Thursday, 10 March 2011


So he seemed quite clever. I knew from his pictures he'd be arrogant, and dare I say snobby. But I was up for that. I like a bit of a fight.

In all fairness I wasn't initially attracted to him, looks-wise. His pictures didn't do him justice, I guess. It was the banter I was interested in. There seemed to be a lot of that and I'm a person who likes to be kept amused.

He was selected as Rear of the Year contestant for some bar in the village last summer, but got drunk before the competition and so naturally things went tits up. Sounds like the story of my life. I thought, maybe we have something in common after all?

The first two dates went well. I'm normally a top but so was he, so I gave bottoming a try and so did he. We were horny but not filthy. We slapped each other about a bit, broke a bed, got carpet burns. Nothing terribly outrageous considering my track-record.

But then something changed. Maybe it was my honesty. I'm honest to a fault. Especially when the booze is flowing. Give me a cocktail and I'll admit to anything. Yes, I shagged your husband. Yes, I stole these sweets from a baby. Yes, I killed a man.

Maybe I should have pretended to be someone else? But the effort of being me is work enough. Being someone else as well would probably kill me.

He caught tonsillitis and cancelled our fourth date. Fair enough, I thought. You can't help illness So I went out instead for my Canadian friend's birthday. I drank absinthe. I was more wasted than Hiroshima after the bomb.

Then who should waltz into the club at 3am, wiggling the almost-but-not-quite Rear of the Year? Okay. So I flipped a little. It's been said I have a short temper. Especially when drunk. I've also variously been called demanding, hard-work, and a handful. I'm all of these things and more, I'm sure. Most gay men love a handful, though, and we all appreciate an honest day's work.

So when he flashed me his swollen, flecked tonsils, trying to prove his innocence, I slid off and decided to pull some six-packed chav chicken from . . . Heywood, was it? After letting the boy bounce on me all night and all morning, I pulled myself from the sweat-sodden bedsheets and found a text from Mr Rear.

Okay. I'm sucker for the slightest whiff of an apology. I can hate you with all the anger in the world if you wrong me, but if you apologise I feel compelled to forgive. Why? Well, to be fair, anything anyone else has done, I've done worse. And I always apologise and am usually forgiven.

So fair is fair.

He asked me twice to meet up again for a drink. Explained he had been ill but was going back down south for a while and wanted to see his friends before he went. Okay, I thought. O-fucking-kay. I'll do it. No more grovelling.

So I met him. Everything seemed . . . alright. Good, even. We kissed, going just the right side of wild in the street, and I felt his cock stir. He blushed. Then he told me his room was a mess and he had an early morning. Which was probably a good idea, since I had an early morning too.

A few days later he wrote on my wall on Facebook, making a joke that I was common. At least I assumed it was a joke.

So he was still interested, right? Wrong. I guess he'd asked me back on another date because he just wanted to assuage his guilt. To end things on his terms rather than mine, most probably. Except, he never did really end anything. I never heard another word. Not a peep.

That definitely stoked my fires. Tip to guys: grow a pair of bollocks and tell me you're not interested. Even a text would do. Indeed, I prefer to be dumped by text. The city's murder rate stays down that way. But nada.

So I got over it.

I guess he didn't win anything, but he certainly was my Arse of the Year.

[Originally published in Jan 2011 issue of Bent]

Thursday, 3 March 2011


Think you’re good in bed? Take our sex quiz and find out.

1. When did you last have sex?
A. Within the last six months
B. Within the last two months
C. Within the last week
D. Within the last 24 hours
E. I can’t remember

2. When adding up the number of sexual partners you’ve had in the last year, your number would be which film:
A. Me, Myself & I
B. Romeo & Juliet
C. You, Me & Dupree
D. 300
E. Sister Act

3. The perineum is:
A. A type of nut.
B. Between your nuts. Maybe?
C. The male G-spot.
D. Something I can hit from six miles away, baby.
E. The edge around a circle.

4. Your last lover would be mostly likely to say:
A. I’ve got a headache.
B. Can we try something else?
C. Mmm.
D. That was the best sex ever.
E. I’m not sure because the English language didn’t exist back then.

5. Your favourite position is:
A. Missionary.
B. Doggy.
C. Standing up.
D. Wheelbarrow.
E. Sobbing over your chastity.

6. Your filthiest fetish is:
A. Anal.
B. A threesome.
C. Feet or socks.
D. There’s literally nothing I will not do.
E. Touching the covers of porn rags and pretending you have the guts to buy one.

7. The longest you lasted was:
A. Ten minutes.
B. Twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour.
C. An hour.
D. I haven’t stopped since last Thursday. Could you pass the Savlon, my cock’s starting to chafe?
E. As long as it took Father McDougall to touch me.

8. When did you lose your virginity?
A. 21
B. 18
C. 16
D. 12
E. I keep a rosary around my cock. I shall remain pure.

9. Do you consider yourself to be a slut?
A. Well I slept with someone once on a first date. Maybe I am?
B. Not really.
C. Not enough.
D. Darling, Belle de Jour could learn a few things from me!
E. That’s what the priest said when he beat the Devil out of my rear with his rubber wand of purity.

10. Your preferred age range is?
A. I don’t know. Anyone that will have me.
B. People my own age. I feel weird otherwise.
C. Five years either way, but otherwise around my age.
D. I’ll do anything to anything!
E. Sixty years older than me.

Mostly As: You need to get laid. Now.
Mostly Bs: Brush up your chat-up lines, get on Gaydar, and get some practice in.
Mostly Cs: I guess you’re pretty average.
Mostly Ds: Check out your bad self! Just make sure you get tested, huh?
Mostly Es: Join the Catholic Church. You’ll get more sex that way.

[Originally published in Dec 2010 issue of Bent]