THEGAYUK

Author: Tom Driver

  • COMMENT | Cyclists: Apart from the Lycra, I just hate them

    Thought I would mention cyclists. I am not one I would like to point out, from the very start. To give balance I am sure there are considerate and road aware cyclists. In fact, I encountered one earlier this week. An elderly lady who pulled over to the side of the road at a point of narrowing to signal me past.

    I travel on country lanes on my daily commute and the vista is a delight to behold. Other road users including tractors, horse riders, car drivers, and I pull over for those who have a more urgent need to get to journey’s end. This is not reflective in my experience of the cyclist.

    I say to men of any age; before dressing in the lycra outfit you have purchased, empty a bag of spuds into it to get some contextual vision into the sight you will become. If you are unfit before mounting, the clothing is not like a superhero costume, it does not enhance your performance. It just makes you stand out as a fool.

    There is something about a man and his fascination with all things phallic that drives a male “old enough to know better”  to shrink wrap his body in Lycra and place on his head a slipstream carbon fibre helmet to complete the image of an erect member. Hardly surprising then that they are complete “d*cks” on the road.

    On my journey home last night I came to a queue of traffic on an A class road. As I got closer to the front, there he was “cycleman”, all in black with a black helmet and on a black bike. In poor visibility and with no lights.

    To add insult to injury this athlete of the highway was proceeding at an earth-shattering 6 or 7 miles an hour. This breakneck speed impaired his ability to turn his head and see what a total nuisance he was being to commuting traffic in tax paying vehicles. The reason for his slow progress, he was holding aloft his mobile device and filming himself.

    Having passed him I looked into my rearview mirror and he was still in the middle of the road ignoring other road users. The only other thing I would surmise about him was, he was a man of small appetite. I deduce this from him having a very small lycra lunchbox.

    On another recent occasion, I was sat in a line of traffic in the town centre with my right-hand indicator on to turn at the next junction. I was in a road position to the right of the lane with a number of other vehicles that were indicating the same intent. At the moment there was a gap in the oncoming traffic enabling my turn to be conducted safely I had to brake hard as “cycleman” came down the outside of the lane ignoring all of the indicators and riding in the middle of the road.

    We live in an age where we are encouraged to be environmentally friendly and considerate. One man on a bicycle may be that – until he has a 2-mile tailback of carbon-emitting traffic he is ignoring behind him.

    As a car driver, I can be held accountable and I am identifiable from my vehicle registration. It could be any road user that makes a note of my number or a camera on the highway if I am speeding, perhaps one on a set of traffic lights if I go over on amber or red, or a dashboard cam of any other road user, finally even a mobile phone cam handheld by a pedestrian can be used to report me or any other licensed road user. I have lost count of the number of cyclists I have seen breaking the law of the highway and failing to show even the slightest amount of courtesy and why should they; as they are totally anonymous and unaccountable.

    A man in Lycra can be a sight to behold, a bulge to indulge, a fetish to crave; until he mounts his machine and becomes just another drain dodger!

    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.

  • COMMENT | Joining an all-female walking group with my Tupperware and Thermos

    With the coming of turning back of the clock nearing, I realise we are already at half past autumn and heading for quarter to winter. It seems months since my early morning commute had any daylight, as now the stars and moon shine brightly in the heavens as I dawdle with dread towards work.

    When I drove through the single track lanes on my way-in, pre-dawn today, slipping and sliding on the muddy deposits of tractors and autumn leaves; my mind wandered back to those halcyon lazy hazy days of summer. Already they seem a distant memory.

    I found myself chuckling aloud thinking of joining a walking group as an honorary member and what a fool I was too.

    One summer’s eve I had been partaking of a beverage of two or more down the local hostelry. Quietly minding my own business. I had absentmindedly starting stroking an excitable Springer Spaniel who belonged to another of the customers. Said owner, Berni and I found ourselves in conversation and after a few more pints I had agreed to join her and her friends for their walk on Sunday morning.

    Berni is a founding member of the Hatherleigh and Highhampton Hiking Dykes. An all-female walking group.

    On the following Sunday morning, I arrived at the appointed time to find a minibus and small hatchback already in the pub car park. I was last to arrive carrying my Tupperware box of sandwiches and Thermos. The hiking dykes it turned out were all butch lesbians in Doc Martens and dungarees, armed with rucksacks and assorted other equipment, strapped together and mounted into backpacks. In open-toed sandals (thankfully not painted) and with my provisions in a supermarket carrier I looked the odd one out and certainly the least manly of the assembled group.

    Thirteen of them crammed into the minibus, which left me with the spaniel and Berni to go in her hatchback. What they knew, but never shared was that Berni is the world’s worse driver. I kid you not, the excitable spaniel is not excitable, he is panicked with abject terror at the prospect of being put behind the dog guard and driven to his “walkies.”

    It all started fine. We set off following the minibus heading for East Devon to get onto the Jurassic coastal path. At the first junction I mused, she’s leaving it late to brake —“bloody Nora!” — I thought the brakes had failed but no; this it transpired was how she approached a junction. The poor wee beastie in the boot is now howling as if in pain and lying prone in what I assume to be the canine equivalent of the crash position.

    Junctions were hair-raising enough but the gear changes added another dimension to the nightmare of the drive. For no reason, having got into 5th gear and in the total and absolute absence of a change of terrain or contour, Berni would go from top gear to 2nd at 60 miles an hour. The mindset seemed to be that of “I know let’s change gear; pick a gear!” Within the first 5 miles, I was spitting my fillings out, having left teeth marks on the dashboard. I was braced for impact, gripped with fear and even felt a little bit of pee warm the top of my legs.

    What can only be described as the worse journey I have ever endured seemed to be eternal? I am a seasoned traveller, but when we reached the meeting point at the other end I had to be helped out of the car after they had prised my fingers from their white-knuckled death grip on the door handle. Those who had taken the alternative vehicle were propped up against it laughing at my misfortune; though I thought I saw empathy in the faces of some who had also been her passenger once; and only once.

    I was a dribbling jabbering incoherent crippled contortion of whiplash and angst. Berni was entirely oblivious, had no idea what was the matter with me or the many other motorists en route she caused to take evasive action and perform emergency stops. I am sure she just thought they were waving at her and being friendly. I can lip read and I can assure you they weren’t.

    Still, we had reached journey’s end and the view was staggering. The blue sky, matched and equalled by the sea were the backdrop of the canvas of nature’s achievement that is the staggering cliff edges and verdant countryside of one of the most beautiful counties. I now felt sure I was going to enjoy our walk.

    Our walk turned out to be a military yomp that would have tested the fitness of many a Marine Commando

    Our walk turned out to be a military yomp that would have tested the fitness of many a Marine Commando. I wanted to study the flora and fauna, perhaps pick up a fossil or two and maybe take some pics of the group against the vista nature had provided. Though it was not to be as we had a target to meet, miles to march and checkpoints to reach on schedule.

    When we broke for lunch I collapsed in a heap gasping and gulping to fill my lungs with sea air. I was dishevelled, broken and proven unfit. I poured a soothing cuppa from my Thermos and started to ease the lid from the sweaty Tupperware box.

    I had not fully removed the lid to reveal my Salmon and Shrimp paste sandwiches when the smell of fish assaulted my nasal passages. The last thing I remember was a blur of blue denim and brown leather racing towards me like a Rugby scrum on heat.

    I woke 3 days later in intensive care…

     

  • COMMENT | Are you asking for it, if you go out dressed like that?

    I used to hear the generations who were older than me talking about the way young women dress. They used to say “Is it any surprise if they get attacked or raped? Going out like that; they are asking for it!”

    Now as an older gay man who has spent many years as a publican, I look around and have similar thoughts. Not for women but for young gay men.

    Their conduct, which so often overtly displays their sexuality like a badge of office or some cheap jewellery screams “victim here.”

    So many gay venues are now gay-friendly. Once these places were a haven of safety where we could behave with each other in a manner that was consistent with the law without the fear of some bloke beating the crap out of us when we left. Not anymore; now they’re sometimes a testosterone and alcohol-fueled environment where men are trying to impress women. Gay men can be such easy prey.

    It is our own fault (well, us and technology). The price of getting your rocks off and finding cock is so cheap now. Every gay man is Grindrered up or has some other app. The bars and clubs that were once our seedy sanctuary are now shared. No longer is it safe to cast a gaze around a room from the dance floor whilst snorting Poppers and sipping Babysham. Chances are some hairy arsed ‘erbert is going to ask “You looking at me?”

    The young are so idealistic and think gay rights are a shield of steel that will protect them. Of course, they are not. Gay rights means if you gain consciousness, report the offence to the police and go through the process then some thug may have to answer.

    It’s hard to stand up to someone who battered you unrecognisable last night, someone who has friends, especially when there is a limit to the number of places you go. We don’t all have the choice afforded by big cities.

    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.

  • COMMENT | Know your gay acronyms: When CBT doesn’t mean CBT

    CBT but not that CBT!

    When working in social housing the company which employed me, diversified and began to take on service users with severe and enduring mental illness.

    The brother of a colleague was a mental health practitioner. He came in to do some training and talk us through the manifestation of conditions so we would know what to expect.

    I don’t think he was prepared for us knowing absolutely nothing. I had to keep interjecting and explaining some of the jargon he used and asking him to define other terms that were also unknown to me.

    It had been a very tense session as many of my colleagues were unsure if they wanted to remain as support workers to the new user group. This demystifying and understanding of terms, explaining common diagnosis and interventions was invaluable to us.

    Then he started to talk about CBT, and in the corner, his gay brother collapsed into raptures of hysterical laughter. The sort of laughter that is contagious. The others did not know why they were laughing, or what the trigger for it had been. Our trainer was looking completely puzzled by it all.

    I too was guilty of sharing in the laughing, mostly because I was the only one in the room that knew what was funny. Finally, I regained some composure and explained the term CBT had been used as a reference to Cognitive Behaviour Therapy and not Cock and Ball Torture, which is why the gay brother had fallen about laughing.

    In a world of acronyms, it is inevitable there will be a duplication of some. CBT is unfortunate as it stands for 3 that are known to me Compulsory Basic Training to ride a motorbike being the third.

  • COMMENT | Just what has happened to Gaydar?

    Gaydar – The death of an icon?

    I used to be a regular on Gaydar chat. I enjoyed that it was all-encompassing; in that, I could elect to be in rooms that were either fetish or location driven and that I could see them all at the same time. Then one night it all changed as Gaydar had a makeover. Less of a makeover really, more of a demolition.

    It went from being something similar to a magazine one might find on the top shelf in the newsagents and changed in likeness to the reading material in a doctors or solicitors waiting room.

    It had metamorphosed into what I would describe as “coffee shop gay”, having been ethically and morally cleansed, and coming out the other side as Conservative with a small “c.”

    There are those who are still reeling from the change to the site. I laid a small posy on my router to mark its passing. I sent an email to PinkNews asking they put a notice of obituary as a gesture at its loss.

    Then came the attempted resurrection, the chat facility had a couple of new rollouts. Early indications suggested from my appraisal it had been written by someone in London who felt the place was the centre of the gay world as whilst there were rooms for every direction in the capital those of us from the provincial hinterlands were left out in the cold, though this was subsequently addressed.

    I try it again every month or so. I miss it. Reminds of the line in the Billy Joel song Italian Restaurant “but you can never go back there again,” because it has changed and so have I.

     

    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.

  • COMMENT | Has world politics just become a p*ssing contest?

    Is the “Dick of Death” a world leader with a tiny todger? Is the world just having a bad hair and small penis day?

    I look at some world leaders and question if they have a mirror or have ever taken advice on styling? For example, have you seen the coiffes sported by some in the political elite? In the name of sweet mercy, someone get these blokes a haircut, a makeover or at the very least a hat or baseball cap.

    I don’t think people are waving in support of their leaders, they are pointing and laughing. Perhaps it is the hairstyling of one particular leader that brings his people to tears as they know they have to imitate and copy it if they are to stay alive.

    Often those who are under-endowed have an inferiority complex. It is why the term BCSD (Big Car Small Dick) was coined in the Julie Walters film Personal Services. I think some substitute a big car with a big arsenal of nuclear weapons.

    In the interest of world peace should their not be a doctor somewhere who measures the penis size of prospective leaders? If they are “Hung like a hamster”, sporting only a tiny todger then they should be pointed in the direction of other careers, vetoing their political aspirations and attempts at world domination or destruction.

    The combination of bad hair and a small co*k has a damning potential for the continuation of world peace. I am thinking of starting a funding page to get these boys a spa day. In privacy somewhere they could measure each other up, get a cut and blow dry and be pampered. We are talking Queer Eye For The Straight Guy, the diplomatic mission

    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.

  • COMMENT | I’m coming out… again

    Around 4 years ago I went back into the closet. This was at the time of moving home to a new area and a new job.

    A recent stirring in the nether region suggests to me it is time to come out again. No one said it has to be a once in a lifetime event. The best part of all is that no one from my new life suspects, it would be a total shocker. Sacrilege I know but there is almost something divine about a second coming!

    I know myself so well now. I am older and more confident, resilient to rejection and just plain, “don’t give a sh*t!” This feeling of inner self-worth comes from the security of having a foundation of family and old friends who I came out to more than 30 years ago. In making light of my situation I am not trivialising the ordeal it must be for first timers who will rock their world to the core with the revelation.

    My planning is involving all the things you should never do for a first coming out:

    1. It is going to be on a special day, so everyone remembers this is the day he did it (again).

    2. High camp and outrageous clothes are a definite.

    3. Perhaps a theme, would “The Wizard of Oz” be too over the top?

    4.  I’ve spent a lifetime being a friend of … Is this my time to be Dorothy? Though 18 stone of middle-aged hairy arsed womble clutching Toto and clicking his heels may stretch the boundaries of belief.

    5. Music, darlings you can’t have a party without music. Coming Out has been immortalised by Divas from old Burly Shassy and Diana Ross to the modern day pretenders to the crown; there is something for everyone.

    6. A soirée for a select few, only those who will be entirely shocked! There is no point in doing this if there isn’t melodrama.

    7. A big drunken speech thanking people who have contributed nothing, plenty of gushing.  A coming out event has to have  tissues and tears

    8. To finish karaoke with just show tunes. Or is it all just a little to Fay Wray?

    On second thoughts it may be too much effort. I might just lay back on the chaise, massage my temples with some soothing liniment and have a quick rub down with a warm pasty.

  • COMMENT | How gay men Hooked Up before the tech

    The Rural Closet

    In my mind, this is how I imagine the closet to be. A crowded dim place, smelling of hay, stale clothes, and dried semen. Somewhere a dog had whimpered, but now fallen quiet having relieved itself. The warm stench of canine urine adds to the atmosphere. The silence is broken only by the notification sounds of mobile phones.

    Once in this dank place, men stood shoulder to shoulder, but these days there is more space as most have one hand held high trying to get a signal on their mobile device. Where previously the darkness was only ever broken by someone “coming out” and leaving the door ajar, now there is the constant glimmer from various apps as men try to hook up.

    Thirty years ago it was all so different. The rural closet of old, required an energy and commitment. Some might even say it was healthier; as before technology brought available cock through the electronic ether, men cruised and cottaged.

    There was a community of nodding acquaintances. Friendships were created through the frequenting of a familiar hunting ground. Regulars were known and most visited at around the same time of the day and night, on their way to and from work, or perhaps walking the dog later at night.

    Knowledge and warnings were shared of those who could be discrete, others who could not be trusted and some who engaged in unsafe acts. Some would come and go in total anonymity, their only desire being to purge themselves of an urge, by way of quick grope and fondle of another similarly excited.

    The characters had nicknames such as Picnic Paul, or Coral Colin, the Raven, Whopper of a chopper, earned from bringing a sandwich and a flask, working at the local bookies, just watching and never playing and an endowment to behold.

    There was a sense of camaraderie, people watched out for each other, and even cared to inquire if someone was not seen for a while, “Is he ill?”, “What’s the matter; cock gone soft?”, “Warned off by the Police”, and the worse thing of all that could happen?

    “Prosecuted for importuning and named in the papers!”

    The fellowship that was once synonymous with the male seeking like-minded company would often take up a whole evening for no reward. Then quite by chance, it could sometimes pay dividends with a little pleasure and relief.  I remember being told it’s not what you get, for it does not last that long; it is more the thrill of the chase.

    The meeting places of convenience by name and nature are mainly boarded up, demolished or converted to snack bars on the highways and byways. The cruising grounds are still there but now, a more aware public is suspicious of a man alone.

    Not all change is for the best. Some if it although safer now lacks humanity, being so clinical, so antisocial and just seems to be nothing more than”a meat rack in the cloud.”

     

    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.

  • COMMENT | What does LGBT+ actually mean…

    LGBTQIAPK – Has it all gone too far? – A follow up

    The rationale behind the question was about division by classification. Is this a form of segregation?

    Is it a division any group would allow; if it were not a self-imposed segregation?

    When segregation has been imposed historically by authority it has created alienation and not promoted inclusion. How is this different?

    There appear to be 3 distinct groups, Heterosexuality, LGBT+, and the groups and acts that are illegal.

    “I am a man, and a gay man at that, but I am not LGBT+. Where does LGBT+ exist? It exists in the policy documents of local authorities and on the pages of corporate propaganda”

    Is LGBT+ just political? I sometimes feel like a unit of currency or a pawn in someone else’s game. I am not a stepping stone for someone’s political ambition or career. I am a man, and a gay man at that, but I am not LGBT+.

    Where does LGBT+ exist? In someone’s mind or the minds of some, but perhaps not the consciousness of the masses. It exists in the policy documents of local authorities and on the pages of corporate propaganda. It exists in some places in London, perhaps many. If London is the epicentre of LGBT+ in the UK, then like a pebble dropped in a pool the ripple weakens as it moves further out.

    I liken LGBT+ to the Euro and Gay to the pound. They are fast getting to be worth the same. Spending the Euro is possible in London, but try that currency in almost any village in the country and it will be rejected. The pound may sometimes be “the only gay in the village,” but in the UK it is more credible.

     

    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.

  • COMMENT | I committed the gay cardinal sin… I got overweight and old

    When I was young gay bars and nightclubs were at the height of popularity and exclusively gay. I had no trouble finding men and no intention of settling down with one. Why have the same meal every day when all the menu was there to be sampled?

    In my 30s I struggled and became distant from the “scene.” It was at this juncture I discovered the part-time poof. Straight in everyday life, some even married; but all with a high sex drive, just needing a discrete and understanding friend. Some regulars lasted for years. This was in the days before the Internet and mobile phones. I was a safe option and a place to develop themes and try out new things they could never do anywhere else.

    In my 40s I was a publican. It’s true, so often “The difference between a straight and gay man is about 8 pints”.

    The problem is when sober, some feel they have been duped as they cannot accept self-responsibility and others can be convinced to do it again, but they want free beer. Free beer is never a good thing, it is just like paying for it and I was not up for that.

    When I left the pub trade I entered a barren wasteland of no sex and no gay contact. The problem was I had committed the worst of gay sins by getting old and overweight.

    Experience counts. I had quite a lot of the play with part-time poofs into kinks. Oh the delights of BDSM. I do like a younger man. Those who would never look at me twice in the real world, fall at my feet to serve when I am an expert in their fetishes. Now it seems I am to grow old disgracefully, an ageing kinkster in the twilight of his perversion.

    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.

  • COMMENT | Discovering I was different

    What was I?

    Getting information was difficult in the 1970s. It was all so confusing. My point of reference was the tabloid press. It was what my father and grandfather read and the only available resource. I knew I couldn’t ask them.

    When an actor or pop singer was in disgrace for an unmentionable act with a member of the same sex, it was all so vague. I thought I knew that couldn’t be me though as I couldn’t act or sing and had no desire for the attire and makeup of the glam rock era.

    In the playground, I heard the same derogatory remarks slung at boys from each other “you’re a bummer, a wanker, a homo and a queer.” The narrative had an intent to offend and insult, but I didn’t know what the words meant. Did one of those words describe me?

    The narrative had an intent to offend and insult, but I didn’t know what the words meant. Did one of those words describe me?

    It was about 2.45pm on a Wednesday afternoon in the early summer of 1974. I was 11 years old. Taking the Environmental Studies class was Miss Barker a temporary teacher. It was her first day and our first lesson with her.

    She was a  pretty young woman in her early to mid 2os. Casually dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with a v-neck. Her cleavage was pert and visible. The colour of the clothing and bra beneath did nothing to conceal that she had nipples like Tractor stater buttons.

    One of my friends suggested he would like Miss Barker to run her fingers down his spine. He shivered as if the thought of it had made him tingle all over. The other boys we were sat with all eagerly joined in expressing similar opinions.

    I knew I did not want her to touch me. Geoff the boy at the front who was athletic, having experienced a pre-teenage explosion of testosterone would be my choice.

    I don’t know why but I didn’t share it with the others. I knew it meant I was different but I did not have a name for it; or anyone I could talk to about it. In that instant, I had learned something about me and I knew it would be my secret for some time into the future.

    It would be nearly 5 more years before I found out, I was not one of those playground taunts; but that I had hit the jackpot and was all of them!