Author: Chris Bridges

I always dreaded ageing. I cried upon reaching 25, thought hitting 30 would be the end of my life and 40 felt like an impossible milestone.

I was actually pretty certain that like a lot of my A-list celebrity idols, I would have burnt out long before I hit the fourth decade. I tried hard with generous slugs of vodka and copious cigarettes but I’m still here.

The funny thing is that I actually like it. I’ve gained a few scars along the way but the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. O.K., so I have a daily running battle with my ear and nasal hair and the hair on my crown grows thinner by the week. At least I don’t have to follow fashion so ardently. I actually don’t have to go through the tricky logistics of wearing trousers that start below my buttocks. I don’t have to wear things that stretch gaping holes in my ears. I can get away without having to squeeze myself into uncomfortable and unflattering fashions now. I can actually wear what suits me. Yes, I am growing old with a little bit of grace.

The most important thing about getting older for me is that I’ve learnt what I like and am no longer willing to waste loads of time on tedious things. I now know that weddings usually bore me senseless and have learnt to decline the invitations. I always say that I’ll go to the next one. If people bore me, I move on. I no longer have that desperate clamouring I once had to have people around me all the time, regardless of what their qualities are. If an activity doesn’t appeal, I don’t feel the need to indulge. I just say “No thank you” and do something else. It’s the same in relationships. I wouldn’t put up with things in my 40s that i did in my twenties.

There’s a benefit to all my grubby history. I’m not sure I believe in the adage that whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. In most cases, traumatic experiences just made me more messed up and more cautious in the future. There is a benefit to heartbreak, mental turmoil and angst though. They make you more useful to other people when they’re in crisis and give you material to write about too. I like that I’ve lost my black and white view of the world. I recall saying at 17 that if a man ever cheated on me, hit me, lied to me etc. Then I’d be off. Guess what really happened. Life is much better in greyscale.

I always thought that being older would make me totally unattractive. I look back on pictures of me in my twenties and see someone who was more gauche and uncomfortable with himself. I might have had less crow’s feet but I wouldn’t have looked you in the eye. I might not have grown up to be prime older man totty but being happier with who I am definitely makes me feel more attractive. It’s all about the confidence and knowing your style. Naturally my bedroom repertoire is wider now. I just like to do it all a little earlier now and without the need for intoxication.

People surprise me when they say that inside they still feel like teenagers. I definitely don’t. I feel better than I did aged 16 and pity anyone who doesn’t. Being young can be bloody hard. I say embrace the older version of you. It’s coming at you anyway. You might as well grow to like him or her.

Chris Bridges is a regular writer for The Gay UK and also writes more of his observations on his blog:http://www.gayboyinterrupted.blogspot.co.uk/

Have you had any bad dating experiences? For my circle of friends, both gay and straight, they seem to be the norm.

My default state has always been to be in relationships. I met my first boyfriend when I was 16 and was in the Lower Sixth and he was in the Upper Sixth. I was madly in love with him for 2 weeks and couldn’t eat or sleep. For the whole 2 weeks I thought about him constantly and loved the smell of him, the touch of him and the sight of him. I then spent another 8 weeks trying to get rid of him when I realised he was a complete nerd and irritated me intensely. There are few joys to being a hormonal and moody teenager.

I continued the pattern by then entering a relationship with a much older man which lasted 12 years and lurching almost straight from that car crash into a much healthier relationship lasting 7 years. Oddly, I suddenly found myself on my own aged 36 and felt adrift. For the first time in my adult life I was living alone and had no boyfriend.

Naturally frantic serial dating was the only option. I needed a man. Being single was alien to me. My friends told me to spend some time alone and “get to know yourself”. I was horrified by this and wondered whether I might actually like myself or not and was better staying as a stranger.

I started dating and entered a strange and scary world peopled by the desperate, the freaky and the caddish. I met a few thoroughly decent men who were unattractive to me and a handful of men who I liked who weren’t attracted to me. I also met a few freaks and oddballs along the way. I’ll list a few of the more outlandish and odd but these are merely a sample.

1. The man who was so dull that he described meeting Joan Rivers and made it an uninteresting story. We met at 8pm and he told me he was planning to get the 2am bus home. I persuaded him to get an earlier bus.

2. The man who showed me a series of photos of his hideous collection of fine porcelain. He was so dull I almost did a runner. The only thing keeping me there was the fact that his dating profile said he had an enormous knob. I expect it had a Wedgwood pattern on it in. He may also have been lying of course. I didn’t see it.

3. The man who unashamedly told me he’d worked as a male escort and had starred in many porn films but hid the fact that he had a teenage daughter as he thought it would put me off. He was fun though.

4. The man who sang along to Beyonce in his car at full volume in a high pitched voice as he drove me home. It was a convertible though. He had money but no style. He also talked a lot about his money.

5. The uptight policeman I dated for a few months who was insistent on how keen he was on me but was actually dating other men the whole time. He was getting to the point when he was choosing my clothes for me when we split up, so I think it was a lucky escape.

6. The dancer who couldn’t stop tapping his foot and doing little dance moves all the time.

7. The teacher who accidentally sent me a text message intended for someone else then pretended it was a network error caused by a virus. The message told me he wanted to suck my truncheon. It later turned out he was also dating a policeman. I think he lied about the phone virus.

8. The man who bought me a box of chocolates and a pair of tight Speedo trunks on the first date and asked over dinner if he could pull my hair really hard during sex.

I came to the conclusion that being alone wasn’t such a bad thing. I’m useless at drilling and have to pay a man to do my DIY but it gave me more time to read and I knew my house would be the same as I left it when I returned home. It took a lot of getting used to. After spending 14 months as a single man and using all the time and energy I’d put into attending bad dates into enjoying myself instead, I realised it was time well spent. I made good friends, went on a couple of holidays on my own and took in a lot of culture and art. I also read a hell of a lot of good books too.

I’ve finally met a man, quite randomly, who is making me happy which is fine and dandy. We didn’t even go on a date to meet which was a relief. I couldn’t have stood another one.

Who knows, there could be a man out there right now talking about this odd bloke called Chris who he met on a date. Now he was a real freak.

I hate to conform to stereotypes but I don’t understand sport at all. It’s a complete mystery to me.

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What is it with men, mobile phone cameras and their penises? I remember being on a date with a man once, who during the date showed me a picture of his penis. Apropos of nothing he passed me the phone and showed me the goods…

Mind you, it wasn’t a bad one, I must admit. If it had been mine I’d have been especially proud. I wonder if he often showed it during random social encounters like a coffee morning or a hand of Bridge?

In the occasionally horrifying days of internet dating (prior to meeting my current partner) I’d often click on someone’s online profile, see a nice face looking back, only to find that the rest of the photos were grisly crotch shots. Worse still would be the profiles of the married men, the not out of the closet men or the shady and shy. They generally had no picture at all and would message you and start a conversation. I’m a little bit shallow, as we all are, and looks do count for something, so would generally ask for a photo only to receive a little dick pic in my inbox a few seconds later. Most of the pictures were like so much meat in a butcher’s shop.

I met Andy (the name has been changed to protect the not so innocent) through an online site and he seemed acceptable. He sent me pictures of his face which whilst not stunning were not bad enough to scare a toddler. He was a similar age, had a good but dull job and seemed fairly polite. We met for a drink and I quickly realised that his pictures were about 5 years and several stones earlier. It’s a strange thing to do. It’s not like someone isn’t going to notice when you meet them that you’ve suddenly gained a lot of years and weight.

He was polite enough. We chatted freely and whilst he was personable I found him a little bit mundane. He rattled on a lot about his love of a certain type of music that I hate, detailing his favourite songstresses and their incredible vocal ranges. He showed me pictures of his recent decorating projects which were Ikea generic and soulless. I’d already decided not to meet him again when he told me the thing that would have sent me running anyway. He was once part of a religious sect.

He’d been thrown out of the sect when he came out and although now ex-communicated; he still believed in their entire creed and longed to still be shouting his views out loud and clear. I’ve got nothing against people with strong religious views and try hard to respect them. I just don’t want to date them. I also don’t really want to befriend them or spend any length of time in their company: anything longer than a minute, maybe.

The date ended and we didn’t kiss. He wasn’t for me. I decided to do the polite thing and just not send a text message or email again. I got home and received three text messages from him. I reconsidered and out of decency, called him and said I thought he was very nice (he was acceptable, in reality) but not for me and didn’t want to meet again. He seemed to understand this and was fine.

He messaged me five times the next day, three times the day after and six times the next. I decided the best policy was to ignore him. I’d been polite enough to state my case and surely he only needed telling once. I felt like my doorbell was being persistently rung. Finally, he tried a new tack.

What would you do if someone had declined a second date, didn’t want to message you and clearly had no interest? Yes. You guessed it. The next logical step is to send a picture of your genitals.

My phone beeped and there it was in all its chubby pink glory. Nestling under a roll of stomach sat a small plump, very pink penis in a nest of straggly pubic hair. Needless to say, this object of delight did not set me racing to call him in spite of his bland personality and conflicting religious views. It merely made me gag. I ignored him. He went away. They usually do.

Chris Bridges is a regular writer for The Gay UK and also writes a blog containing reviews, views and observations at: http://www.gayboyinterrupted.blogspot.co.uk/