THEGAYUK

Author: Mark David Woollard

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The man I thought I would marry; Part Two

    To read part one click here

    Two dates down with Rick and we still hadn’t shared anything more intimate than a handhold. This was definitely some kind of record for me. It’s been a rare occurrence for me to get past the first date without a bit of How’s your father.

    But with Rick. De nada. Not even a kiss. Some friends thought this was a bad sign. Others believed it was romantic. I started to panic. I needed to know if that spark was there when our lips locked. As Cher categorically states, “It’s in his kiss.”

    On our third date, which was only FOUR days after our second, (YES, we were certainly having a whirlwind romance), I decided a kiss had to happen. We had so much chemistry emotionally, I needed to be certain it was there physically too.

    I booked us tickets to see a one woman show in a theatre in the West End. And the one woman was none other than Amanda Muggleton. YES, Amanda Muggleton.

    I’m anticipating the perplexed looks of most readers, scratching their heads. Who the fuck is Amanda Muggleton? Well, let me tell you. She is one of my favourite actresses from the 1980’s cult classic, Prisoner: Cell Block H.

    We sat in the theatre, watching the amazing performance. (I know, I’m biased). And we were holding hands. What had this boy done to me? When it comes to friends, I have no problems expressing my emotions and feelings. But, until Rick, I’d never been very tactile when it came to men. Apart from the odd bunk up.

    As we left the theatre, we decided to grab a bite to eat. We found a beautiful little Thai place that served the most delicious Thai Green Curry. The best I’d ever got my mouth round. Rick was very cultured when it came to eating out and he was very well travelled.

    We walked back towards the tube, the moonlight glistening down on the pavement and I decided now was the time. I had a duty to Cher to find out if it’s really in his kiss. Without warning, I pounced like a lion on its prey.

    Words will NEVER do justice to THAT kiss. But if it had been a Hollywood movie, fireworks would have been exploding above our heads and topless dancers would have been doing backflips and cartwheels down Trafalgar Square.

    I had him pinned up against the wall, sheer passion erupting from my lips, like a scene out of trashy super soap FOOTBALLERS WIVES.

    He finally managed to escape my grip, and my lips, and looked me straight in the eye.

    “Alright Tanya Turner”, he managed to say, as the blood came rushing back to his gums, tongue and lips. “I feel like Conrad when Tanya fucked him on the washing machine.”

    That was the best compliment any man had ever given me. Besides Joan Collins, Zoe Lucker as Tanya Turner is my IDOL. And I really could have taken Rick on a full spin cycle. But I felt Trafalgar Square wasn’t the appropriate place for our first fornication. 

    It was time for our fourth date and we were back in Windsor, where it had all begun, just two weeks prior. After a romantic dinner date under the arches, we went for a moonlit stroll along the river. Although we didn’t make it as far as the Thames. 

    As we went to walk past a pub, three very drunken ladies stumbled out in front of us. Rick’s face dropped, faster than a whore’s drawers. Confused, I looked at Rick. And then at the ladies. And then back at Rick. Rick broke the silence.

    “MUM! AUNTY JOY! NAN!”

    I saw the horror on Rick’s face. I don’t think he had intended me to meet his family just yet. And not under these circumstances.

    “Dis… a very handsome boy you have here Rick”, I heard a woman slur as she grabbed my cheeks. I assumed it was his Nan. Unless his mum had had a hard life.

    Another of the inebriated women elbowed Rick and whispered. Well, it wasn’t actually a whisper, but I think they intended it to be.

    “You’ve done well for yourself here Rick!”

    I felt myself grow a bit taller and a slight blush pop up on my face. Although Rick was mortified and he quickly said his goodbyes to his drunken relations and abruptly dragged me off towards the river.

    Our fifth date arrived and I made the decision to do something I hadn’t done with a man since my first boyfriend way back in 2003. I invited him to meet my friends. I planned a dinner party at my house.

    We had a homemade curry and he went down a storm with my pals. Chatting, playing games and laughing. I looked at Rick interacting with my friends, and I just knew I would marry this man. How wrong could I be…

    That week, he was due to go to Canada for a month to visit a friend. As I said goodbye at the departure gates at Heathrow, I did my best Tanya Turner impression and kissed him passionately up against a terminal five wall. 

    Little did I know that that was to be our last kiss.

    The weeks went by and he was due back from Canada. Excited, I planned a romantic, home cooked, welcome back meal to mark his return. I had fillet steak, potato dauphinoise and as much as I hate the stuff, copious bottles of white zinfandel.

    But he never turned up. And I never heard from him again…

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The man I thought I would marry; Part One

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The man I thought I would marry; Part One

    I’m taking you back to 2016…

    I was lashed on my faux leather sofa, knocking back a much-needed glass of Savvy B. I can’t remember why it was much needed. It probably wasn’t. But when it comes to Savvy B, who needs a reason?

    I looked down at my phone to see a notification ping up. A Grindr notification. Looking at the half-drunk bottle of New Zealand plonk, I decided whoever it was had better be prepared to travel. I was over the limit. 

    “Hi. Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got really pretty eyes?”

    Flattery. Will. Get. You. Everywhere. 

    And thank fuck it wasn’t the usual opening line of, “can u accom?”

    It soon became apparent that Rick, that was his name, by the way, wasn’t looking for your typical Grindr one-night-stand. He was making decent conversation. It was the first time in my gay life that I could have let my Nan cast her eyes on one of my Grindr chats.

    Before we said goodnight on that first evening of conversing, he asked me if I wanted to go for a date the next day. Of course, I said YES. We agreed to meet in Windsor at 12:30 for lunch. An afternoon date. How sophisticated. 

    I made the decision to drive. I came to the conclusion that if I had my car, it would stop me from getting too pissed. As this is a constant error I seem to have made on dates over the years. No one likes a lush.

    Well… little did I know that Rick was, in fact, a lush himself. And the date would end up with me leaving my car in Windsor, resulting in a hefty parking charge when I went to retrieve my car the next day. But I won’t dwell on that and ruin the romance of this tale.

    We started off in Browns, having the most delicious lunch. And my word, what an absolutely charming chap Rick was. I’ve just read that line back. It sounds like I’m writing an 18th century novel. But I’m not even joking, he was a thoroughly decent chap.

    As for looks, he certainly wasn’t the most handsome grape in the bunch. But there was just something about him that I was immediately drawn to. He certainly wasn’t the usual type of guy I would go for, but for once, I decided I should opt for personality. Besides, going for looks hadn’t done me any favours in the past. 

    We laughed. The conversation flowed. And so did the Savvy B. Well, for me anyway. He was knocking back a well-known brand White Zinfandel. How anyone drinks that godforsaken wine, I will never know. I swear it could give you diabetes. 

    After a very boozy lunch, we decided to walk along to a pub opposite Windsor Castle. I say walk, it was more of a stumble. And then he performed the most romantic gesture.

    A Browns, A Church, A Parking Ticket .. and a lot of wine.

    Before I reveal this grand gesture, I must tell you all of a very geeky hobby of mine, of which I indulged in telling Rick over lunch. I absolutely adore visiting churches and cathedrals. 

    And as we stumbled to the watering hole, Rick spotted an open church and grabbed my hand, insisting we go in and have a look, knowing how fond I am of them. I could have cried at that moment. I don’t think I’d ever met a man who had performed such a thoughtful act.

    After our impromptu visit to one of God’s houses, we continued on our quest to find our next glass of plonk. Once inside, we found a quaint corner table on their upstairs, outdoors balcony, overlooking Windsor Castle. We moved in closer to each other, clearly apparent we found each other insatiably attractive. 

    I found myself holding his hand. An act I’ve never been fond of in public, but it just felt right with Rick. And we couldn’t take our eyes off of each other’s gaze. Straight into the old pork pies, we both looked intently.

    Time went nowhere and before we knew it, it was 6:30. We’d been together six hours. Realising how intoxicated we were, we decided it was sensible to get the train home. Going opposite directions, we left each other on our respective platforms and blew a kiss across the tracks.

    No physical, on the lips kiss. And no talk of a quick bunk up. Unheard of for me. I knew it must be serious. 

    As my train pulled away from the platform, my phone bleeped. I looked at a text message. Rick.

    “That was the best date. EVER.”

    As my friends will proclaim, I’m not one for being soppy. But my eyes actually pricked with tears. Tears of happiness. 

    Within three days, we were on our second date. This time we opted for a Sunday lunch at a pub in Virginia Water. A place I childishly refer to as VAGINA waters. For those of you not local, this is a beautiful lake, on the outskirts of London, that you can walk around. 

    After a beautiful roast beef dinner with all the trimmings, filled with laugher, sparks and endless conversation, we went for a romantic walk around the lake. Holding hands. STOP PRESS. What had Rick done to me?

    I looked out at the lake, took a deep breath and stared Rick straight in the eyes.

    “I think I might marry this man.”

    Obviously, I said that in my head. And not out loud.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | LOCKDOWN – “I had to stop masturbating, I was becoming far too addicted”

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | LOCKDOWN – “I had to stop masturbating, I was becoming far too addicted”

    The Sex Files, THE UNDATEABLE GAY reviews his past encounters and the issues of having a high sex drive.

    Not only has Coronavirus put us into a situation where we have been separated from our friends and families, but it has also given us singletons an extra problem.

    When the hell can we have sex again? I’m not saying I’m a slut but I’ve got needs. I’m craving a one night stand. 

    It is almost five months since this enforced dry was spell was pushed upon us. I’m so horny, I’ve even started to perve on our postman. Who is a balding, rather old gentleman with a beer belly.

    I’ve even noticed my straight housemate’s husband has started walking around with a padlock attached to his trousers. Okay, so I made that bit up. But you get the idea.

    I even had to stop masturbating for a few days as I was becoming far too addicted to the act. And noticed I was getting rather sore. Too much friction, I fear.

    But it’s got me reminiscing about some of my one night stands and sexual encounters from days gone by…

    1500

    I remember George. Now he was a handsome sort. And he wasn’t just a one night stand actually. Oh no. We had sex on numerous occasions over the course of a few months. I suppose you would call him a fuck buddy.

    Any ex-boyfriend of mine who might be reading will tell you – I have an incredibly high sex drive. Give me ten minutes to have a wee and a suck on my vape and I can go again. No problem.

    Except this did turn out to be a problem for George. Who couldn’t keep up with me. And one night (after we’d made love FOUR times), he got up from the bed, slight limp and informed me he wouldn’t be able to see me again. And so I was dumped by my FB for having a high sex drive.

    Ahhh. And then there was AJ. A very beautiful Australian bloke. He was such a tentative, seductive and attentive shag. As we were between the sheets, I felt like we were performing a sex scene from 80’s super soap, DYNASTY.

    And I couldn’t help but declare my satisfaction. Mid-way through love making, I stopped, grabbed his face and declared:

    “You’re such a passionate lover!” A la Joan Collins style.

    And when I say Joan Collins. I mean it. I imitated her accent, seductive purr and  glamorous pout to a tee. I was so proud. He was less impressed with my impersonation. He quickly finished and made his excuses to leave, never to be heard of again.

    And then there was Jimmy. Now, he wasn’t just sex. Oh no, no. We’d met on Gaydar. All my older gays will remember this site. It was big long before Grindr came along. 

    Jimmy made it perfectly clear that he wanted more than just sex. He wanted us to get to know each other. I remember he worked at Tesco. So one night, when he finished his shift, I went to pick him up in my car. I thought we could go for a romantic drive.

    It was a cold winter’s night, deep into December. I’d love to say it was snowing to make the story sound more romantic, but I’d be lying.

    We pulled over to admire the Christmas lights on Oxford Street and I could see Jimmy was shivvering.

    “I’ll give you a blow job to warm you up!” I blurted out. I was joking of course but Jimmy was more prudish than I’d given him credit for. And clearly lacked a sense of humour. 

    “How rude!” He retorted. And quickly made his excuses so that I would drop him home.

    And I will NEVER forget Liam. I met him in a pub and we just clicked. I did notice that he kept going to the toilet during our date. I just assumed he had a weak bladder. And he seemed to sniff a lot. I just assumed he might be getting a cold.

    Before I knew it, he’d taken me back to his place. No sooner had the front door shut behind us, Liam lifted me up, kissing me passionately and carried me into the bedroom. He lifted his leg to slam the bedroom door behind us. And then threw me onto the bed. Very macho. I felt like Tanya Turner in Footballers Wives. 

    I already felt aroused so I pulled his trousers down and was presented with a VERY flaccid penis. How could he not have an erection? He could read my thoughts.

    “Sorry. I’ve been taking coke all night.” Well, that killed the moment.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The first time I had my heart broken

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The first time I had my heart broken

    The summer of 2002. A year after I’d come out to my parents with no fanfare. It was also the year when Sex and the City only had EIGHT episodes in that year’s season. Devastated. All because Sarah Jessica Parker was pregnant. So selfish.

    I’d just fallen in love with a guy. It was the first time I’d been in love. Although with the benefit of hindsight, I don’t think I was truly in love. But it made my heart feel good all the same. 

    His name was Darren. I remember thinking he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He had the most glorious mop of blonde hair and my god, he was sodding tall.

    And that was the moment I had my education in the tall guy, huge cock lesson of life. It was so wide, I could barely get my mouth round it. And for those who know me personally, know how big my gob is. Say no more.

    But I digress here. I wasn’t supposed to get to the tale of his penis yet. But thinking about it again after all these years, got me all excited. And I just couldn’t wait to tell you all.

    Darren was the year above me at college. An older man. I was only 17 and he was 18. I felt so sophisticated bagging myself a bloke who was a whole year older than me. 

    To add to the sophistication and class of the situation, I got my gay best friend from college, Khan, to test the waters for me. I was far too shy to ask him out myself. I hadn’t quite grown into my SAMANTHA confidence stakes yet. 

    Getting the green light from Khan, I found myself on the most romantic date of my life. In case that doesn’t translate from the page, that was sarcasm. He took me for lunch at GREGGS.

    To this day, I’m still partial to a Greggs. I can never have just one item either. It always has to be a chicken tikka baguette, a pizza slice and an apple Danish. Fat fuck, I know. But I’ve never been obsessed with having a Muscle Mary body.

    Although it took me a few years after Darren, before I could step inside a Greggs store without a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. Melodramatic I know, but I was a teenage boy, in love for the first time. Forgive me. 

    In the afternoon after ‘THAT’ date, I found myself in a massive cliché. We ended up behind the bike sheds and before you could say ‘steak bake’, he had his tongue down my throat.

    Whoever coined the phrase, ‘you have to kiss a few frogs before you meet your prince’, was right on the money. For this bike shed fumble was exactly what I imagined kissing a frog would be like. 

    He clearly hadn’t had enough to eat at Greggs, as he seemed to make the decision to eat half my face. His lips engulfed my lips. AND my nose. AND my cheekbones. 

    I surfaced from the kiss with a redraw face. It had been sucked to within an inch of its life. I thought he was about to take my face and stick it in the back of a car window. And with the amount of saliva I appeared to have on my face, even a hacksaw wouldn’t have prised me off that window.

    I was dating a face sucker. But I decided I could train him to keep his mouth on my lips ONLY. And besides, I idolised him.

    We had a few more lunch dates in Greggs. What can I say? I’m a cheap date. And then he started inviting me round to his house when his parents went out for the night. Very illicit and teenage-esque.

    And this is when I came face to face with the tree trunk. AKA, his penis. I must say, for a few years after Darren had left my life, many men were a disappointment to me in the trouser department. Until I came to the realisation that Darren was an exception to most men. He had an exceptionally large manhood.

    My new found love was all going swimmingly. I was planning the house we would live in, how many kids we would have and what our wedding would be like. Before anyone judges me, remember I was a 17 year old teenager, experiencing my first taste of love.

    And then it all came crashing down around me. Khan had bumped into Darren on a night out.

    Darren grabbed Khan’s face and tried to kiss him. Khan pulled away.

    “I love you. Not Mark”, the bastard declared. Sorry, I mean Darren.

    Khan walked away from Darren and decided he should do the decent thing and inform me immediately. He phoned me and told me he needed to see me. I went to pick him up in my Toby Talbot.

    He told me of the night’s events and I melodramatically exited the car, a la Sex and the City style. And I cried in the street. My heart broke and as tears streamed down my face, I wondered if my heart would ever mend.

  • COMMENT | Being homosexual is not a commodity you can buy online

    COMMENT | Being homosexual is not a commodity you can buy online

    I saw a homophobic comment on Twitter today that really made me angry and I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I had to retaliate. 

    “I don’t mind you lot being gay as long as you don’t promote it to my children.”

    Oh yes, because it’s advertised on big billboards and television adverts. “BE GAY. BUY YOUR SEXUALITY ONLINE TODAY!” We even have Buy one Get One Free sales in some of the supermarkets. I don’t think. The idiocy and bigotry of some people really gets on my goat.

    Have we not evolved enough by now that people cannot see? Homosexuality comes as part of your gene package. It’s not a choice or a bargain you can pick up in Harrods. The sheer fact that there are still many human beings who do not feel brave enough to ‘come out’ proves we cannot choose who we are. You cannot pick your sexuality. If you could, why do we hear these endless heartbreaking stories of people who commit suicide or are in ‘straight’ marriages just because they can’t face their homosexuality?

    As for promoting it to children. I have three nephews. My eldest is almost 18 and we are incredibly close. When he was growing up, we would go to the theatre, football matches and restaurants together. At eight years old, he asked if I was gay. We never lied to him. 

    So he has lived in the knowledge that his Uncle Mark is gay for a decade. He has had a couple of sexual encounters with girls and a girlfriend. We obviously haven’t turned him gay by educating him about different sexualities from an early age. I’ve been surrounded by a football-mad family all my life. And I still can’t stand football. 

    So would this Twitter troll who says we should not promote homosexuality to children for fear we will turn them gay like to stand up please. And admit your statement is ludicrous and unfounded. Otherwise, why are my nephews not gay? Because you can’t choose it, that’s why.

    What we are actually achieving by being honest and teaching children that not everyone conforms to the straight mould is enhancing the world with acceptance. And hopefully saving some of these poor souls who are too scared to accept their own sexuality.

    In fact, I jokingly called myself a poof recently. My nephew and his same age best friend told me off for using such language. “It’s not PC!”, they shouted at me. Now that was refreshing.

    And this is the kind of valuable gain we get from promoting homosexuality to children, Mr Twitter Troll.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY – How I came out to my parents

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY – How I came out to my parents

    It was the summer of 2001. Bridget Jones’ Diary had just been released at Easter and Tullene and myself had already seen it five times. It was a few weeks until my 18th birthday and I’d just passed my driving test.

    I can still remember my first car to this day. It was a Talbot. I don’t even know if that make of car is still in existence. Car make and models are not my specialist subject. It was my pride and joy though, a beautiful silver colour and I called it Toby. Toby the Talbot.

    I bought it off my mum’s mate, Barbara for fifty quid. Apparently she didn’t want to charge me anything but my mother insisted she make me pay something. She was very keen on teaching me the value of money!

    Many a night after the passing of my driving test, Tullene and I, along with our fellow best friends Amber and Gemma would often be found driving aimlessly around Central London. Well, it was something to do. We clearly thought we were hard nuts.

    We’d blare Destiny’s Child’s ‘Bootylicious’ from the car CD player, windows down, partying through the polluted London streets in my Toby. 

    I remember one particular night when we stopped at some traffic lights on Oxford Street. I hung out the window with a frying pan. (Don’t ask me why we had a frying pan in the car. We were 17!) Clutching onto the random cooking utensil, I asked a woman if she fancied a fry up. I’m guessing she didn’t fancy one by the disgusted look she threw my way.

    The lights turned green and we sped off towards Bond Street. The woman looked at us as though we’d escaped from the asylum and we all laughed hysterically. Oh the idiocy of youth.

    I’ve completely digressed off the subject of my coming out story to my parents but I feel describing my beautiful Toby Talbot is important in setting the scene. He played a vital role in the story.

    I was fast approaching my 18th birthday and I’d fallen in love with a boy in the year above me at college. Darren. But he’s a story for a later date. I decided that before I declared my love for Darren, I had to tell my mum and dad I was gay. 

    I pulled up outside Tullene’s house and beeped my horn. I heard Mummy Pat (Tullene’s mum) shout out the window. “Keep the noise down!” Tullene came running out the house and jumped in Toby.

    “We’re going to see Mummy and Daddy Woollard”, I told her.

    “Why?”

    “Tonight’s the night.”

    Being my best friend, she knew exactly what I meant. I couldn’t do it on my own. I needed Tullene by my side. And she still is by my side through most dramas, twenty years later.

    Driving onto the council estate where I lived, I could feel my hands getting clammy and beads of sweat on my forehead. Yes, I could sweat back then. I was only 17 remember and hadn’t a need for botox yet.

    We parked outside the back gate and Tullene went to open the passenger door. 

    “NOT YET!” I screamed, unnecessarily loudly. I saw her wig nearly hit the roof as she jumped as a reaction to my bellowing.

    I say wig and not head, as Tullene has a vast collection of wigs that she adorns on her scalp. She would be the envy of any drag queen. She has a hairpiece for every occasion.

    “I need a cigarette to calm my nerves.”

    I grabbed a Marlboro light from my glove box and puffed on it like my life depended on it. 

    How could that 17-year-old boy afford Marlboro lights?, I hear you cry. Well, this was 2001 remember and they were only £3.99 for a packet of twenty in those days. I don’t smoke any longer but I believe they are about twelve quid a pack now. I don’t know how anyone affords to smoke these days.

    As we sat there, chugging on a ciggy, I saw my sister Clare pull up in her car. She had a purple Fiesta which was later to become my car after Toby Talbot went up to motor vehicle heaven. And she would become Fiona Fiesta.

    “What are you doing out here?” Clare enquired as she came up to say hello.

    “I’ve got something to tell mum and dad.”

    “What?”

    “I’m gay.”

    “Okay then. Let’s go inside and tell them.”

    I lost my bottle. I quickly started the engine and swore my sister to secrecy. And then me and Tullene sped off. Driving around Central London, I heard a beep from my Nokia 3310 to indicate a text message. It soon became apparent my sister was no good at keeping secrets.

    “Read the message to me Tullene.”

    It was from my mum.

    “We still love you”, it said.

    And there you have it. No fanfares or whistles in this coming out story. Just a sister with a big gob.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY – That time I got pissed on

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY – That time I got pissed on

    The year Mark Haddon’s novel “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” was published. The year Dirty Den made his comeback in EastEnders. And the year Jemini entered the Eurovision Song Contest with “Cry Baby.” The song which gained the worst placing ever for the United Kingdom. I personally quite like the song. It’s even on my iPod to this day.

    It was also the year when I still considered myself to be dateable. I had been with my current boyfriend for almost six months and I was head over heels in love. I thought I was going to marry this man, Sam.

    We first met when I was still a customer service manager for Budgens’ supermarket and he worked in the hairdressers next door. I would often walk past the salon, slyly looking through the window using only my peripheral vision. And more often than not, I would see him staring back at me. And then I would feel my heart flutter inside my chest.

    SHEER CHEESE, I know, but I was still a hopeless romantic back then. Years of unsuccessful dating hadn’t yet made me bitter or cynical. 

    One day, I finally plucked up the courage to ask him out. Well, I say I plucked up the courage. What actually happened was that I made my friend Tullene go inside the salon to hand him a piece of paper. On said piece of paper, I had written my phone number.

    That night, I was pissed in the local pub. Quelle Surprise! And up popped a text. Yes, a text. Not a WhatsApp. It was 2003 remember. It was from the hairdresser of my dreams. I was so excited and almost hyperventilated. Tullene had to give me a little slap.

    Before I knew it, I was in G-A-Y at the Astoria on a date! YES, The Astoria! Oh my god. How I miss that place. All through my late teens and right into my twenties, I would spend Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights in there, dancing the night away. I look back and I think, ‘how on earth did I afford to be out that much?’ And then I remember double vodkas were only £1.50 and you could get a blow job for a quid.

    No, you youngsters reading, prostitutes were not that cheap back in 2003. A Blow Job was a delicious shot available in many gay venues. It may well still be in this day and age but my clubbing days are over, so I’m less informed of the shot menu of gay establishments.

    For those who have never had a Blow Job, make one at home. Pour Amaretto in the base of a shot glass and top with coffee liqueur. Layer Irish Cream on top of that and then squirt on some whipped cream. Delicious! I might actually make one tonight now. It will certainly be the first blow job I’ve had in a while. Cue violins.

    Anyway, I’ve digressed. This is meant to be a tale of being pissed on and not actually being PISSED.

    After six months of sheer cheesy love and romance, I decided it was time we took a mini-break. So off we went down to my favourite place in the whole of the United Kingdom- West Wittering.

    Driving along the A3, “Crazy in Love” by Beyoncé blaring from the speakers, windows down and the wind blowing through our hair. Yes, I still had hair back then. I hadn’t succumbed to the fate of my Dad’s gene pool quite yet. 

    And out of nowhere, the wind lifted the baseball cap from my bonce and we saw it blowing away down the A3, back towards London. Very Bridget Jones-esque. 

    Lying on the beach, sand between our toes and the sea glistening in the June sunshine, I looked across at my perfect boyfriend and held his hand. I had never felt so happy. I was a naïve 19-year-old and now, almost twenty years later, I can see it was never going to end happily. But hindsight is a wonderful tool.

    To end the peace and romance of the moment, Sam suddenly screamed.

    “OH MY GOD! It’s a Jellyfish!”

    And all of a sudden, I felt a large splat on my chest. The bastard had thrown it at me. Jumping up, I screamed.

    “YOU IDIOT!”

    I saw seaweed fall from my chest to the sand below. It had been a practical joke.

    Within seconds, I had returned the joke by flinging seaweed at his face (yes, his face. No half measures for me, I go straight for the jugular!) I screamed,

    “JELLYFISH!”

    His camp scream and running, well, mincing actually off down the sand made it all worthwhile. A few minutes later, I felt another splat against my chest. Within a few seconds, I felt an intense stinging. As the culprit slipped from my chest, it was clear to see it was an ACTUAL Jellyfish this time.

    “You Prick!” I bellowed as I began to go red and blotchy.

    We went up to the shop, desperate to find some E45. But, not surprisingly, the beach shop didn’t stock it as part of their product range.

    “I could piss on you”, Sam suggested.

    “Now is not the time or place to begin acting out your sexual fantasies!” I retorted.

    He reassured me that urine is apparently a good ointment to deal with a Jellyfish sting. And as this was 2003, I didn’t have the luxury of Google on my Nokia 3310 to support his claims. 

    Desperate, red, itchy and stinging, I threw myself to the floor, well hidden behind my car and Sam whapped his cock out. Before I knew it, my chest was being used as a urinal.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | downloads Plenty of Fish

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | downloads Plenty of Fish

    I do it every Christmas period. For some unbeknown reason, usually around Boxing Day, I decide it might be a good idea to go in search of a husband. I don’t know what comes over me. It must be the excessive plonk consumed over the festive period.

    Or, on a more serious note, it could be the fact that Christmas makes me feel all loved up and warm and fuzzy inside. And gives me the notion that it might actually be nice to fall in love after all.

    Although I must confess I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in requited love. Without wanting anybody to crack out the violins, it has been more years than I care to remember.

    iPhone at the ready… Plenty OF Fish downloaded… And snap.

    So, there I was on Boxing Day night, staring at the present-less Christmas tree, clutching a bottle of Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. Yes, I know it’s rare for anything other than New Zealand savvy B to pass my lips but I do like to treat myself from time to time.

    After my third large Scotch, I stood up determinedly and declared to myself that I would find a husband. Dramatically pressing the buttons on my iPhone, I downloaded Plenty of Fish.

    Obviously, I picked my best photographs and kept my profile simple.

    “Love to laugh, love to have fun. Love the theatre, the beach, swimming, reading and writing. And I love men!”

    Within minutes, a lovely looking chap called Matthew pops up in my inbox. Yes, I know, I just used the word CHAP. I’m clearly getting old. I even used the word DISCO when describing a CLUB the other day.

    Anyway, back to Matthew who seemed rather forward.

    “Let’s video chat”, he insisted.

    Okay, I thought. At least I’ll get to see him in the flesh and it will give me a glimpse of his true personality. It’s so easy to hide behind a keyboard.

    As I pressed accept on the video chat, I saw that he was topless. I was in a two-piece pyjama set but each to their own.

    The call starts off with small talk and then he pans down his pecs and six-pack. What a body, I think to myself.

    And then he comes to his piece de resistance. I see him clutching his fully erect manhood, rather seductively. Now, I’m no prude but in my naivety, I truly believed this video call was to be an initial test to judge our compatibility.

    “Watch me wank!” He bellows through the iPhone screen at me.

    Being the ever-accommodating gay boy, I oblige. But after his voyeurism, I never hear from Matthew again and I notice that he’s blocked me. Bastard.

    Never mind, an extremely cute bloke called Louie pops up into my inbox to distract my attention away from being dumped by Matthew.

    Within seconds, I notice that Louie is probably not looking for a relationship. His profile classes him as straight and looking for a woman. What is it with Plenty of Fish and straight men chasing the homos?

    Well, Louie was beautiful and willing, so who am I to turn down a chat, gay or not? He started the proceedings.

    “Do you want me to wank for you Sir? I’m so horny Daddy. Can I call you Daddy?”

    Being an ex-holiday park entertainer, I’m not one to turn down the chance to partake in performing arts.

    “Yes, you can call me Daddy. And you better respect me”, I typed sniggering.

    “Okay. Tell me what you want me to do Master Daddy.”

    In the meantime, I see another supposedly straight man arrive in my inbox. Terry. He wants me to make a video for him. And he’s certainly precise in his direction. Eat your heart out Stephen Spielberg.

    “Have your legs over your shoulders with your wet fingers running over your juicy hole.”

    Not being an acrobat, I feared I may have problems in obliging. And being a writer, I’m not opposed to engaging in a bit of naughty talk. But I draw the line at dirty videos. You never know when they might come back to bite you on the bum. Pun intended.

    This time I took a leaf out of Matthew’s book and made use of the block feature of the app.

    And then, just as I was about to give up, my fortunes changed. An ‘actual’ gay man sent me a message. Darren. And he asks for no dirty talk or sexually explicit videos. He engages in purely decent conversation, obviously on a quest to find love.

    We spend a few days sending endless messages to each other. It was going so well. We’d even started to arrange a first date.

    He happens to ask me what I’m giving up for Lent. I inform him that I’m giving up swearing.

    “Is your swearing really that bad?” He asks me.

    “I’d be lying if I said the C U Next Tuesday word doesn’t often leave my lips. Back off now if you’re easily offended.”

    And then Darren showed me that he’s also capable of making use of the block button. What a C…

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Joins a gay walking group

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Joins a gay walking group

    For years, my friends have been nagging me to get some gay friends. Apparently they’re concerned that my circle consists of straight ladies, their husbands and my gaggle of old dears from the church.

    “You’ll never find a life partner surrounded by us!” Are they trying to tell me something? Lucky I’m not a sensitive soul otherwise I might think they were trying to palm me off. 

    In a way, I guess they’re right. Being stuck in my circle of ‘straights’ is probably not the most pro-active approach to meeting ‘the one’ or any gay friends come to that.

    After their persistent advice, I finally decided to take action. I Googled gay men’s groups. And up popped a gay man’s dinner club. I quickly searched for the date of the next meal, only to discover the group was now defunct.

    Probably for the best. I’m sure it would have ended up involving copious amounts of alcohol and I’d have bedded half the men before you could say ‘gay men’s dinner club.’

    Known for my perseverance, I refused to give up at the first hurdle. As I scoured the Google search engine, the Gay Outdoor Club caught my eye.

    Once I’d clarified that it wasn’t a dogging event, I became increasingly disinterested. JOKE. I became very interested. 

    I soon discovered that it was a gay walking group. How exciting. Not only would I get to meet fellow gays, I would get exercise and fresh air into the bargain. I had two options to choose from. A London group or the Surrey Hills. Coming to the conclusion that I could walk around London anytime, I decided on the Surrey Hills.

    I also noticed that they indulge in coffee and cake at the end of each walk. Cute. And the cakes are baked by some of the members. Being an amateur Mary Berry myself, this gave my spatula a twinge of excitement.

    Armed with a lemon drizzle loaf (my speciality), I nervously turned up at my first walk. This particular day was a 13-mile ramble around Hascombe. Yes, Hascombe. I still don’t bloody know where it is but it’s blooming beautiful.

    Shaking hands with all the men that were attending the walk was daunting and as the introductions finished, it was clear that I bought the median age range down by about twenty years. 

    One of the older guys came up to me and offered me a sweet from an open bag he had in his hand. Ignoring advice I’d been given as a child about accepting sweets from strangers, my hand reached into his sweetie bag. 

    “Which colour willy would you like?” He bellowed as my fingers realised they were fiddling with sugar-laden penises. 

    As we set off on our walk, the usual small talk ensued as I was asked, “Where do you live?” “What’s your job?” But it was so bloody nice. The surroundings were glorious and I was engaging in conversation with some really friendly people. And they were gay. My friends would be so proud of me. The only conversations I’ve had with gay men in recent years have been via Grindr. 

    A few miles in and this rather charming, camp man came up to me and grabbed me by the arm. Maybe this is a dogging group after all, I thought as I felt his hand on my arm.

    “I just have to tell you darling. Your eyebrows are FABULOUS! They are even better than Kim Kardashians!”

    We soon spent the rest of the afternoon laughing and talking random rubbish with each other. We had the same stupid sense of humour and outrageous outlook on life. 

    As I left the walk that day, my eyebrow admirer came running up to kiss me goodbye. “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life!” He said as we embraced. And it was true. We had clicked automatically. And do you know what was even more refreshing? It was a purely platonic encounter. I certainly felt no romantic notion towards him and I knew the feeling was mutual. 

    As the walks are only once a month, I found myself counting down the days until the next one. I’ve now been a member for five months and have loved every minute of the days out.

    It’s so amazing seeing parts of the countryside that I would never, ever venture into. And with wonderful conversation and laughs from many beautiful souls I’ve met. It’s innuendo city most of the time. Which is right up my alley. Pardon the pun.

    It’s the best decision I’ve made in years to join. My advice to you all: Even if you feel scared, just take the plunge. Join that group, book that trip. Grab life by the balls!

    During the most recent walk, I engaged in conversation with the chairman. 

    “We are always looking for new people to lead the walks”, he told me.

    “I’d bloody get us lost!” I insisted. 

    “That’s what I thought five years ago and look at me now. I lead walks and I’m the chairman!”

    “Are you trying to groom me?” I quickly retorted. Oh, how we laughed.

    Jokes aside, Tullene (my best friend) later said to me that she can see me becoming the chairman one day. Watch this space!

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That date when I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | That date when I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly

    You would have thought that I’d learnt my lesson about venturing outside of London for dates. But no, ever the glutton for punishment, when my latest beau, Kevin suggested a day trip to Brighton, I jumped at the chance.

    Kevin was/is the son of my then hairdresser. I say was as he’s no longer in my life and his mum no longer puts a pair of scissors anywhere near my bonce.

    This one day, she was chopping away at my rather thinning hair and she started talking about Kevin. Although I knew she had a gay son, I’d never met him.

    “Oh Mark. My Kevin’s just split up with his fella. He could do with cheering up.”

    Alarm bells should have immediately started ringing in my ears. REBOUND. But this is me after all and I’m never one for saying no. Infact, NO has always been a word that struggles to leave my lips. Perhaps that’s why certain people have called me a slut over the years.

    No sooner had the words, “Okay, I’d love to meet him” left my gob, this tall, jaw droppingly handsome man appeared from behind the door.

    She was either a magician or this had been a planned set up. Seeing his gorgeous flop of brown hair and deep set green eyes quickly made me erase all thoughts of my hairdressers’ wizardry. Either that, or she’d wiped out my memory with another spell of black magic.

    We caught each other’s eyes and I saw a glint in both his and mine. I smiled and I witnessed him become rather dazzled at the sight of my pearly whites. I’d been to the hygienist that particular day for a clean and polish.

    “Do you fancy a day trip to Brighton?” He forwardly asked me.

    “Damn right!” I blurted out quicker than you could say pier.

    Before I knew it, we were at Euston waiting for the twelve minutes past ten fast train. We chatted with ease and laughed a lot. We had the same stupid sense of humour.

    Gadini / Pixabay

    I soon found a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from the train’s buffet table was going down a treat. Luckily, he shared my love of all things Savvy B. Except he appeared to love it much more than me. He was already on his second glass before I was even half way through my first.

    But, as you know, the good Catholic boy that I am, I shalt not judge.

    No sooner were we off the train, Kevin had his lips firmly plastered around another glass of savvy b inside The Queen’s Arms. My eyes widened as I saw him pour the wine down his gullet quicker than Jaws approaching a surf board.

    As my friends quite often say, “if Mark is shocked by someone’s behaviour, then that’s saying something”. It MUST be shocking. Now, until I spent some time with Kevin, I thought that I could put the Savvy B away. But he made me look like a tee-total monk.

    After god knows how many glasses in The Queen’s Arms, he suggested we take a walk along the pier. Well, I say walk. By this point, it was more of a stumble.

    Stumbling along the pier, we ventured into the arcade. As we came out the other side, Kevin grabbed my hand with excitement. How romantic, I thought, the way he’s clutching at my hand with such enthusiasm. It soon became clear that the over zealous way he held my hand had more to do with the pub on the pier he had spotted and was now dragging me into.

    Five more glasses of vino for Kevin and just two more for me, I was struggling to keep up. I suggested we get some sea air. I thought it might help sober us up, if nothing else.

    wilhei / Pixabay

    As we ventured out onto Brighton sea front, I turned to look at the pier all lit up. What a beautiful sight. Suddenly confused, I turned to look at Kevin who seemed to be sporting two heads.

    “I didn’t know there were two piers!” God knows how I was managing to string a sentence together.

    “There is only one pier”, Kevin told me, “the other one burnt down in the eighties.”

    With hindsight, I realise the copious amounts of Sauvignon Blanc had probably started to affect my vision.

    “Revenge should be open by now!” Kevin grabbed my hand rather enthusiastically. The fact that I struggled to put one foot in front of the other should have been a massive hint that I was ready to get the train back to London.

    Just as we went to cross the road, a policeman tapped me on the shoulder. My head flopping from side to side, I managed to turn to face him without falling flat on my boatrace.

    “Don’t you think it’s time you called it a night.” P.C Plod advised, obviously observing my inebriated state.

    Wanting to nod my head, I didn’t get a chance to respond as Kevin took the lead.

    “The night is only just beginning!”

    “It looks like it began a long while ago!”

    I do like a policeman with a sense of humour.

    Ignoring the officer of the law, Kevin took my hand once more and started to pull me away from P.C Plod. Struggling to stay in an upright position, I found myself clinging onto the policeman’s shirt.

    And before you could say, old bill, I had fallen to the pavement, pulling P.C Plod on top of me. And then, just to put the icing on the cake, the Savvy B (and empty stomach) finally caught up with Kevin. I saw projectile vomit launch towards us.

    “I’m arresting you both for being drunk and disorderly in a public place.”

    Those were the last words I heard before my eyes opened again in the cold light of day. Sunshine beaming through police cell bars.

    I got the train home to London all on my own.

    Receiving a caution on a date was a sure fire way to ensure that a second date with Kevin was definitely not on the cards.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | My ‘ALMOST’ happy ending…

    THE UNDATEABLE GAY | My ‘ALMOST’ happy ending…

    After a long-term, online, long-distance relationship with a guy that turned out to be transgender, THE UNDATEABLE GAY goes to meet the man of his dreams…

    using your mobile phone too much
    CREDIT: bigstock-kalim

    I’ve deleted all my dating apps. There’s not one to be found on my iPhone. I was fed up with all the curious straight men chatting to me on Plenty of Fish. And annoyed at everybody on Grindr being shallow and only wanting one thing. And don’t even get me started on Tinder. I may only be in my 30s but I’m rather Granny like when it comes to technology.

    After an unfortunate incident involving a 70-year-old lady and swiping right, and then being slightly stalked and receiving numerous invites for coffee and cake, I decided that Tinder was no good for me either.

    I’ve taken to more intellectual apps these days. My favourite is Words with Friends. For those of you not in the know, this is Scrabble. But on your phone. And you can play with anyone, anywhere in the world.

    One day, I started playing with this very handsome man called Joshua. Yes, you get to see a photo of who you’re playing with. I kept perving on his picture whilst waiting for him to play his move, praying he would start a conversation.

    And then the Lord answered my prayers and a chat popped up. Although it was a little ambiguous. Remember, this is not a gay app, so there’s no way of knowing whether the person you’re playing with fancies you. Or even if they’re a raving homo.

    After putting my journalistic training into practice, it was soon confirmed that Joshua was flirting with me and did indeed fancy me.

    He was only 25. Ten years younger than me but I decided that I could be a cougar if I wanted. And he lived in Southampton. I was a bit disappointed that he wasn’t in London but hey-ho, it’s only an hour’s drive or a train ride! And besides, I’ve become so institutionalized with being single, I thought it’d be perfect to have a man who didn’t live in my pocket.

    We spent months talking on the phone, exchanging WhatsApp messages and sending each other photos. I don’t think I’ve ever fancied a man as much as I had Joshua.

    He was just my type; Tattoos, quite butch and BLOODY handsome.

    We had so much in common. We drank like fishes. We had potty mouths and both adored the C U Next Tuesday word. And we both had quite common, rough around the edges accents. Surely it was a match made in heaven.

    We even discussed growing older together. And I’d never met another man who shared the same views as me about how we should behave in a care home as an old couple together. We both agreed that it would be wheelchair races through the corridors. And slipping under the table for a sly blowjob during bingo.

    A few months of a long-distance telephone relationship, I decided it was finally time to bite the bullet. Being the older gentleman, I took the lead and arranged to get the train from London to Southampton. I was finally going to meet the man of my dreams, my perfect match.

    Two days before the big first date, he sent me a message declaring, “We’re perfect for each other, I swear.” I swooned at the words and I was of the same opinion. We were so similar, the way we spoke, the thoughts we had. It was scary.

    The night before I was due to catch my train to Southampton, we had a very interesting text conversation.

    JOSHUA: Probably something I should tell you before you come in case it puts you off.

    ME: What??

    JOSHUA: I’m transgender. I was born a female. I know you’ll probably freak and it’s fine.

    MARK: I don’t give a shit. I know you as Joshua and I fancy you.

    The morning of the date arrived and the sun was shining so brightly. The sun shines on the righteous, my dear Nan always said.

    I arrived at Southampton Docks in plenty of time for our meeting. We’d agreed on 1 pm. It got to ten past and no sign of him. I tried to call. No answer. It got to twenty past. I sent two messages. No reply.

    As the clock hit 2 pm, I thought, What a C U Next Tuesday. I’ve come all the way from London and you don’t even have the common human decency to show up or even respond to my attempts at contact.

    Being ever the positive boy that I am, I decided that I would not waste my day. The sun was beating down and it was the most beautiful day so I spent my unexpected free time wondering around Southampton. I had a few glasses of wine, ate a spot of lunch and watched the world go by.

    A few glasses of savvy b later, I decided it was time to get the train back to London. But not before I sent one final message to Joshua. I simply had to have the final word:

    “I had a lovely day in the sun at Southampton Docks. I thought it best not to waste the train tickets so I spent the day in Southampton anyway. I wouldn’t worry what people think of you because you’re transgender. I’d be more concerned with what people think of you because you’re a bit of a cunt.”