THEGAYUK

Author: Mark David Woollard

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes to the Taj Mahal

    “They ripped open my man bag and pulled out my Gay Times magazine”

    As you have probably guessed by the fact I’m writing part three of my Indian adventures, Tullene and I survived the cobra in the suitcase. Well, I say Cobra, it was actually a piece of polythene rustling under the air conditioning.

    Now, no visit to India would be complete without a trip to the Taj Mahal. So, in our private hire car, we got, complete with our own driver. Only the best for us.

    As we set off, I was reminded once more of the very bumpy roads. Clearly, no one pays road tax in India. Or if they do, the government certainly doesn’t spend the money on improving roads. The number of times my head bounced off the roof, I’m surprised I didn’t get a concussion. I came over all unnecessary as my bum kept swallowing up the seat belt holder.

    After being constantly violated by the seat belt holder, we finally arrived at the Taj Mahal. Now, as my friends will inform you, I am rarely rendered speechless but on this occasion, I had no words. It’s one of the most beautiful sights I have ever witnessed in my entire life. I even had tears in my eyes. Another rare occurrence. I’m often called a stone-hearted gay boy.

    As you’d expect, security is very high as you enter the grounds of the Taj Mahal. I had to have my man bag searched. Even though I’ve got nothing to hide, any security always makes me so nervous. I have an irrational fear that someone may have planted drugs on me and I’ll be locked in an Indian jail.

    My bag came out the other side of the X-ray machine and I saw three security guards grab my bag. Oh shit, I thought, someone, has planted drugs in my man bag. I felt sweat drip and hit my HD eyebrows.

    They ripped open my man bag and pulled out my Gay Times magazine.

    “You can’t have this!” I heard the security guard bellow. And he turned around and ripped it up. Bloody cheek, shredding my Gay Times. I was more annoyed that I hadn’t even read that issue yet.

    After that nerve-wracking incident, I decided I needed to urinate. I found some toilets (not the best or cleanest facilities I’ve ever whipped my cock out in but they had to do). As I stood peeing at the urinal, I noticed an arm, rubbing against my arm.

    I plucked up the courage to look across and I witnessed this man, staring down at my penis. Cor, he’s got no shame. It’s clearly a novelty to see a white cock.

    We entered the grounds and saw some wild monkeys. That was a sight I just had to capture. I got my camera and started papping the monkeys. The next thing I knew, we were surrounded and circled by ten monkeys, all nipping at our ankles. I don’t think they appreciated having their photo taken.

    All that was going through my mind was the fact I hadn’t had a rabies jab. When my pharmacist asked me if I’d be in contact with wild monkeys, I said, oh no, of course not. Famous last words.

    Famous last words.

    Finally being rescued by the monkey whisperer, we went down to the souvenir stalls outside the Taj Mahal. But shopping in India really annoys me. No one just lets you browse. They’re always trying to sell you things. Got right on my moobs. As we were walking along this particular market, a man grabbed my arm and dragged me inside his shop. Jesus, I screamed, this is forceful selling.

    “Why don’t you get rid of your friends and come into my stock room with me?”

    Obviously, doesn’t want to sell me any material items, I thought. My eyes widened at his question and I did consider it for a moment. He was rather attractive and you know my partiality to an Indian man.

    Even though being gay is illegal in India, they’re all at it. Not afraid of the law clearly. I had to decline as Tullene was waiting for me outside. But he was so attractive, I had to drag myself away.

    In conclusion, I’m clearly not undateable in India….

     

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  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY opens his Grindr in India…

    Last time on The Undateable Gay:

    In case anyone has forgotten, I was just about to be scalped by this Hijra woman who thought we were taking the piss. And as if by a prayer being answered, the traffic light turned green and off we zoomed. I breathed a sigh of relief and we finally arrived at our hotel.

    HOTEL HELLHOLE. I sincerely recommend that any visitors to Delhi avoid this establishment at all costs. To call it basic is doing the Sainsbury’s cheap range an injustice. It makes Sainsbury’s Basics look like the M&S Best of British range.

    As we stepped out of the taxi, (yes our luggage was still strapped to the roof, thank god), we were greeted by a couple of prostitutes. What a desirable neighbourhood. Tullene started panicking and I thought I was going to have to give her a slap.

    We were escorted to our room and as I stepped inside, I wanted to step back outside. The curtains were yellow, and the bedding… Well, I can’t even do justice to the bedding by using any English language.

    Desperate for a wee, I strolled into the bathroom and was greeted by a bucket.

    “We’ve got to get out of here!” I screamed.

    Little did I know that Tullene was already outside the door, luggage in hand with the same thought. We checked out of Aura and put ourselves in a tuk tuk.

    “Get us to the nearest IBIS!” We demanded.

    I think a tuk tuk journey is the perfect cure for constipation.

    Should you have that problem.

    If you ever venture to India, there is no other way to travel than a tuk tuk. But I advise you to cling on for dear life. And to say your prayers because they certainly know how to dodge in and out of traffic. In fact, I think a tuk tuk journey is the perfect cure for constipation, should you have that problem.

    After every journey in India, whether it be by car, tuk tuk or even walking, I looked up to the sky and thanked the Lord that I’d survived.

    Finally, in an IBIS, we felt safe. And we had WIFI. I was desperate to get on Grindr. I must confess, I thought they wouldn’t have this app in India because of the fact being gay is illegal.

    But I was blown away, (pardon the pun). In the space of being logged in for five minutes, I had twenty messages. I’m telling you now, my iPhone nearly crashed. My Grindr was pinging off the hook.

    I was being sent picture after picture of the local talent… topless talent and talented cock. I was dripping faster than a Mr.Whippy in Madrid. In my element, I was. I was like Harry Potter in a wand shop.

    I got excited. But then it suddenly hit me like a wet kipper.

    It’s illegal in this country and I bottled it.

    And then one really caught my eye. A very attractive guy, who was staying at our hotel. Not far to go then. I got excited. But then it suddenly hit me like a wet kipper. It’s illegal in this country and I bottled it. I can’t be locked up in an Indian jail, being made to pick up the soap. I’d be the prison bitch.

    Mmm, what a fantasy. Maybe I should get myself arrested.

    And then I came down to earth with a bump. The guy who I’d blown out (not literally) had sent me a message in Punjabi. Does he realise I’m English and not bilingual? Thank god for google translate. My eyes widened as Google told me that he’d called me a gay bitch. What a bitch!

    I switched Grindr off for the night. It was starting to get on my moobs. Tullene was already heavily snoring so I rolled over to go to sleep and I heard rustling coming from the suitcase.

    “Tullene! Wake up. There’s a cobra in the suitcase!”

    To be continued…

     

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  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Goes To India

    PART ONE

    I remember exactly where I was when my best friend, Tullene phoned me and told me she wanted me to accompany her to India. I was happily minding my own business outside M&S in Barnes, the quiet leafy suburb of London. Well, it was quiet until I got this phone call. I mean, I screamed in shock. India has never been on my travel map wish list.

    My instant answer was no. I’d heard horror stories about the dreaded Delhi belly. And as an IBS sufferer, I didn’t quite think this was the ideal holiday destination for one who already has a weak stomach constitution. And secondly, being gay in India is illegal so that thought made me sh*t my little gay IBS pants.

    But as everyone who knows me would say, I am spontaneous and like to grab life by the balls (pun intended). I gave Tullene a very big yes answer. You only live once. I should go, even at the risk of getting the shits and being arrested for being a sausage smuggler.

    And I am quite partial to an Indian. And I’m not just talking about a curry.

    As we boarded our Virgin Dreamliner (only the best darlings), I checked I had all my drug supplies. My friends often call me a pharmacy. I have a pill for every occasion or eventuality. I checked each one off. Paracetamol. Pepto Bismol. Immodium. Mosquito repellent. Multibionta. Dioralyte. Anti-sickness pills. Lucozade.

    Our Dreamliner touched down and my stomach was turning quicker than a washing machine’s spin cycle. It was my first trip abroad where I was genuinely nervous. We stepped outside the airport doors and we breathed in the air. And soon wished we hadn’t. The air down a sewer would have been fresher.

    As we waited for our taxi, a man picked up our luggage. Oh, how friendly. Helping us like this. He put them on top of the taxi for us and our driver strapped them to the roof. With a piece of rope that I could have used as dental floss. I took a deep breath (forgetting about the lack of fresh air) and prayed our luggage would make it.

    Now, for anyone who’s not ventured to India. Let me give you some advice. Don’t be fooled by these lovely men who help you with your luggage. Because as I went to shut the taxi door, the fake porter grabbed the door and start demanding money. I tell you, it’s lucky I’ve built up the muscles in my wrists over the years. As it meant, I won the battle of the taxi door, managed to pull it shut and told the driver to pedal it!

    Does anyone else love the taxi drive from the airport to your hotel? I love the opportunity to take in the sights. Little did we realise the driving standards and speed of India. It’s impossible to take in the sights. I’m telling you now, people swerve in and out of traffic, beeping their horns. Tullene and I held on for dear life and the only sight I managed to take in was Tullene’s armpit.

    I’d never been so happy to see a red traffic light in my life, as it meant we had a little respite from the lunacy of the roads. That was until a Hijra woman stuck her hand through the taxi window, begging for money.

    Anyone who knows me and Tullene will know our habit of laughing when we get nervous or scared. Which was exactly our reaction to this predicament. Obviously, she thought we were mocking her and reached for my spiky hair which she managed to grip. Well, that sure stopped us laughing…

    TO BE CONTINUED…

     

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  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | The Great Shave Off

    My hair is hanging on by a root. Pun intended.


    The fate of my hair follicles were unfortunately decided as soon as my mum chose my dad to procreate. And in recent years, I’ve seen my hair fading away quicker than a Katie Price single out of the top 40. So I decided it was time to take action.

    But when I do shave, I must give up the fake tan. Otherwise, I fear I will end up looking like a Malteser that’s had half its chocolate bitten off. And I think I better start providing men with sunglasses when I perform oral sex. For fear of dazzling their eyes, with light reflecting from my bald spot. Or I could just turn the lights off. Mmmmm.

    I’ve debated in my head whether I should shave my hair for a while and embrace the baldness. But I’m scared. Anyone who knows me well, will know full well how vain I am and what an important part of my appearance my signature spiky hair is. This is a BIG deal for me.

    So when I had the idea to shave off my hair in aid of charity, this started to make it feel much less daunting. Not only will I be embracing my inevitable baldness, I’ll be raising funds for a good cause. Much less scary.

    And I chose the Albert Kennedy Trust as they do such amazing work within the LGBTQ community. They help gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people who are homeless or living in hostile environments. And as its 50 years since being gay was legalised in England, I thought it was rather apt.

    The Great Shave Off (as I’ve decided to lovingly call it), will take place on Thursday 3rd August, so plenty of time for people to donate money. Please just click on the link at the top of my column and pledge your support for my baldness and the Albert Kennedy Trust. If every person I know, friends, family and readers of my column gave at least a pound, we could raise thousands.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | It’s not me it’s them

    To quote a best friend:
    “You must be the unluckiest person I know when it comes to love and men.”

    I wouldn’t disagree with her, nor would the rest of my friends, families or readers of this column. But her pearls of wisdom got me thinking. And before anyone says anything, yes, I am capable of getting the old grey matter to work. I’m very intellectual. I’ve got a degree, you know. A line I often pull out the bag if anyone questions my intellect.

    But here I go, distracted and side tracked again. Back to what her pearls of wisdom got me thinking about. WHERE AM I GOING WRONG WITH MEN?! To be this undateable, I must be doing something not quite dateable. So I thought, let me retrace my steps. To my last two potential Mr Rights who added themselves to my long list of Mr Wrongs.

    Well, first up, there’s a man from Chiswick. I met him on Grindr. And f*ck me sideways, he actually wanted a date and not a quick bunk up on the high road. After the initial shock of being asked on a date (from Grindr), I accepted and we agreed to meet in a beautiful little pub on the river.

    As soon as I saw him, I noticed he had slightly BFG ears but this didn’t deter me. I thought, how handy they would be to hold onto when he drops to his knees. PMA. Every cloud has a silver lining. The conversation was quite pleasant and the wine flowed like the rivers of Babylon. Until we got onto the topic of Boy Scouts. I disclosed that my cub leader had been arrested for fiddling with some of my fellow Cubs.

    As I continued on in this fashion of unsuitable date conversation, I felt Joan Rivers and Pam Ann (and Sauvignon Blanc) taking over my body and my mouth,

    “I had to be questioned by the police. Luckily he didn’t touch me. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

    I sat there, laughing and he looked at me,

    “That’s not funny!”

    “Oh”, my jaw dropped quicker than a gay boy in a football changing room. And before I knew it, he’d booked an Uber and left. Obviously didn’t appreciate my sense of humour. Oh well, at least he admitted it and for once, I had a reason for why a date had ditched me. Our sense of senses of humour were definitely not compatible.

    But as you know, you don’t keep me down for long. Not unless it involves a rugby squad and blow jobs. But that’s a story for another column. Anyway, stop the side tracking. I’m scattier than a March hare. Is that even scatty? I don’t know. I just remember my dear old Nan saying it from time to time. Oh no, it’s just hit me. It’s as mad as a March hare. Well, you get the drift!

    Back to my story of the second Mr Wrong, who once again, came from Grindr. I know you can see a pattern forming here. Well, we hit it off. We had a spark better than the new year fireworks on the Thames. Or so I thought. We were up until 4 in the morning on our first couple of times talking. And then suddenly, nothing. He did a quicker u-turn than Theresa May. But I thought, hang on a damn second. I ain’t having this so I thought, for once, I’m going to get to the bottom of this behaviour.

    So here is a transcript of a WhatsApp conversation:

    MARK: I’m really interested to know what changed for you. Because we were talking till late at night, so full on and then nothing!
    MR WRONG: I dunno. I just don’t chase people and doubt we’re compatible in the vanity sense, I don’t care about Botox and fake tan.
    MARK: But you knew about the fake tan and the Botox before you spoke to me.
    MR WRONG: Well it didn’t bother me but then it did. I can’t help it, I’m just insecure with guys.
    MARK: Well, if you’d have just given us a try, you might have had a great time. But now you’ll just carry on with your insecurity. I was there, I was willing…

    I do like having the last word. And I’ve never heard from either of these Grindr men ever again. Lesson one that I’ve learned, don’t expect anymore than a shag and an STD from Grindr. And lesson two, it’s not me, it’s them. I feel so liberated.

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | On a detox

    COLUMN | The Undateable Gay

    Now, I’m not talking a man/dating detox. Oh god, no. I couldn’t do that. It’d be like depriving Dot Cotton of her cigarettes. No, I’m talking a lifestyle detox.

    When I stepped on the scales the other morning, they spoke to me, “one at a time please!” For any of you less intellectually-minded people out there, the scales didn’t actually talk. But you get the idea. I’m carrying quite a bit more weight around with me than a few months ago.

    So I decided it was time to take action before I become any more undateable than I already appear to be. My lifestyle detox consists of making sure I get eight hours sleep a night, protein shakes, a healthy meal a day, no alcohol (God help me) and definitely no cakes or crap! Wish me luck.

    DAY ONE: I strongly advise anyone partaking in a protein shake diet to carry a packet of extra strong mints with you at all times. Oh my god. The breath. I could have woken the dead with my breath today. The hardest part of my day was on my way home from work. I was filled with sheer excitement at the prospect of a glass of wine and Holby City. And then the reality of my detox hit me like a double decker bus. No wine! I could have cried. So, I got into bed with the hump. Oh well, at least that’s my eight hours sorted.

    DAY TWO: I decided I should go for a little swim today. I thought perving on the men in speedos might cheer me up and take my mind off my wine withdrawal. My god, I went dizzier than a fat chav whose been plonked smack bang in the middle of a circular McDonald’s. Note to self; avoid exercise until the lifestyle detox is over.

    DAY THREE: I feel an over share coming on. My stomach is more blown up than a balloon arch. I am more constipated than a person whose taken an overdose of Imodium. But on the plus side, I have been waking up with a much clearer head. It must be the enormous amount of sleep I’m getting and the lack of wine consumption.

    DAY FOUR: It’s only been three days I know but this morning, I decided to weigh myself. I was feeling that I surely must have shed a few pounds. As I stepped on, the scales told me I was exactly the same weight. Not a single bloody ounce had shed from my body. Oh well, I guess it was a bit soon to be expecting any weight loss. But it didn’t stop me wanting to lob the scales out of the bathroom window. Not that I’m an aggressive gay, you understand.

    DAY FIVE: I kid you not, I am actually feeling so much purer inside. (My body, not my mind.) I doubt that’ll ever be pure. Especially after my visit to the sauna. But I feel I may need some anger management sessions soon. You see, Saturday’s are normally my cake and wine day. (Well, that has actually been most days recently but Saturday’s especially.) so there I was getting really excited about the Belgian bun and bottle of Sauvignon I was going to consume when it hit me. Like a ruddy great lightning bolt. I’m on a detox.

    DAY SIX: After an awfully stressful day at work, I made a conscious decision. I need a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. No, not a glass. A whole bottle. So I popped into my little Tesco Express and picked up a bottle. I lashed myself on my faux leather sofa, put on my Prisoner: Cell Block H DVD (so gay, I know) and drank the whole bottle. I’m clearly as successful with detoxing and as I am dating.

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Can you find love in a gay sauna?

    SPA a thought for me…

    As my quest for Mr right continues, I’m keeping an open mind when it comes to ways of discovering just where the bloody hell he is. Because right now, he is completely UTL. Does Mr right even exist? Is there really such a thing? Bugger me, I’m procrastinating and counselling myself as I write this column.

    CREDIT: © Artmim Depositphotos

    So, as I sip on an ice cold glass of Sauvignon in an empty gay pub in the heart of Uxbridge, (no wonder it’s empty, it’s Uxbridge!) I overhear some rather slutty looking queens talking about a sauna in Soho. And they say it’s such a great place to meet men. My ears prick up like a cat’s tail when they’re after a mouse.

    Wonderful, I think to myself, that’s where I can meet the man of my dreams, m Mr right, the man I’m meant to share my living days with; in a sauna.

    As I walk into the entrance of this sauna, I find it’s very dark. Cor, my old apple pies ain’t the best in daylight, let alone in this dimly lit setting.

    Luckily I’ve got my contact lenses in so it’s only the darkness I have to contend with. I’m so excited for my sauna experience. I think to myself, even if I don’t meet a man, it’s still going to be a relaxing and rejuvenating evening.

    I enter the locker rooms and see men walking around in their birthday suits. I go into a sheer panic.

    I don’t think I can walk around in mine. I grab a rescue remedy pastille from my Superdry bag and suck on it. I need it to calm my nerves. I’ve always got pills in my bag for any eventuality. My friends call me a walking pharmacy. If you’ve got the sh*ts, a bad head, feeling sick or you just need a vitamin boost, I’ve got the solution.

    After sucking on my pastille for a few moments and giving myself a good old slap round my Botox-ed boat race, I decide that I’m a young, attractive gay boy and I can walk around naked! And I thank god I stuck to my New Year’s resolution of swimming. I’ve got biceps that would make Tom Daley swoon. So I whip off my clothes and open the door.

    Once in the sauna, I see a man’s genitalia, practically starring me in the eye. He is naked with a boner, in this sauna. What a saucy minx, I think.

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    We are practically eye to eye and I’m talking the eye on my face and his special downstairs eye. Cor, I bet that hurts, I find myself thinking. He winks at me. With the eye on his face, I’d just like to point out. I shyly say hello. He just shakes his head to the left and walks off into a locker. Well, it looks like a locker. It’s got a black bench in it that looks like a bed.

    Maybe he’s feeling sleepy. F*cking rude, though, I think. What was the point of winking at me? And then just walking off. I shouldn’t be too judgemental, though, maybe he’s got a nervous twitch.

    I decide that I should find the jacuzzi. Oh yes, that’d be bloody lovely. A warm bubbly bath to soothe my achy muscles after a 70 length breaststroke marathon in the pool. I see two old men sitting in the jacuzzi, I mean they must be at least 75. I see a walking stick hanging from one of the hooks. Bless them, I find myself thinking. At least they still get out the house and look after themselves. I smile at them as I get in, which as you will discover, was my downfall.

    As I sit my naked body down in the jacuzzi, the two geriatrics grin at me with their false gnashers. I mean, I don’t know that they’ve got false ones, I’m just being ageist. I lay back and close my eyes, enjoying the bubbles fizzing around me. Cor, I suddenly feel bubbles bubbling quite ferociously around my man bits. As I start to feel slightly aroused from jacuzzi fizz, I put my hand down to check it’s not being fizzed away from my pubic bone. And my lord, I get a shock.

    My hand bumps into another hand and as I look up, I see the geriatric grinning at me, a full display of false Steradent cleaned gnashers glistening in my apple pies. At least his false teeth aren’t stained, I think to myself. So it could be worse.

    He has got his bloody hand on my penis. The dirty old perve. I’m old enough to be his great grandson. I protest and start to pull away but he grabs my leg and pulls me towards him. Cor, he’s strong for an old bugger.

    “Now, I’m not really interested!” I start to protest.
    “Oh come on! Make an old man happy!” He seedily says.
    “No, I will not!”

    Well, as I went to get up from the jacuzzi, he pulled me towards him so fast that I slip off the seat, screaming as I go and my head slips under the water. And I can still feel the bloody old bugger’s hand on my manhood. But right now, I’m more annoyed that my whole head and hair are under the water and wet. I finally manage to pull myself from his grip and I storm out the jacuzzi. And out of the sauna. I don’t think this is the right place to look for love…

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY I don’t FORE-SKIN a future with him…

    I’m writing this column at the risk of being called a shallow, vain poof. I’m even scared that people may start hurling rotten potatoes at me in the street. But oh well, I have been called a gay Joan Rivers many a time so I’ll take the risk.

    I’m hard. Normally in a gay sauna, I am. Anyway, I’m digressing. I like to think I am but underneath my fake tanned, Botox-ed hard-hearted exterior, I’m a pussy cat.

    As my friends will tell you, I don’t really have a type when it comes to men. My criteria normally just states they must have a cock and a pulse. And sometimes even the pulse isn’t important. No, no, I’m joking, I’m joking. I thought I’d better point that out before I get arrested by the Old Bill for necrophilia. The point is, I’m very open minded when it comes to men, hence why I don’t have a type. There is just one strict criterion my men must adhere to. GOOD TEETH.

    I can’t bear bad teeth. It turns my stomach. The thought that I have to kiss them. Now, I’m not talking wonky wisdoms. That’s fine, it’s just when they’re discoloured and stained. I just think, get yourself down the hygienist.

    Now before you all start lynching me and throwing shallow stones in my direction, let me point me out that I’m not perfect. I have a little gap in my front teeth. But I gargle coconut oil every night to ensure they stay gleaming white. People put sunglasses on when I smile.

    Talking of my gap, it takes me back to a family roast one Sunday. We’d finished eating and my mum looked at me and said, “you’ve got something in your teeth!”

    So there I was having a little pick. I looked back at my mother, waiting for reassurance it was gone. “No, no. It’s still there!” So I picked again. And again. This went on for a full five minutes so I stood up from the table in sheer frustration and walked to the mirror. On further investigation, I realised it was my gap she was referring to and there was absolutely nothing there!

    “30 years you’ve known me and you thought it was food stuck and not my gap!”

    Anyway, I better talk about my dating story seeing as this is my undateable column. I’ve been set up on a date by my friend Inch again. You know the one who works for Mulberry. I thought I’d give her another chance to get it right. Surely, she’ll do better this time. So, off I trot to the restaurant to this lovely bloke called Lee. He looked very handsome as he stood up at the dinner table to greet me with a kiss. What manners.

    We sit down and I order the standard bottle of Sauvignon from New Zealand. My snobby ways never cease to amaze me. The waiter pours it for us and as we lift our glasses to cheers, he shoots me a bloody great smile.

    How sweet.

    Then my jaw drops quicker than a prostitute’s knickers. His smile includes some rather discoloured teeth. I knock back my glass of Sauvignon like an alcoholic at breakfast.

    He’s so handsome, I keep repeating to myself. And then he opens his mouth and it reminds me of my bad teeth phobia. I did spend hours on Google looking for the official name for it, but there isn’t one. Even though there is an ARACHIBUTYROPHOBIA which is the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth, I kid you not. (??!!)

    So lee and I, we do get on really really well and we laugh and we enjoy a beautiful meal together. He’s got the looks, he’s got the personality. I try and remember my Sunday school teaching and vow to overcome my shallow behaviour when it comes to his molars. We get up to leave and he goes to kiss me. I pull away, faster than a rat up a drainpipe.

    I’m not quite ready for that.

    I make my excuses and he asks me back to his. I shock myself and say yes. I tell myself, I can’t kiss him on the lips but maybe I can kiss his…

    We arrive back at his gaff and to avoid the kiss on the lips, I automatically drop to my knees.

    As I perform fellatio, I hear him screaming. I carry on, gloating and smiling to myself. He’s obviously enjoying it. I feel quite smug as I carry on.

    He screams again and I think, God, I’m better at blow jobs than I thought. As he lets out another scream, I think, ooh I better just check he’s alright.

    I pull away and I feel his foreskin come with me! I realise it’s caught in my gap!

    “Be careful!” He screams as he rubs himself better.

    “Oh sorry!” I blush. “It’s my gap!”

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | His Second Chance

    So, I’m laying in bed the morning after the night before.

    In case your memory needs jogging, the night before was when Houdini, AKA Michael twat bag wank piece, vanished from sight on our first date. Ooh, if my mum is reading this, she will wash my mouth out with fairy liquid.

    I roll over and pull open the curtains. Cor, the sun hits my eyes like a slap around the chops with a wet cod. And the realisation dawns on me that the previous night’s date was not a dream. It was a harsh reality. What could have happened to him?

    I suddenly become all drama queen. What if he was kidnapped? What if he’s laying in the bottom of the Thames, with bricks tied to his feet? Before my imagination runs anymore wilder than John Wayne’s stallion, my phone beeps with a text message. My jaw slaps down on my blue pillowcase like a sack of potatoes. It’s only from Michael.

    My first instinct is to lob my phone out of the window. But my calm, non-drama queen side kicks in and I decide to press open on the message instead. what a novel idea.

    “I’m really sorry about last night. Everyone decided to move on to another club and we couldn’t find you to tell you.”

    Mmm, my mind starts ticking. It seems a plausible excuse but then I think, why didn’t you just text me last night to tell me where you were?? I quickly text him my thought and he replies,

    “I was just so drunk. I didn’t think. Sorry again.”

    At least I now know he’s not a captive on some pirate ship or fish food at the bottom of the Thames.

    As I drag myself from my pit, he texts again.

    “Do you wanna do something tonight?”

    My nostrils flare like George’s dragon. The bare-faced cheek of the man. Actually, not man. Boy.
    But then I suddenly think to myself, I can’t be a bitter old queen for the rest of my living days.

    “I’m going to an aerobics class with my mate tonight. You’re welcome to join.”

    He accepts. But how events unfold later, it’s a decision he comes to regret.

    Cue my very long and dear best friend, Tullene. Hell hath no fury like this girl when her gay best friend has been scorned by a boy.

    I drive to Michael’s house and he jumps in the front seat. He is very bashful but he starts talking and I decide to let bygones be bygones. As we pull up outside Tullene’s house, I see her walk towards the car abnormally and uncharacteristically fast. She throws a death glare at Michael. If looks could kill, he’d been ten foot under. I can’t work out whether it’s her protective nature or the fact that she’s had to sit in the back of the car.

    The car journey to the leisure centre is rather frosty and for a girl with a gob the size of the Grand Canyon, it’s also very quiet. I break the awkward silence.

    “Tullene! This is Michael.”

    Her nostrils flare. And if you know Tullene, this is a very scary prospect and sight.

    “So you’re Michael? That scrawny little runt who just upped and left mark in a London club.”

    She barked worse than a Jack Russell.

    As if the car ride wasn’t awkward enough. I look in the rear view mirror and see Tullene’s ears doing an impersonation of a kettle.

    Michael seemed lost for words which didn’t help his case against Tullene. She hates to be ignored. I see her arm reach for the seat belt and she goes to tug on it. I gasp and shout, “TULLENE!”
    Phew! I saved the poor boy from seat belt strangulation.

    In my capacity as peace maker, I defuse the situation.

    “I’ve given Michael a second chance. So I’d really love it if you did too. For me.”

    Her nostrils start to deflate to a normal size and I can see her starting to calm down. She also loosens her grip of his seat belt.

    As we enter the aerobics class, I start to take a dislike to Michael’s personality. He’s very cocky and he actually begins to get on my moobs.

    We manage to get through the aerobics class without talking and towards the end, he gets a stitch. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

    As we dab the sweat from our brows, I decide I can’t bear to spend another minute in the presence of Michael. I feel like I might develop a rash just by breathing the same air as him. We all go to get in the car and I turn to Michael.

    “There’s only enough room for me and Tullene.”

    His jaw drops.

    “There’s a bus stop over there!”

    Tullene high fives my orange palm and we drive off, leaving Michael doing a very impressive impression of a fish.
    Now that’s gay power.

     

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  • COLUMN | The Undateable Gay: His First Chance

    My god, I’ve had another flashback. This time to my university days, way back in 2007. Having all these flashbacks to unsuccessful dates is making me feel self-conscious. I’ve been undateable most of my adult life. If I carry on at this rate, I’ll do a Bridget Jones and be found in my flat, all alone, eaten by Alsatians.

    So, I’ve been chatting away to this guy on gaydar. God, I’m showing my age. The days before Grindr entered the gay scene and took promiscuity to a whole new level. His name is Michael and after a fortnight of making small talk, I suggest we meet for a date. He comes over all shy and says he gets nervous of dates. I feel like giving his face a slap. Man up, I go to type but I keep the words inside my head.

    He tells me his friends are throwing him a birthday bash in the village, a small bar-cum-dance floor in Soho, for you non-gay readers. He invites me along. Alarm bells should have started ringing at this point, but being the hopeless romantic that I am, I think, f*** it, I’ll go! It should take the nerves out of the first date, I reasoned.

    But, as I won’t know anyone, I decide I must take a friend. Cue my university partner in crime and best friend, Thwack. Not her real name but one I coined for her on the first day our eyes met in our history of English lecture.

    She’s a little unsure at first but after a gentle arm twisting, literally, (she brings out my viscous side), I persuade her. We decide to get on the night bus which takes us straight into Soho. An eventful bus ride, which still haunts us to this day.

    We jump on the 207 on a dark winter’s night and opt to sit upstairs on the double decker beast. A decision we still regret to this day. As we journey through Southall and then Ealing, we are joined on the upper deck by people who I will describe as undesirable. Think Jeremy Kyle participants and you’ll be half way there. They are very loud and like to swear. Now, don’t get me wrong, I like to have a good swear as much as the next person, but they took swearing to a whole new level of Tourette’s.

    As they get louder and their Tourette’s seems to get uncontrollable, our eyes widen with fear. We don’t say a word. We don’t have to. We look at each other and I know we are thinking the exact same thing. Are we going to make it to Soho alive? Nervous laughter soon kicks in which whips us into even more of a frenzy. We are holding onto each other’s hands for dear life.

    As I see the bus pull into Tottenham Court Road, I jump up from my seat quicker than a fat kid whose had McDonald’s waved in front of his face. I feel like performing fellatio on the bus driver, to show my gratitude for surviving the bus ride alive.

    We literally can’t get off the 207 quick enough and before you can say drag queen, we are inside the village, large vodkas in hand. Michael comes to introduce himself. My god, he wasn’t lying about being shy. We have a little dance, share a little lingering kiss and then me and Thwack decide we want another vodka. I kiss Michael and tell him, I’ll be back. Just call me Arnie!

    Now, I’m not even joking you, we can’t have been gone more than five minutes, but as we turn around, Michael is nowhere to be seen. For those of you who have frequented the village, you’ll know there’s not many places to hide. We scoured the place, toilets, dance floor, smoking area. He had done a f***ing Houdini on us and vanished…

    To be continued…

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  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Don’t Let Your Best Friend’s Mum Choose Your Dates

    He looked like Roy Cropper it was never going to work out.

    I’ve had a flashback to a date I went on when I was just a young whippersnapper of a 19-year-old.

    Christ, that means I’ve been undateable for a total of 14 years. Yes, I hear the sound of shocked voices. That man can’t be 32! But yes readers, I am. It’s amazing what a bit of exfoliation can do for your skin. Oh, and not forgetting the needle full of Botox I regularly get pricked with. Well, I have to get a prick from somewhere. (Clears throat)

    Anyway…

    Back to my flashback which takes us back to the wonderful year of 2002. The year that bought us the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and Girls Aloud! The latter being my most memorable and personal favourite. But back to something else that wasn’t my particularly most favourite memory of that year, the date that was organised by my friend’s 50-year-old mum.

    So, there I am this one morning, having coffee with Gwen. I mean, she isn’t the most sane of people you’ll ever meet, but I’ve had my fair share of mental institute moments over the years myself. So who am I to judge? As I take a sip on my mocha. I’m sure I would have been drinking a mocha. It’s only since I’ve hit my 30s have I become partial to an espresso. So as I sip the mocha, she announces she’s set me up on a date with this lovely man she works with on check in.

    An airport worker.

    Now, my dear Nan, God rest her soul, taught me I should never sit in judgement of others. But sometimes I find that piece of advice very hard to swallow. For some reason, in my sinful judgemental mind, I associate anyone working at the airport as a slag and having a man in every country. I know my face needs a slap as obviously he only works on check in, so unless he has a very long lunch break, I rationalise that he can’t make it to other countries.

    After I’ve given my chops a quick swift slap, I take in the details of the date. It’s this Saturday, at 7pm and I’m to meet him at the Birdcage. Cor, the Birdcage in Chiswick, now that is showing my age. As I take the final chocolatey sip of my mocha, she throws the final, and possibly most vital, piece of information at me.

    My new date is 50-years-old. My jaw slaps the ground, like a concrete slab thrown from the top of Big Ben.

    As I look in the mirror at my fresh, youthful, wrinkle free face, I tell myself age is but a number. I mean, what does it matter that he’s 31 years older than me? Not a problem. He could be the man of my dreams, I shouldn’t be ageist, I tell myself. As the stark realisation dawns on me that he’s the same age as my dad, I begin to gag but a shot of vodka and a Marlboro Light soon slaps that image out of me.

    I walk up to the bar of the Birdcage. I’m unfashionably early, purely because my best friend booted me out the car as she wanted to get back to see the Pop Idol final. I order a pint of Fosters. I decide beer is the best drink for me to consume this evening, it gets me less pissed and if I’m dealing with a senior citizen, I must keep my wits about me. I grab my pint and take myself to a small round table and perch myself on a bar stool.

    As I finish off my first pint of Fosters, a man with a shopping bag approaches me. He asks me a question but my eyes are firmly placed on his shopping bag. Had Roy Cropper just walked in? (For those of you who have never seen Coronation Street, Google this man and you will have the image of my date).

    Let’s call my date Roy from now on, as his actual name escapes me. Call it the early onset of Alzheimer’s or even just my own mind’s ability to block it out. As this is a date I have tried to forget all through my twenties. And it’s also the date that set the precedent: never let your friend’s mum set you up on date.

    Now I wouldn’t have minded being on a date with a 50-year-old, had Roy not acted and looked like he was 75! I know I’m partial to being a little dramatic, but on this occasion I really don’t think I am being. I mean, the shopping bag said it all! He bought me a pint of Fosters, so that’s a point in his favour but I needed another one to block out the dull tone of his voice as he discussed trains and planes that he liked to spot. Wonderful, I’m sat with a train spotter. I really should have remembered to cross dear old  Gwen off my Christmas card list. But I don’t like to think of myself as a bitter old queen.

    Five pints of fosters later (all bought by Roy, may I add), and I am somewhat tipsy. I notice his body language. He starts to touch my hand, then my arm. He must have thought all his Christmases had come at once. This young pretty boy sat in front of him, pissed on Fosters, who needed looking after. After the sixth pint (also bought by Roy) I started to feel myself returning his body language gestures. A metaphoric slap later and I was in the toilet, on the phone to my best friend.

    “You must pick me up!” I pleaded with her.
    “But the winner of Pop Idol hadn’t been announced yet.” Came her reply.
    “Oh, don’t worry about your best friend, sat here, about to be taken advantage of by Roy Cropper”, I barked back.
    Luckily for me, I heard Girls Aloud be announced the winners, so she left her house to rescue me. Whoever thought I’d owe Cheryl Cole for saving me from Roy Cropper?

    As I returned to the table, I saw my seventh pint of fosters slammed down on the table by Roy.

    Phew! I’ve made the right call by phoning my best friend, pardon the pun. I see the intentions in Roy’s eyes. They’re glistening like a magpies whose just seen a diamond ring. Just as I pick up the fosters, my best friend runs in, like the hero of the hour.

    “You must come quickly! My mum’s been taken ill and I need you!” She screams.
    Oh the lies and drama of the youth.
    I look at Roy, feigning upset.
    “I’m so sorry, but I must go!”
    “Will I see you again?” Roy is like a lost puppy dog.
    The lies of the youth came rolling out of my mouth like a red carpet at the Oscars.

    “Of course, give me call. I’ve had a really lovely evening!”

    I’m going straight to hell, I tell myself.
    My best friend drags me from the Birdcage, and I notice Donna Summers has started playing. I join in on the chorus, rather loudly and as we leave, Roy is following us. I turn round and in my Fosters induced state, I sing at him,
    “Enough is enough is enough, I can’t go on, I can’t go on no more, no!”

     

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