Sunday, 8 June 2014

A Brazilian Ways to be Disappointed

I had one more encounter with the Brazilian before he left London for Milan. From what I remember his grandmother was Italian, and he was hoping to gain citizenship there so he could come back to the UK permanently.

We had texted through the day but when I stepped into the Heaven nightclub he was in the crowd dancing, and I knew he had not come out on that night with the intention of sleeping with me. I didn’t give it another thought, as once I was amongst the masses with the alcohol fueling my movements the preoccupation with him blurred away. I found myself on the podium, enjoying every second, carefree and lapping up attention but giving none out. When a hand reached up and grabbed my wrist, I brought my focus back to reality and there he was, looking up at me, those eyes.. always those eyes.. blaring his desire louder than the music. He led me down from the podium and off the dance floor to a space under one of the archways that lead to-and-from the main room. We stopped and he turned to face me.

“What’s up?” I asked, whether drunk or naive I wasn’t sure why I had been escorted from my pedestal. And then he kissed me. His reply was simple, direct, and more profound than I could have imagined at the time:

“I don’t want anyone else to have you.”

And, for that night at least, no-one else did.


When he left my bed the next day, I knew I would possibly never lay eyes on him again. It was the second time in a week that I bid farewell to a guy who was leaving for a year abroad. I hoped it would not become a habit.

Strangely we kept in touch on-and-off for the next year, and therein lay the problem.. see, when the only experience you’ve had of a person is drunken sex then your connection is one of desire; jumping from that to texting on a regular basis but never actually meeting each other sober.. well.. then you will never glimpse who that person really is. All you have is your rose-tinted drunk memories and a version of themselves that they have innately and unreservedly edited. A text is a person’s words filtered and purified. It is modern man’s (and woman’s) nature to edit and re-edit, only hitting send after they have completed the final draft of themselves, devoid of imperfections, of human error, of the foibles that make us who we are. It’s a shame really, but  I can guarantee you most of the words in a message are given twice as much thought as their verbal equivalent.

These days this is endemic in gay life. Grindr, Scruff, Hornet, Jack’d, even Tinder.. When you spend a long time chatting, you don’t get to know the real person, you have a foundation of lust over which is a mere portrait of them, tirelessly perfected. This is why we need to look up from our screens, to close the app, look each other in the eye and have a proper fucking conversation! We can't truly know someone unless we get a grasp of all their facets, vices included. Unless you're just looking to "dip your dick", in which case, play on my friend.

Against my better judgement, as inexperienced as a child, I got my hopes up with the Brazilian. Being relatively new to the experience of regularly picking up guys in clubs, I was not yet prepared to desensitise myself, and I let attachment get the better of me. I later learned he was, for want of a better word, a slut, like so many others in this city (and some would now include myself under that term, to my protest). Jumping ahead momentarily, he returned to the UK one year later, and set right to getting back into gay nightlife, and I witnessed his tongue-hopping on a regular basis. His initial effect on me had bypassed my better judgement and I got caught up in the electronic illusion of a text message courtship. It’s incredibly foolish really, but it was a lesson I would come to be taught on more than one occasion. A hopeless romantic will quickly learn to be otherwise where the gay scene comes into play. As with most large cities, if you aren't careful London will bruise you – its people will bruise you. Be wary of letting your hopes run away with you. Keep them close because there are many out there who will break them.. but with timing, readiness and a touch of serendipity, there's always that chance of finding someone with whom they are safe.

Thursday, 5 June 2014

How My Relationship Ended

Hello all, it's been a while :)

I’ve put this off for too long. To say my life has changed would be a fairly hefty understatement. Trying to push my mind back to where I was over a year ago is no easy task, but I’m going to do my best.

From the beginning then:

London changed everything.

At the start of 2013 Cord’s plans to teach abroad for a year were set in stone, his ticket to China booked. Once I knew he was definitely going, something started to switch in my head, and London was the catalyst to my behaviour shift. I started to push Cord away, or perhaps I was pushing myself away from him. Where once I had considered staying together and putting up a fight for us, I had lost the desire, the fire, the urge. I didn’t want it any more. When I managed to move to London I had 6 weeks before my job started, and I took the opportunity to burst onto the gay scene, averaging 5 nights a week. Let’s not beat around the bush; I cheated. I was selfish and stupid - I knew the chances of me staying with him were slim but I was so unsure of when or how to end it, especially with his departure looming, and I fucked up before I knew it. I wondered to myself if I should just let distance do the job for me.. a coward’s thought, I know.

Things got out of hand a couple of weeks after moving to London when I had one of those moments..  a moment when you connect eyes with someone and you both know instantly that you are going to create passion so fierce it could be destructive. I was out with my flatmate and her friend in G-A-Y Late taking advantage of the £1.70 drinks. (Coincidentally this was the same place where I first met Portuguy - the only other time I’ve felt this instant impact). This time, just like before, when I saw this man with fair skin and dark dark wavy hair, watching me from across the dancefloor with brooding brown eyes, I was caught. Our eyes locked and it was decided that we would connect that night. A little while later when my friends were outside smoking, I saw him again, standing by himself, again with his eyes on me. The vodka buffed up my courage and stupidity, and I set my course for this man. The next moments are blurred in my memory. Whether we said our greetings is not clear, but then our bodies were against each other, our lips connected, moving to the rhythm of the one another. The bar around me melted away, and all I knew was his lips and his tongue: soft, moist, insistent, insatiable. Before we parted we exchanged numbers and a few texts expressing our desires, attempting to bridge the gap between my correct grammar and his broken English.

My flatmate had seen us locked together, and when he had left she looked concerned, then asked the inevitable question:

“What about Cord?”

Gazing after the stranger, I spoke the answer as much to myself as to her:

“I want this.”

When I left the bar the stranger was waiting at the corner of the street. My memory starts to fray considerably around this point, as our lips found each other once again and we made out against the wall like teenagers.

I woke up next to him, his smooth, firm body laid out in my bed with a simple and delicate gold chain resting upon his chest. He was the first stranger I had sex with in London.. he would not be the last. After that night there was no looking back. A few years ago, Portuguy had been a taste of my ideal shallow aesthetic, but it was on this night that I truly cemented “my type”: Hispanics and Latinos. There have been many, and no doubt there will be more, but he will forever be the first, the original. The Brazilian.

I never told Cord what happened that night. I debated with my flatmate of how this changed things; she, being a girl of firm moral standing, felt I should tell him, but left the decision up to me. I knew I would never have the balls to confess, just like in the past. But I knew now that Cord and I had to be over, and I had to end things.



Recalling what happened has been difficult for me. I never wrote down what was said, and the year since has swept new memories over old ones. Attempting to remember feels a bit like when you go back to a room to get something you left behind, only to realise you can’t remember what it was. Honestly, I’m now almost completely desensitised to everything that happened, so it’s hard to reach back for the emotions I was feeling at the time. I don’t want to discredit what the two of us had as I did feel a great deal of sadness, but 12 months on it would be disingenuous of me to try and emulate that shame and downheartedness in this post. I know I was aware of the contrast between when he broke up with me, and that I felt ashamed that in a small cruel part of my brain I was glad it was him this time and not me. A decent person would have told him about the cheating. Of course if you’ve read this blog before, you’ll know decency is something I have greatly struggled with. I'm working on it.

My main reasoning was that we were going to have to break up when he went away (I was averse to the the thought of a long-distance relationship), so what was the point in staying together for a couple of weeks when we know it has to end? For me it felt futile. He urged me to stay in it, he even pushed to stay together while he was away. This nearly angered me, but I had given away my right to anger the moment my tongue had touched the Brazilian's. It took four hours of feelings and explanation before we had finally drawn the line, and he had started to accept it. I asked him to cancel my ticked to Croatia we were supposed to go on together a couple of weeks from then; I needed to begin undoing the bonds that connected us, I needed to release myself and to release him, or to release ourselves from each other. In my core I could tell that the chapter of my life I was about to embark on would destroy us if we tried to stay together. It was better to break apart more cleanly than drag him into the pits with me.

He did not want to let me go. Although our relationship was at an end, he urged me to spend time with him for at least a little bit of what was  left. After a lengthy text conversation, I asked him:

-How do you want to spend the last weeks before you go?

-Make them good. Make them count

So we did. I owed him that much and so much more.

The night after my first day of work, I was shattered. It was the last night we could see each other, so Cord came round and stayed but I had barely energy to be any kind of company. Our final farewell in the morning was rushed and fumbled, though I think I actually preferred it that way. For almost 2 years of my life this moment had seemed to be looming, now that the time had come I just wanted the weight of it to be lifted. With a final kiss I pulled myself away from him and clicked the door shut behind me. Cord flew to China the following day and that was when the nervous excitement started to tingle across my mind as I realised a new chapter was beginning..  single and living in London.

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

One Year On (TBC)

Oh boy. I didn't realise it had been so long since I posted.

It has probably been the most intense, eventful, fun, emotional and dramatic year of my life. Ups and downs, way-ups and way-downs..

My life has pretty much followed this path:

London.
Drink.
Men.
Drink.
Men.
Drink.
Drugs.
Drink.
Men.
Drink.
Drugs.
Drink.
Drink.
Men.

Download photo.JPG (830.3 KB)
...I've woken up to this stamp more times than I can count.

Somewhere along the way I changed – part of me blames London for that. Living here has side-effects. I don't feel like the same person I was a year ago. For better or worse? Maybe neither.. After so many chapters of hedonism it's easy to forget yourself.

I am going to begin picking up the tangle of threads and trying to type them into an intelligible sequence. It may take me quite a while to catch the blog up but I want to do it properly, accurately, with the right amount of attention and devotion.

Starting soon (I promise.) 

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

Fuck First, Ask Questions Later.

Let me clarify something before I begin:

I’m not ashamed of who I am, but on many occasions I am ashamed of what I do. Shame is the reason I don’t write this blog under my name, it’s the reason this blog can be about the personal topics that it is, heck, it's probably the reason I am writing this blog in the first place. I said from the start that this would not be a “here’s every detail of my sex life” blog, and I am not seeking anything more than my own honesty. Yes, I write about sex, but when I do it’s as part of a bigger picture, because in so many cases lust is the reason I mess up. Lust is my crux. I won't ever write about my sex life just for the sake of it; there is always something more.


I have grown up in a binge generation. Bred within me is an attitude of reckless excess: to drink more, fuck more and live life fast and hard. I see the self-destruction, on regular occasions I feel myself relentlessly letting go, and yet.. I wouldn’t have it any other way. At the base of my being are these cravings that I so often find myself powerless to resist because I'm unwilling to do so. I guess a testament to this behaviour is the fact that I have never properly “dated”. Even the night I met my boyfriend we slept together, and a relationship subsequently developed from that event.

Within the circles I exist, this is the Age of Fucking.  The “first kiss” has become a movie convention, and a fading one at that; these days in the real world such a notion is giving way to the first sex. During my initial Grindr phase that I was in the midst of a year ago, after some friendly chatting a fresh-faced and well-to-do guy asked if I wanted to go for a drink. I suppose at a stretch that could be defined as a “date”, but after four beers I was tipsy and within three hours of meeting we were back at my flat, naked in bed. The notable fact was that he had valiantly proclaimed “We shouldn’t have sex tonight” since we had just met, but those honourable intentions went out the window faster than I went down on him. I mean, he was on Grindr, so I'd be surprised if he was expecting a romantic, drawn-out courtship.

Technology – and I'm referring to these apps in particular – has drastically exacerbated this convention, but it is simultaneously a cause and result of this facet of society. Taking Grindr as an example, it succeeds because of sex, it exists because people want sex. I mean, take the name itself, which its creator has stated comes from a coffee grinder. "It is a little bit rough – not to mix, but to grind. Our design, logo, colouring – we wanted something a little bit tougher, rough. It’s also very masculine. It’s a masculine word, sound." (source - Xtra)

The definition of this apparently masculine word: "to reduce (something) to small particles or powder by crushing it." Perhaps in this context meaning the egos of men that, upon repeated rejection, come out of Grindr as pulverised dust.

While I'm on the topic, it's the same with Scruff. Grabbing someone by the scruff of the neck? Another tough and masculine word, which obviously equals "sexy". Manhunt brings in a predator-prey dynamic, or maybe a countrywide search for a sex offender. That must be hot these days.

It doesn't seem too hard to come up with names. How's about "Manhandle" or "Backhand"? Maybe "Meatmarket" or "Slamr", ooh or for the upper classes of French cruising: "Saucisson". This is fun.

But I digress; the fact of the matter is that they work. They really work. And if you're in the market for what they offer, there is no easier access to the horde (whorde?) of eager strangers. I should point out that by no means am I judging, because I like many others have thrived on the experiences that Grindr offers up. It's like a great big sandbox to stick my head in.

Now, considering my relatively limited collection of one-time suitors, it is safe to say I have only had a mere mouthful of the smorgasbord that is laid out in our sleazy world. There is so much more to be tasted and I find I can have an unhealthy appetite. So the concept of a abstinent date has thus far remained kind of alien to me, though it is one I’d be open to trying. But whatever way my mind is programmed means that I find it hard to distinguish the sex from the date – if I find someone attractive, one of the first things I want is to have sex with them, then get to know them, maybe. Priorities aren’t so clear-cut these days, everyone is entitled to their own. Whether I’ll develop self-restraint in the future and be able to make it to a second date before I find my boxers round my ankles, well that remains to be seen, but I won’t be losing sleep over it. As it stands, the equivalent of the first date – for me at least – has always been sex, and I like it that way. There are few things more instantly personal than getting naked with someone. Hopes and dreams can be discussed afterwards if desired.

Now, massive credit to the people who go about the traditional dating process, maintaining their dignity and ideals. Fair play to them, I wish I had their patience and resilience. But for me [cliché incoming] sex is like a drug, and there are so many different types, different batches just waiting to be sampled. Also, I really shouldn't understate that I have had a relationship for almost 3 years after what I presumed was a “one-night-stand”, so I find even this method can proffer long-term rewards. And in the meantime you get quick, easy fun that – in its own way – can reveal much about you, though admittedly not always things you are glad to know..

Maybe I’m hanging on furiously to the stage of my life that permits casual, risky fun without incurring heavy judgement. Maybe a few years down the line everything will be in order and my life will be settled and have direction. The drug-fueled weekends and jumping from bed to bed trying to outpace regret will be a thing of the past. I’ll have a career, a relationship I have no doubts about, and a direction in life. One day I’ll get there, however many beds that need hopped in the long term. If it comes down to it, I won't be afraid to do the legwork – either clothed or naked – to find exactly where I want to be and who I want to be with. Because in this world it's increasingly likely I'll have to, and I'm more than happy to play the game.


Friday, 1 March 2013

PDA Aversion

A few weeks ago Cord dropped me off at the airport and we said our usual goodbyes, as it would be another 5 weeks until we saw each other again. We were in his car, and several people stood in the shelter nearby, waiting for their pick-ups. At this point came a dreaded and familiar occurrence when I knew we were about to kiss. I had expected it because it is always the same..

Things, I sense, are not to supposed to happen like this:

When he begins to move in there’s a kind of twisting in my gut, and a little voice in my head cringes “what if someone sees us!”. As I steal a glance to the side to check if anyone is near, a sad truth bubbles up every time that happens - I am simply not comfortable kissing in public, I literally kiss with one eye open. Which I suppose must look a hell of a lot more strange than just two guys kissing :/ I can't help it; daylight displays of public affection make my skin crawl. I followed this thought down the rabbit hole while I was waiting for my flight, because though I initially jumped to the conclusion that it stems from my insecurities, two questions developed:

Is it because I don’t want to be seen kissing a guy?

or...

Is it because I don’t want to be seen kissing him?


I still can't figure out if the latter question has an answer, but I've considered the former many times, and in reply my mind jumps back to all the times in nightclubs, when I’m in a haze of wonderful drunkenness, my tongue wrestling with a stranger's. Clearly when I'm drunk and surrounded by other gay people, my inhibitions drop completely. In some ways it's sad that I only feel truly able to be myself when I'm out of my mind and soaked in male attention. This will be no surprise if you've even glanced at previous posts; it grows from my greatest flaw.

In the sober light of day things couldn't be more different. As most of my.. ahem.. "gentlemen callers" in the past have been under the cover of darkness, Cord is really the only guy I've been in the position of PDA-ing with. So for now, I can't know for certain if the unease is due to him or simply due to me. Perhaps down the line I'll have my answer when/if I have another relationship. Naturally I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried that the insecurity signals a fading interest in staying in this relationship, but that's just par for the course. In time I'll know.

It is somewhat shameful to admit, as for some couples it is second nature, but I have never properly held Cord's hand in daylight... in fact, in the almost-3-years since we met, I think I have held his hand while walking along the street 3 times... And every single time I was drunk and it was night-time. Whether I will ever be comfortable with regular, casual, no-fuss PDA, who knows. It's possibly just not the kind of person I am right now. Cord let the issue die a long time ago, after he had featured it as part of THE LIST, which was ridiculous and still makes me laugh. For those of you unaware, "the list" was a hand-typed collection of the things Cord wished he could change about me, which he wrote during one of our rocky weeks in our first year. Ah those were the infamous dramatic days. Here's a link if you fancy a browse, it's a short and not-so-sweet compilation, and really paints me as the cunt I can be.

:) smiley face.


As I said though, drunk was when I let my guard down, at least in the early flourishing days of our new relationship. On nights out we'd end up embraced, often in the middle of the dancefloor. Things were new and shiny then.

Now... there’s little spontaneity, there isn’t a thrill, it’s just plain normal. I feel for him; because of me we don't really "get off" anywhere other than in private. The only way I usually end up kissing him during the night is when he asks me, but it’s the fact that he asks that takes the spark and extinguishes it. I want someone to take control, assert themselves. That can be very sexy. Within reason obviously, sexual assault is a no-no.

It is of course my fault (like a lot of things) but it’s a part of who I am and a part of how I am when I’m with him. I guess it’s not uncommon for the passion to be taken off the boil and reduced to a simmer after a few years. But with strangers – tall dark handsome new strangers – there is the electric charge when we meet eyes, when the instant lust and desire brings us into silent and physical agreement. Unfortunately (isn’t there always an “unfortunately”), the sleazy flipside is that I have absolutely no problem making out with newly met men on nights out, and a big part of me relishes it. It’s so fun and it feels so natural to me. Alcohol opens the realm of horny possibility, a risky place indeed.

If I'm going to return to that place while Cord is across the world, it's abundantly clear I will have to return to being single before embarking on another free-spirited journey through the hordes of clubs and men.


This will be me when I finally manage to move to London: