Pimms and lemonade, strawberries and cream, picnics and al fresco sex. This was SLB's London in Summer. Fresh from sunning himself in Brighton all week, SLB had got a group of his friends together to celebrate the hot weather and...being gay. It was all frightfully frightful. They'd all been to watch the gay pride parade process down Oxford Street, then congregated in Trafalgar Square for more gay frolics and drunken fun. There were 10 foot tall trannies, poppers for Africa, and representatives from the smallest of the smallest of gay minorities. SLB thought he saw a float advocating the rights of gay, Korean, Presbytarian, bears but he couldn't be sure. The day threatened to sour when he was elbowed out of the drinks queue by an angry lesbian with blue hair (It all turned so terribly un-British at Pride sometimes) but SLB was too high on the spirit of gays everywhere to care. International gay, SLB had taken it upon himself to organise a little trip to the campest show in town to allow his friends some well-deserved respite from the maddening crowds but not from the theme of the day, or the spectacle that is Priscilla: Queen of the Desert.
Once back out in the warm evening air, SLB was being groped left, right and centre. And loving every minute of it. He was well and truly in his element here. Amidst the crowd, he even managed to score a photo with a woman wearing what looked to be giant fallopian tubes on her head. Of course.
Sucked up into the heaving masses, he was separated from his friends momentarily, but didn't care in the slightest. He knew every second boy in the crowd and had slept with every other one. Naturally.
Then it hit him. A searing pain that just about knocked him over. A blinding, hot, heavy weight that pressed down on his chest, pulled at his legs and stabbed at his heart. It was the headache from the worst hangover he'd ever had. It was the dull, guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach from the biggest lie he'd ever told. It was butterflies from his first kiss and later, from when he came out to his parents. SLB couldn't breathe. He was burning up. He was about to faint. He was choking back the tears as darkness closed in, and all he could smell was the stench of a hundred men's sweat around him. Just before it all turned black, he saw a face in the distance and realised what was happening.
It was Joe with a Flute. He was still in love with him and he HAD to get him back.
Monday 2 November 2009
Mahiki of Mayfair
Gays. Remnants of Renaissance Men. Educated, well-spoken, fashionable individuals who were interested in classical music and knitted ski wear. Gays were like children: quick to detach, but just as quick to warm to someone new. Gays were hilarious. They always had a gay 'air' about them so you could spot them a mile away. They even minced when they ate.
SLB noticed this while out to dinner at London's closest imitation of a New York cabaret bar – Pizza on the Park at Hyde Park Corner. He was dining with Boring Caleb. Formerly Curly-haired Caleb, Caleb's boringness far outweighed his curly-hairedness, so his epithet had to be changed. Boring Caleb was someone who SLB confided in quite regularly on matters of the heart simply because conversation was generally so dull that SLB could afford to talk about himself for the entire evening and get away with it. However, SLB would rather inject his own eyeballs with vodka than spend an entire evening with Boring Caleb, so once he was done with dinner (If he'd seen one 'New York' style cabaret, he'd seen them all) he minced his way over to the marginally more metrosexual Mahiki in Mayfair for a drink with Mitzi. It was some sort of annual-summer-tropical-Island-evening-of-fun-something-or-another and Mitzi had the excited pleasure of introducing SLB to her friend Ricardo, Spanish/Italian hybrid of hotness. SLB in turn had the pleasure of introducing this newly adopted arm-candy to Guy Pelly (club promoter to the stars), Henry Conway (general gay-about-town and knitwear extraordinaire), and Peaches Geldoff (who can do no wrong in SLB's eyes) fresh from Glastonbury. SLB thought he saw Prince Harry knocking about somewhere too, but didn't have a chance to send his regards. Summer was an awfully hectic time for the Royals.
It has been said that some cultures are more aesthetically pleasing than others. SLB can vouch for that being true. Typically Latin cultures have been at the centre of these rumours. SLB can also vouch for that being true. But SLB also had a penchant for the Scandinavians, Australians, South Africans, German and anyone Eurasian. Why limit yourself? However, there would also be a special place in his heart for his own kind though. That certain breed of English public schoolboy was a type that would always win SLB over. Now though, Ricardo was pulling him into a taxi so there were more...pressing matters to attend to.
SLB hadn't had such a good night since he went to the fireworks display at Muswell Hill last November where he'd pulled a guy called Andy, snogged his face off in the bushes and taken advantage of him behind the Crazy Mouse roller coaster. Extraordinary. Tonight, he'd down about twenty vodkas, been to Fiji and back and just about conga-ed his way into a coma.
SLB woke up feeling like Michael Jackson the next morning though. But it was worth it. Beside him was the shining face of Ricardo, morning glory in tow. Italian stallions. Hot.
SLB noticed this while out to dinner at London's closest imitation of a New York cabaret bar – Pizza on the Park at Hyde Park Corner. He was dining with Boring Caleb. Formerly Curly-haired Caleb, Caleb's boringness far outweighed his curly-hairedness, so his epithet had to be changed. Boring Caleb was someone who SLB confided in quite regularly on matters of the heart simply because conversation was generally so dull that SLB could afford to talk about himself for the entire evening and get away with it. However, SLB would rather inject his own eyeballs with vodka than spend an entire evening with Boring Caleb, so once he was done with dinner (If he'd seen one 'New York' style cabaret, he'd seen them all) he minced his way over to the marginally more metrosexual Mahiki in Mayfair for a drink with Mitzi. It was some sort of annual-summer-tropical-Island-evening-of-fun-something-or-another and Mitzi had the excited pleasure of introducing SLB to her friend Ricardo, Spanish/Italian hybrid of hotness. SLB in turn had the pleasure of introducing this newly adopted arm-candy to Guy Pelly (club promoter to the stars), Henry Conway (general gay-about-town and knitwear extraordinaire), and Peaches Geldoff (who can do no wrong in SLB's eyes) fresh from Glastonbury. SLB thought he saw Prince Harry knocking about somewhere too, but didn't have a chance to send his regards. Summer was an awfully hectic time for the Royals.
It has been said that some cultures are more aesthetically pleasing than others. SLB can vouch for that being true. Typically Latin cultures have been at the centre of these rumours. SLB can also vouch for that being true. But SLB also had a penchant for the Scandinavians, Australians, South Africans, German and anyone Eurasian. Why limit yourself? However, there would also be a special place in his heart for his own kind though. That certain breed of English public schoolboy was a type that would always win SLB over. Now though, Ricardo was pulling him into a taxi so there were more...pressing matters to attend to.
SLB hadn't had such a good night since he went to the fireworks display at Muswell Hill last November where he'd pulled a guy called Andy, snogged his face off in the bushes and taken advantage of him behind the Crazy Mouse roller coaster. Extraordinary. Tonight, he'd down about twenty vodkas, been to Fiji and back and just about conga-ed his way into a coma.
SLB woke up feeling like Michael Jackson the next morning though. But it was worth it. Beside him was the shining face of Ricardo, morning glory in tow. Italian stallions. Hot.
Bruce/David
SLB found out the hard way that he didn't like anal sex last night. Literally.
He'd got a bad vibe from Bruce/David the first time they'd met. To the extent where, on their first encounter at a pub in Angel, a group of girls thought SLB looked like he was about to spike his own drink he looked so desperate to leave, that when Bruce/David went to the little boys' room, they asked whether he was OK or if he needed 'saving'.
Bruce/David was so called because he had started exhibiting rather odd behaviour in so much as it appeared that one man was actually two. This later turned out to be, not split personality disorder as SLB initially thought (but maybe would have coped better with) but an interesting character trait where Bruce/David was David to his family, who didn't know he was out, but Bruce to his friends, who did. Sadly, David, along with so many gay men, had body issues, so was often moody, sometimes sharp and frequently cutting. He would often disengage from conversation, and he avoided eye contact. And yet, Bruce (as he was known to SLB for the majority of time) was lovely. He was endearing and charming and contrary to David's opinion, had an amazing body in SLB's eyes. But it was only because SLB really fancied the Bruce component of the double act that SLB pursued him.
Well, he pursed him up until last night. The two (three) of them were sitting around a table at Box on Seven Dials (SLB ignoring the advances of a pukey French guy who was trying sleaze as a method of attraction. Unsuccessfully) talking about SLB's writing when he opened a can of worms about sexuality and the fact that his family did not know he was out. Unfortunately Bruce/David brought with him all sorts of issues about leading a double life, alter egos, and the life one leads before they come out compared with the life they lead after. All issues SLB didn't really fancy exploring at that particular moment with Bruce/David over a bottle of red. SLB was many things to men. He was not a counsellor.
SLB decided there and then to pursue Bruce/David solely as a shag. But as SLB later found out, Bruce was a bottom whereas David was a top. It was one of life's many disappointments. Like queuing for Lady Gaga at Heaven for three hours in the rain and not getting in to see her. Unfortunately it was David who SLB bed for the first (and only) time last night.
In terms of sexual practices, SLB had either encountered or heard of a number of oddities among the sexually active of London. There were those who couldn't get it up, those who cried when they came, those who spoke in tongues during sex, those with fetishes for feet or snails, those with involuntary spasms of sound or movement and so many others who demonstrated similarly odd behaviour.
David, it seemed was one of those people. As they undressed, he started acting strangely. The same sort of strange that is on a par with the way straight boys try to over compensate with how “OK” they are with homosexuality by talking about it all the time. His strangeness later translated into a bizarre strain of aggression in the bedroom which equally made for the most disappointingly painful and painfully disappointing sex SLB had ever had. Ever.
SLB didn't mind though. He would just abstain from sex for a while. A week would do it. He preferred to be a top anyway.
He'd got a bad vibe from Bruce/David the first time they'd met. To the extent where, on their first encounter at a pub in Angel, a group of girls thought SLB looked like he was about to spike his own drink he looked so desperate to leave, that when Bruce/David went to the little boys' room, they asked whether he was OK or if he needed 'saving'.
Bruce/David was so called because he had started exhibiting rather odd behaviour in so much as it appeared that one man was actually two. This later turned out to be, not split personality disorder as SLB initially thought (but maybe would have coped better with) but an interesting character trait where Bruce/David was David to his family, who didn't know he was out, but Bruce to his friends, who did. Sadly, David, along with so many gay men, had body issues, so was often moody, sometimes sharp and frequently cutting. He would often disengage from conversation, and he avoided eye contact. And yet, Bruce (as he was known to SLB for the majority of time) was lovely. He was endearing and charming and contrary to David's opinion, had an amazing body in SLB's eyes. But it was only because SLB really fancied the Bruce component of the double act that SLB pursued him.
Well, he pursed him up until last night. The two (three) of them were sitting around a table at Box on Seven Dials (SLB ignoring the advances of a pukey French guy who was trying sleaze as a method of attraction. Unsuccessfully) talking about SLB's writing when he opened a can of worms about sexuality and the fact that his family did not know he was out. Unfortunately Bruce/David brought with him all sorts of issues about leading a double life, alter egos, and the life one leads before they come out compared with the life they lead after. All issues SLB didn't really fancy exploring at that particular moment with Bruce/David over a bottle of red. SLB was many things to men. He was not a counsellor.
SLB decided there and then to pursue Bruce/David solely as a shag. But as SLB later found out, Bruce was a bottom whereas David was a top. It was one of life's many disappointments. Like queuing for Lady Gaga at Heaven for three hours in the rain and not getting in to see her. Unfortunately it was David who SLB bed for the first (and only) time last night.
In terms of sexual practices, SLB had either encountered or heard of a number of oddities among the sexually active of London. There were those who couldn't get it up, those who cried when they came, those who spoke in tongues during sex, those with fetishes for feet or snails, those with involuntary spasms of sound or movement and so many others who demonstrated similarly odd behaviour.
David, it seemed was one of those people. As they undressed, he started acting strangely. The same sort of strange that is on a par with the way straight boys try to over compensate with how “OK” they are with homosexuality by talking about it all the time. His strangeness later translated into a bizarre strain of aggression in the bedroom which equally made for the most disappointingly painful and painfully disappointing sex SLB had ever had. Ever.
SLB didn't mind though. He would just abstain from sex for a while. A week would do it. He preferred to be a top anyway.
The 'Ex' Thing (Part II)
SLB had forgotten how good it was. A throbbing, heaving mass of men. A gaggle of gays, topless and sweating amongst a blur of boys writhing around on the floor in an entangled mass of limbs. It was heaven. No, it was literally Heaven. The club. And SLB would definitely be calling in sick to work tomorrow. Some sort of Vogue fashion show was taking place, so the contrast between the fit male models and the regular putrid punters at Heaven was particularly stark tonight.
It's funny how the perception of how 'gay' you are can become an attractive (or unattractive) quality in another person. From the preened, make-up laden, heroin chic, pretty boy, lady gay (if I was attracted to women, I wouldn't be gay!) right through to that walking oxymoron, the homophobic gay (of which Joe with a flute was a living example), the rainbow spectrum was broad.
SLB was at Heaven with Rob. Rob was a friend of a friend, and the loveliest guy SLB had met in a long time. Through these mutual friends, SLB knew that Joe with a flute had a massive crush on Rob. He also knew that, because of this fact, he had to sleep with Rob. Tonight. This was Sexual Politics 101...and SLB was writing his dissertation. SLB was not unfamiliar with love triangles (In fact, it was a little known fact that in the incestuous world of gay London, SLB's worst nightmare would be Joe with a flute and Kaleb with a K getting together). Rob, like SLB, had recently come out of a relationship, but of course, getting involved with someone to spite someone else would just be troublesome, so the two boys mutually agreed to be fuck buddies. SLB had never had such a 'buddy' before. He'd slept with a lot of men, that was true, but they were never usually recurring events. This, SLB thought, could become a habit he might rather enjoy. This looked promising. The hard part of course would be not to fall for fuck buddy Rob. But who did that anyway?...
SLB had recently found a small sense of closure on Joe with a flute in the most unlikely of places. It took the form of a Facebook message from another of Joe with a flute's exes who, by way of a freak social anomaly, he was virtual friends with. His message said that SLB would be better off without this ex of theirs anyway and not to worry about the break-up. In sleeping with Rob tonight, he found more closure, and after a not inconsiderable amount of time, SLB thought he might finally be able to move on from Joe with a flute. Huzzah.
It's funny how the perception of how 'gay' you are can become an attractive (or unattractive) quality in another person. From the preened, make-up laden, heroin chic, pretty boy, lady gay (if I was attracted to women, I wouldn't be gay!) right through to that walking oxymoron, the homophobic gay (of which Joe with a flute was a living example), the rainbow spectrum was broad.
SLB was at Heaven with Rob. Rob was a friend of a friend, and the loveliest guy SLB had met in a long time. Through these mutual friends, SLB knew that Joe with a flute had a massive crush on Rob. He also knew that, because of this fact, he had to sleep with Rob. Tonight. This was Sexual Politics 101...and SLB was writing his dissertation. SLB was not unfamiliar with love triangles (In fact, it was a little known fact that in the incestuous world of gay London, SLB's worst nightmare would be Joe with a flute and Kaleb with a K getting together). Rob, like SLB, had recently come out of a relationship, but of course, getting involved with someone to spite someone else would just be troublesome, so the two boys mutually agreed to be fuck buddies. SLB had never had such a 'buddy' before. He'd slept with a lot of men, that was true, but they were never usually recurring events. This, SLB thought, could become a habit he might rather enjoy. This looked promising. The hard part of course would be not to fall for fuck buddy Rob. But who did that anyway?...
SLB had recently found a small sense of closure on Joe with a flute in the most unlikely of places. It took the form of a Facebook message from another of Joe with a flute's exes who, by way of a freak social anomaly, he was virtual friends with. His message said that SLB would be better off without this ex of theirs anyway and not to worry about the break-up. In sleeping with Rob tonight, he found more closure, and after a not inconsiderable amount of time, SLB thought he might finally be able to move on from Joe with a flute. Huzzah.
The 'Ex' Thing (Part I)
SLB used to think it was all or nothing. That once you'd broken up with someone, that was it. You were either in love, or you didn't speak. No blurred lines.
Joe with a flute polarised SLB. SLB had taken to bursting into tears on the Northern line thinking about Joe, and yet when they met up for the obligatory post-relationship drunken night out and ended up going home together, SLB was the happiest he'd been in months...
In a vain attempt to drown this sentimental behaviour, SLB and friends went out to the Vauxhall Tavern. Everyone loves cheap and cheerful once in a while. And SLB's celebrity status wasn't elevated too high not to allow him a certain degree of anonymity whilst on a night out with friends. Everyone doesn't love a night that turns to shit because people are feeling tired, there are no fit men in sight and only 3 people on the dance floor. Was it just too much to ask to be at home with your multi-talented, multi-lingual, Oxbridge educated, tall, handsome, musical, open-minded, well-travelled, popular boyfriend who would come to be your best friend and partner for life? Essentially, this was just a combination of Joe with a flute and Will, but why shouldn't he shoot for the stars?
Coming back through central London, the girls in the group suggested going to CXR in an eleventh hour bid for some semblance of 'gay clubbing', not realising that they had dragged SLB into what is probably the lowest of the low of gay venues in greater London. Staines included. SLB sensed a bad vibe as he walked in. Lecherous men from all walks of life were doing a good job in compounding SLB's fear that only 40 year old men found him attractive. These were the sort of men you would expect to masturbate in public or pull each other off in public toilets. Well, SLB was forced to both beat them and join them. And since he had been handed a bunch of lemons, he was simply making lemonade – on his knees in cubicle 4. Toilets. Hardly the most glamorous of places, but exhilarating all the same.
The whole evening had left him feeling blue again though. But that's the good thing about SLB: he would only feel blue until someone else came along. It's just that no one else had come along for quite a while...
Report
Joe with a flute polarised SLB. SLB had taken to bursting into tears on the Northern line thinking about Joe, and yet when they met up for the obligatory post-relationship drunken night out and ended up going home together, SLB was the happiest he'd been in months...
In a vain attempt to drown this sentimental behaviour, SLB and friends went out to the Vauxhall Tavern. Everyone loves cheap and cheerful once in a while. And SLB's celebrity status wasn't elevated too high not to allow him a certain degree of anonymity whilst on a night out with friends. Everyone doesn't love a night that turns to shit because people are feeling tired, there are no fit men in sight and only 3 people on the dance floor. Was it just too much to ask to be at home with your multi-talented, multi-lingual, Oxbridge educated, tall, handsome, musical, open-minded, well-travelled, popular boyfriend who would come to be your best friend and partner for life? Essentially, this was just a combination of Joe with a flute and Will, but why shouldn't he shoot for the stars?
Coming back through central London, the girls in the group suggested going to CXR in an eleventh hour bid for some semblance of 'gay clubbing', not realising that they had dragged SLB into what is probably the lowest of the low of gay venues in greater London. Staines included. SLB sensed a bad vibe as he walked in. Lecherous men from all walks of life were doing a good job in compounding SLB's fear that only 40 year old men found him attractive. These were the sort of men you would expect to masturbate in public or pull each other off in public toilets. Well, SLB was forced to both beat them and join them. And since he had been handed a bunch of lemons, he was simply making lemonade – on his knees in cubicle 4. Toilets. Hardly the most glamorous of places, but exhilarating all the same.
The whole evening had left him feeling blue again though. But that's the good thing about SLB: he would only feel blue until someone else came along. It's just that no one else had come along for quite a while...
Report
gaydar.manhunt.fitlads.net.com/onlinelove
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
A Weekend in the Country
SLB would like to take this opportunity to make it clear that he is not a home wrecker or a husband stealer, contrary to popular belief. SLB feels the need to precede this column with such a disclaimer after the events that occurred over the bank holiday weekend.
As per tradition, Mitzi Vabere and SLB had decided to check out of London for the long weekend and go to Cornwall for a few days. Not to do anything silly like camping or hunting. Don't be ridiculous. But for a spot of lunch, a shop or two and supper in a stately home.
Mitzi, fabulous as ever in a delightful, coral pink kaftan, was intent on introducing SLB to a lovely gay couple who she knew from university. Afterall, a wise man did once say that if you are gay you will, nay must, get along with all others of your kind. Naturally, SLB was excited at the prospect of meeting fellow gays and minced down the street alongside Mitzi in bright red jeans, sequinned vest and a houndstooth waistcoat. The good people of humble Truro didn't quite know what had hit them.
Tim and Tom were hosting opening night drinks for a exhibition at the art gallery they jointly curated. SLB and Mitzi breezed in fashionably late to a welcome of smoked salmon canapes and two glasses of Bollinger each. Pretty soon, through the druken haze of the Bolly, the sexual chemistry between Tim and SLB became apparent.
It's not that SLB has no scruples. It's just that morals are for the dull and curious, so when SLB reached for Tim's hand in a dark corner of the room, he knew very well he was in dangerous proximity to Tom, just metres away. And although it would not be a new addition to SLB's repertoire (SLB had recently enjoyed a lovely threesome with a Spanish couple over the new year) he wouldn't have minded a quick jaunt with one or both of Tim and Tom that evening. Afterall, we must always keep our options and our legs open. But when it was made quite clear that Tom wasn't interested (it was always the ugly ones that were the most picky) things turned slightly sour. Apparently, men in relationships don't appreciate it when other men make sexual advances on their boyfriends.
Hilariously, neither ended up with SLB that evening. SLB copped off with the cute, young receptionist in the supply cupboard, much to Tim's consternation , no doubt causing further reason for gossip in the office next week.
SLB and Mitzi left Cornwall on the Monday, leaving a devastating wake of relationship destruction behind them. Mitzi no doubt was secretly horrified by the whole debacle, but SLB, true to form, took it all in his stride. He'd certainly started Summer off with a bang.
As per tradition, Mitzi Vabere and SLB had decided to check out of London for the long weekend and go to Cornwall for a few days. Not to do anything silly like camping or hunting. Don't be ridiculous. But for a spot of lunch, a shop or two and supper in a stately home.
Mitzi, fabulous as ever in a delightful, coral pink kaftan, was intent on introducing SLB to a lovely gay couple who she knew from university. Afterall, a wise man did once say that if you are gay you will, nay must, get along with all others of your kind. Naturally, SLB was excited at the prospect of meeting fellow gays and minced down the street alongside Mitzi in bright red jeans, sequinned vest and a houndstooth waistcoat. The good people of humble Truro didn't quite know what had hit them.
Tim and Tom were hosting opening night drinks for a exhibition at the art gallery they jointly curated. SLB and Mitzi breezed in fashionably late to a welcome of smoked salmon canapes and two glasses of Bollinger each. Pretty soon, through the druken haze of the Bolly, the sexual chemistry between Tim and SLB became apparent.
It's not that SLB has no scruples. It's just that morals are for the dull and curious, so when SLB reached for Tim's hand in a dark corner of the room, he knew very well he was in dangerous proximity to Tom, just metres away. And although it would not be a new addition to SLB's repertoire (SLB had recently enjoyed a lovely threesome with a Spanish couple over the new year) he wouldn't have minded a quick jaunt with one or both of Tim and Tom that evening. Afterall, we must always keep our options and our legs open. But when it was made quite clear that Tom wasn't interested (it was always the ugly ones that were the most picky) things turned slightly sour. Apparently, men in relationships don't appreciate it when other men make sexual advances on their boyfriends.
Hilariously, neither ended up with SLB that evening. SLB copped off with the cute, young receptionist in the supply cupboard, much to Tim's consternation , no doubt causing further reason for gossip in the office next week.
SLB and Mitzi left Cornwall on the Monday, leaving a devastating wake of relationship destruction behind them. Mitzi no doubt was secretly horrified by the whole debacle, but SLB, true to form, took it all in his stride. He'd certainly started Summer off with a bang.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
