read with a little scepticism (feel free to question this all you want; I encourage it), then we might end up with people actually voting in elections, forming educated opinions and realising reality TV stars are not your property to abuse as you see fit. Just for the record, you understand. Just for the record.

Sunday, 31 October 2010


[Originally published in Dec 2009 issue of Bent:]

There's nothing like living with someone to test a friendship. The person you thought was an innocent-as-pie virgin is revealed to be a hairy, hippy hooker who believes free love comes with small print and a price tag. Some friendships are made stronger, others disintegrate. Some you discover profound connections with; others you learn were best kept as acquaintances you exchanged 'You alright?'/'Yeah, you?' exchanges with in dry-iced nightclubs. And the length of friendship is hardly an indicator either. Some people you barely know can become your biggest confidantes, whilst those you've known for years end up running away from you in their underwear, in the rain, swearing to never set foot through your door again.

It helps if you don't live in a crack den. Luckily, I have a crowbar for removing the crackheads on a weekly basis (they tend to build up around the cracks in the bathroom, for some reason). Crackheads can be rather filthy and often leave their rooms a mess, so you have to make sure to rotate the crops at least every other month.

Living alone has its problems too. You can be lonely, insular, inert. You can spend way too much time on gay dating websites and constantly hitting 'refresh' on Facebook. There's no one to tell you what to do and shame you into the right thing. In fact, it might almost be paradise but for the fact you can't have a party on your own.

Living with family can often be worse than living with friends, because although you're less likely to fall out forever and you've years of experience dealing with each other's foibles, you also know how to hurt each other most. Sisters can complain about the time you smeared their cot in shit as a baby (it only happened the twice!); cousins bitch about you stealing their lunch money; mothers complain that despite two morning after pills and three abortions, you just wouldn't flush . . .

Boyfriends often work well together, so long as they have time apart. But if they see each other for more than two hours a week, there's that awful habit couples have of arguing. About everything. Should we watch X-Factor or South Park? Should we put the lavender bedding on or the violet? Is there a real difference between the lavender and the violet, anyway? Should we have a threesome? Who's that man you've been texting? Why do I not believe you? Why is he sat on your face?

I think it was Sartre who said hell is being stuck in a room with all your mates. But then, I doubt Sartre had ecstasy to lubricate his late-night social interactions. Maybe that's the magical ingredient for healthy cohabitation. Although, I'm not recommending spiking your housemate's Cheerios with methadrone just to keep your friendships together. I'm just recommending that you change friends as often as your underwear. That way, you won't have time to fall out.

Sunday, 24 October 2010


It's a been a funny few months for gay folk. We've had a rugby player come out as gay. We've had a tabloid columnist effectively say Stephen Gately's homosexuality killed him (as though his cock leapt to his throat and throttled him). We've had proposals tabled in the House of Lords to allow gay couples to marry in churches, synagogues and mosques. But there's also been an increase in the number of reported hate crimes against gay men (either more gay people are reporting the crimes or the number of people being attacked, abused and discriminated against is increasing). A man was found with over 50 nail bombs in his house after being inspired by the Soho Bomber. And straight people are taking over local gay clubs to point fun at the trendy gays.

We're at a crisis point in relations between the gay and straight worlds. Either we'll gain further support (Jan Moir caused such a backlash in favour of civil partnerships and the gay lifestyle) or the lunatic fringe will become more militant and decide to blow us up when they've had a few too many Aftershocks down at the local 'poof pub'.

Hopefully it'll be the first option and not the latter. However, the end of 2009 and the beginning of 2010 does seem to be a key point in gay history, for better or worse. What's even more shocking is that maybe I'll have a date for Valentine's Day this year. Unfortunately, it's not Iris Robinson's boy-toy 21 year-old. But if Attitude get their way, he may appear on the front cover of a gay magazine soon.

In what I see as a pre-emptive strike in the war against the BNP homophobes and their ilk, I say we mass together and kidnap him like the goblins snatching a princess in some Mediaeval fairytale, to take to their underworld king (in this case, a queen). We'll either keep him on the mantelpiece as a rather lifelike ornament, or we'll ransom him back to the straight world at the cost of all our gay
liberties. I'm sure there are enough old , either in Parliament or sat around watching This Morning, to pay for his release. Maybe that's how we'll win the War Against (anti-gay) Terror.

[Originally published in Feb 2010 issue of Bent:]

Sunday, 10 October 2010


A friend of recently mine told me how a gay bar he'd once worked at was turned into a straight bar
by the brewery for financial reasons. It wasn't necessarily a problem with falling sales, but rather
an inability to meet the growth of straight venues also owned by the brewery. Gay venues, it seems,
might be the heart of gay life for many people, but only at the generosity of the breweries. After all,
if they would make more money turning their club straight, what's in it for them to keep gay places

So this got me thinking. In particular about bars and clubs that are gay 100% of the time, compared
to those that are only gay part of the time. It struck me that a number of straight clubs I had once
visited when they had gay nights, no longer ran any gay nights at all. Others still had moved their
gay nights to less successful nights, or nights when they would otherwise be closed anyway. It
seems that sometimes we get the short end of the stick—straight nights appeal to a much wider
crowd than gay nights, so we get the nights when the straights don't want to come out.

This gives me a lot of admiration for venues that put gay nights on at weekends and busy periods.
It gives me even more admiration for venues that are gay all the time. After all, the people running
these venues are often doing so out of love for the gay scene rather than a ruthless desire for cash.

Which leads me onto another point. Some cities are smaller than others, and don't have a large
enough captive audience to fill a plethora of gay bars. I'm always shocked that in my hometown of
Leeds, there is a huge local population and yet only a small number of gay people regularly visit the
scene. In effect the scene cannot grow to the size of Manchester's, even though Wikipedia claims
Leeds has a bigger population, because there aren't enough queers to go round. All the bars and
clubs are fighting for the same small crowd. Maybe this is a factor of straight and mixed clubbing
in Leeds being so welcoming, or maybe it's that gay bars are always a little old fashioned and only
appeal to a small demographic. But maybe it is just a numbers game and only a small percentage of
gay people in any city will regularly visit the scene.

So should we be doing more to support our gay venues? And when it comes to a choice between
a straight venue that offers a gay night on a less-than-prime night and a gay venue that's open all
the time, should we stick with the gay venue? Obviously doing so would help ensure gay venues
stay gay; but not doing so would mean more choice and more gay nights. It's a difficult question
to answer. Perhaps the only way to solve it is to force all the queers to go out clubbing at least one
night a week. But in the meantime, maybe we should be more appreciative of the people who bust
their balls to bring us gay nights and gay venues, and when it comes to a choice between spending
all night in a straight bar on a straight night or popping into a gay club or a gay night for just one or
two drinks, we chose the latter over the former. That one hour in your local gay bar might make the
difference between having that gay venue for another year and seeing it close and become straight
the next.

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 3 October 2010


Friends often ask me for advice. They say they can't understand boys. As I frequently say, I've never found boys difficult. They're nothing if not predictable, and usually my friends know this too. They just want to be proved wrong. Here's a handy hint: you won't be.

Take for example Porno Scally. Porno Scally claimed to be the best bang since the big one. He strutted about, hands in pants, wearing trackies and speaking with an 'eezee geezer' laboured Scouse accent. He was rude, bossy, and claimed to be a porn director. He also ran an escort agency and was likely on the game himself. It was clear to me he'd have a tiny cock and be pretty much the laziest shag I'd ever have.

I was right, of course. Despite all his posturing, he dropped his trackies and begged to be fucked. Despite the safer sex messages writ all over the walls of his 'studio', he pleaded for me to shoot a load inside him. If I'd had a gun, I'd have shot him a load, alright.

He lay there, sniffing poppers till his lips and fingers turned blue, and tugged at his tiny cock, while moaning like an Eton nancy boy. So much for being 'hard'.

Next up was The Neurotic Ex. You know the type. They break up with you for some flimflam reason (in this case he was jealous because I spent too much time dancing with my sister and not him), and then immediately regret it.

When he got back off holiday last week, he dropped me a text asking if I was going out that night. I read this as: I really want to see you. I read this as: an opportunity for a good fuck. Because despite his whining, shagging The Neurotic Ex is always a sweat-drenched good time.

I invited him to mine for 'pre-drinks', and if you're getting the gist of this column already, you'd have read that as: me using the poor boy for my own cruel fun. He arrived, booze in hand, and spent the next hour trying to flirt with me. I was bored. I was so bored I almost didn't want to sleep with him.

Just as I was about to give up the ghost and call a taxi so we could go into town, I remembered how big his cock was, and decided I would get back on track. Within minutes his ankles were behind his ears, and when we finished, despite the fact he'd come, his cock stayed hard. I think it was still hard for most of the night when we were out. What followed was more rampant sex on his kitchen surfaces when we got in, with another hard-on that didn't go down, and then even more in the morning.

As I left to jump into my taxi at 11am, the sun scalding my eyes, he was still hard. I read this as: bless, the poor boy's in love! I think his need to hold my hand all the time pretty much gave it away.

And so you see, my pretties: boys really aren't hard to understand. You just have to give up expecting them to change and play the game according to the rules.

Happy shagging!

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 26 September 2010


You guide me round Bangor, opening the city up like ripe fruit, and I'm lost in the Wordsworthiness of it all. Spreading blue skies, clear as hotel pool waters, pour down wide-yawning sunshine, and I am speechless.

At the pier we eat sandwiches, gradually emerging from hangover, and gaze out at yachts like they might be our dreams, bobbing just out of reach, promising warmth. Never mind that we fucked for three hours the night before.

We take tea in a poetry café, and talk about study, migration, growing up. There comes a time when the carefree dissolves to responsibility; when we must lay down the accoutrements of rebellion and join society. I shiver.

Your friend calls. She has locked herself in her back garden, and though she lives in a sprawling shared house, there are no communal areas and she knows none of her housemates. This is what life, out of necessity, becomes. Living with strangers we never see; being rescued from our own back gardens by best friends interrupted over cinnamon and ginger rooϊbus, on dates with men four hours away by train we picked up when drunk.

Now three of us, we wander shops for fancy dress. Cowboys and the American South, although you can't take out a toy gun. We sit at the foot of the cathedral after making do with some plasticky tat and talk about my hometown and why I could never live in London. Soon you'll be moving to Reading for work, and you were the one that chased me.

When the time comes to leave, you take me to the train station and tell me to sit on the Western side of the train so I can see the sun setting over the sea. I smile. We might've worked, even if just for a day, but we both know we'll never see each other again.

At high school I chose History over Geography, and I'm still living with that choice now.

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 19 September 2010


Best friendships can be complicated. But complicated is beautiful. There's something about a best friend: a possessiveness, a passion, a closeness, a curiosity. Sometimes the relationship can be so intense it's easy to mistake it for something it's not. Because we rely so much on best friends, it can be easy to think your best friend is your perfect match. Maybe they are, but probably not like that.

This is the problem friends have when relationships seem a distant memory and love is something that only happens to other people. Sometimes we get tangled and can't see things like we should. It can be easy to rely too much on each other and get lost in that reliance. But when you think about it, and allow yourself to look away, is the friendship really what you want it to be? Giving all your love to a best friend, someone you trust and know will never hurt you, can be seductive. But seduction isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Between straight best friends, when the boundary between love and friendship blurs, they call it a bromance. With gay best friends, it can be even trickier. There can be undercurrents of sexuality in any friendship, usually because of the emotional intimacy, but with gay best friends there's more of a likelihood of something happening. The tangles can get worse. But sometimes the tangles get too tight, to breaking point, and you find yourself set free. Other times you just get sick of not being able to move and take to the tangles like Nicky Clarke in an advert for scissors.

Sometimes it takes sex to simplify things, to clarify them. If in the heat of the moment you find yourself thinking just a little bit too much, actually just going through the motions, then it can straighten out the queerer parts of any friendship. What comes after can go back to basics. Back to the start. You can shake off those too-close-moments of underlying unease and get closer (emotionally closer) than you realised.

Best friendships can be complicated, but it's better when they're just beautiful.

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 12 September 2010


People think men are complicated. Even men think other men are complicated. Let me let you in on a little secret: men aren't complicated at all. Men are really rather simple.

So he doesn't call you back? Then he's not interested. Or maybe he does call you back, but only once in a blue moon? Then you're a booty call. A fuck buddy.

If a guy's interested, you'll know.

If you want to survive the dating world, here are my simple rules to getting what you want and wanting what you get.

Be honest

If you just want a shag, make it abundantly clear. True, when your first words to him are 'Are you top or bottom?' it might seem obvious—but some guys really are dumb. Or maybe just naïve. But if you're honest, they'll likely shag you anyway and if they do get all clingy, it's their fault not yours. If you're not honest and you promise to meet them for a romantic dinner (which you watch as he calls the restaurant and books) but don't, you can hardly be surprised when he rings you calling you a bastard.

Don't be afraid to ask

If you're into something kinky, don't be afraid to ask. In all likelihood, they'll respect your honesty even if they're not game. But if you phrase it the right way, with a cheeky smile and a knowing wink, they might give it a go anyway just for the fun of it.

Be respectful

Even if they're the worst shag in the world, or even if they were a one-off, you had a private moment together. Sex is highly personal and whilst sharing it with your friends (or readers) is fine, it shouldn't be used as a tool to humiliate or hurt someone. If they have a really small cock, only your best friends should ever hear that—and only then on the express promise they keep it a secret.

Don't be too easy or too difficult

If you're too available, he'll get bored very quickly. Just because you've been together a week, it doesn't mean you'll get married. Whilst it can be very easy to get carried away with the excitement and fantasy, remember you live in the real world.

Conversely, don't be too contrary. Mess someone about on purpose and they will get wise and they will move on. Keeping your cool is not the same as playing mind games. Even if the other person doesn't get sick of you, any relationship that results will be flawed because you've already established an unequal power dynamic. The result is that whether you like them or not at the beginning, you'll soon begin to despise them for putting up with your shit. Love isn't special when it's given willy-nilly. You won't respect them unless you feel their love is genuine and that they're with you by choice, not because they're codependent.

Be open-minded

Love might not look like you thought it would, but that's no reason to be scared. We only see the Clinton's Cards version of love—but there are as many different types of love out there as there are people. Every relationship is unique. Compromise is overrated in some respects: you need to compromise on when you have dinner and where you go shopping, but you needn't compromise on your morals, beliefs and lifestyle. Anyone who loves you will love you because of (or in spite of) those things. Just be willing to come at things with an open mind, which is far more important. Be willing to try new things, but don't be afraid to say no if you're uncomfortable. Accept that people are different and may have conflicting ideas, but if they love you they'll respect you anyway.

If you look at life as a game and love as play, it all becomes a lot less serious and as a result much more fulfilling

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 5 September 2010


Anyone who's looked in the back of a gay magazine has seen them before, but soon adverts for escorts may become a thing of the past if Equalities Minister Harriet Harman gets her way.

As amendments to the Policing and Crime Act come into force on 1 April, which give police increased powers to crack down on brothels, Ms Harman has announced she would like to put a ban on all escorting ads in her next party manifesto. If brought into effect, the ban could see magazines that print escorting ads fined £10,000.

A similar law was brought into power in Ireland 15 years ago, but despite this, prostitution is on the rise and trafficking of young women to become prostitutes is still a major problem in many cities.

The proposals, which treat all sex workers as if they were smuggled into the country to be beaten by pimps, may work against prostitutes, and especially gay males in the industry.

Catherine Stephens from the International Union of Sex Workers said: 'I don't know of any gay escorts that have been trafficked. I'm sure there are illegal immigrant gay escorts but they're not being trafficked. There's a big difference between being an illegal immigrant and being trafficked.

''If you stop people going into the office of a magazine to advertise then they're going to be driven into the hands of third parties and intermediaries as a way of getting work and they're much more likely to be exploited then.'

Banning escorting ads could push vulnerable sex workers into the hands of pimps or force them to work in brothels for lower prices and less choice over who they select as clients.

'I think the sex work scene is pretty quiet the moment and one of the things that happens when there's a crackdown is that there's even less punters and so less ability to negotiate price. We see a decrease in safe sex because people are more likely to do things they don't want to do,' said Stephens, warning about the increased risk of STIs falling prices and fewer clients may cause.

The International Union of Sex Workers and Terrence Higgins Trust have long argued that there are a range of different types of sex worker, from so-called 'rent boys' to the glamorised Billie Piper variety. Because of this, the issues facing one set of sex workers may vary greatly from those facing another, and a blanket ban on escorting ads may will actually penalise those prostitutes who prefer not to engage in streetwalking, brothel-work or the services of a pimp.

While prostitution would still remain legal, it would be the prostitutes themselves who would suffer, rather than those who exploit them. This seems like a sly way to criminalise those whose sexual behaviour doesn't match the 'norm' rather than fixing the real problems of trafficking, prostitution by coercion and abuse of sex workers by pimps and certain clients.

Perhaps the next series of Secret Diary of a Call Girl will see Billie Piper forced to hang out in dingy alleyways instead of luxury hotels, charging 20p a ride instead of £300 an hour?

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 29 August 2010


Anyone who follows me on Facebook will know I'm something of a prolific user. And that's putting it lightly. Links, thoughts, musings and rants pout forth perhaps not as quick as water, but maybe as steadily as treacle from a spoon.

This past month I've been ranting and raving about all things political. Whether it's the Institute of Financial Studies claiming police forces might be cut by 40% or paedophile transsexuals evading jail terms because the sentencing judge couldn't bear to put her in a prison, I've had an opinion. Well it's unsurprising really. Any of my regular readers will know I'm something of an opinionated bitch, if occasionally a bit soppy and usually staunchly libertinistic. People want me that way. If I get too political, their ears start bleeding as their brains melt. They can't understand how things might not be what they seem.

And now I've had to promise myself of a return to more frivolous statuses. It's all going to be: 'Wow! What a big cock he had!' and 'Rule #247: just because he's less good looking than you, it doesn't mean he won't hurt you'.

So let's start by saying how glad I am that, as I write this, it's the weekend and I have a shag lined up. I've been horny as sin ever since it started warming up, and my DVD collection is starting to get rather sticky. It doesn't matter how often I pull, I still get horny four times a day, without fail.

Which leads me to my next frivolous point: do not mix class A substances with herbal viagra and then go into a dodgy gay bar with too many UV lights. Seriously. The world will appear to turn purple and you'll delight in telling everyone.

And next time I get drunk, don't let me eat dodgy takeaway donner kebabs. Or as I call them, listeria specials. Though the dicky stomach helps me lose the weight afterwards, I can't stand all the time on the bog.

There. Was that shallow enough for you? No? Well I can't be arsed writing anymore—my taxi's waiting outside to take me for my weekly eyelid rejuvenation and my Krug is getting warm!

[Originally published in Bent:]

Sunday, 22 August 2010


Sometimes life can be boring. Sometimes you've just dug the hole so deep you can't get back out again. Sometimes you need to leave town, change your wardrobe and reinvent yourself. Well if you do, here are my top ten methods to becoming reborn:

1.Get a new job. This is the easiest. A change in career often changes the way you see yourself and other people see you. By this, I don't mean moving from the checkouts at Netto to the checkouts at Aldi. I mean, packing in a soul-destroying job in admin and becoming an interior designer, or ditching your McBurger uniform and opening a Michelin-starred restaurant. Of course, not everyone has ambition, drive and talent, which brings me to my next suggestion . . .

2.Change your appearance. Chop off that fringe that's become your hallmark. Get a tan. Grow some designer stubble. Work out. Swap All Saints for True Religion, or denim for leather, or trousers for kilts. Trust me, it'll work. Think about when they rebrand cereal. The first thing they do is change the packaging. I'm sure you're just as dry and flaky inside, so it's sure to work.

3.Change gender. Maybe this is part of the above, but it goes further than that. You might become a drag queen, wearing a palm tree as a hat and bog rolls as heels, or you might go the classier route and chop it all off downstairs. At least then you can wear all the Louboutins you want without feeling like a fetishist.

4.Become a dolphin. Ever see that episode of South Park? No? Moving on then . . .

5.Commit identity theft. Make sure you find a millionaire. Take out as many credit cards and loans as you can. Use the money to buy yourself a new passport, a new home and a new life in LA. Of course, pay for everything in cash so there's no audit trail, and don't blab about your exploits on Twitter.

6.Fake your own death. This lets you do the above, although no millionaire is needed, but you'll have to stick to spending whatever insurance money you can get hold of, so may have to emigrate a little closer to home instead (but flights to Marbella are pretty cheap these days). Good tip: don't get photographed with loved ones and don't ever stage your disappearance with a canoe.

7.Find a mad scientist. Then he can play with your DNA and turn you into a lizardman warrior, or Alice from Resident Evil, or the alien-human Ripley clone from Alien: Resurrection, or the Invisible Man. Just try not to end up like Jekyll and Hyde. If you want to show the world your bad side, just let them see you after your latest seventeen hour drinking session, vomiting into the toilets at Cruz 101.

8.Move cities. This is a bit more costly than buying a new wardrobe, and a bit more realistic than finding a mad scientist, but if you move far enough away so no one will know you, then you can pretend to be whatever you want. All those rumours everyone heard in your hometown will be long behind you . . . but don't repeat the same mistakes, or you'll soon have to move again.

9.Kill everyone you know. That way, no one will remember what a See You Next Tuesday you've been.

10.Steal someone else's face and have it grafted onto your own at some shady plastic surgeon's. It worked for me.

[Originally published in Bent:]