THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY: Visits a Turkish bath

    Has anyone ever been to Turkey? If you haven’t, I really recommend that you do. The weather is beautiful, the resorts are luscious and the men are tall, dark and handsome.

    Now, after my Indian adventure, you would have thought that I’d had enough of holidaying with my best friend, Tullene. But no, clearly I’m a glutton for punishment.

    The only annoying thing about Turkey is that you can’t walk more than a hundred yards down the road without someone trying to sell you something. Whether it be a boat trip, apple tea or a fake football shirt.

    But the one thing I didn’t mind getting stopped and sold in the street was the offer of a Turkish bath. When you have a tall, dark, handsome man offering you a foam rub down and an oil massage, any proper gay man answers yes.

    The next thing we knew, we were inside the Turkish bath and were very excited. We got ourselves dressed appropriately, Tullene in a swimsuit, me in a pair of Speedos. And we got taken down for part one of the Turkish bath.

    We were laid out on a round, marble slab. And they began washing us from toe to head in this delightful foam. Ooh, I tell you, I felt like a gay Marilyn Munroe in that iconic bath photo shoot.

    After we’d had buckets of hot water lashed over us to wash off the foam, we were moved onto part two of our spa experience. The sea salt exfoliation Massage.

    I couldn’t wait to have all my dead skin cells scrubbed away. As any fake tan addict will tell you, a full body exfoliation is just what one needs every now and again to avoid crusty elbows and knees.

    But the men doing the scrub were rather rough. I felt like I was being exfoliated by Hulk Hogan. I started screaming because it felt like they were ripping the skin fresh from my calves.

    Now, before I tell you the next part of the experience, I must make you aware of Tullene’s nickname. We all call her T-bag. Probably something to do with her name beginning with T and the fact she’s an old bag.

    So whilst I was having the skin ripped from my calves, I started shouting “T-bag! T-bag!”, to convey to Tullene I was in pain.

    But the Scottish boys, who were on the marble slab with us, obviously didn’t know this was Tullene’s nickname. So I suddenly heard Scottish accents shouting,

    “He wants them to T-bag him!”

    Oh, the cringe-worthy embarrassment.

    After surviving the skin peeling calf exfoliation and the Scottish T-bagging, we were swiftly moved onto our oil Massage. As we walked along, I saw one of the male therapists winking at me. Well, I think he was winking at me. That or he had a nervous twitch. I couldn’t work out which one.

    The male therapist suddenly stopped and grabbed me by the shoulder. He whispered in my ear in his seductive Turkish accent, “you’re beautiful!”

    Well, I blushed. Although you probably couldn’t tell as the 46-degree Turkish heat had sunburnt my face.

    As we carried on walking, something took me completely by surprise. I suddenly felt a finger slip up my ring piece, along with some material from my speedos. Well, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. How forward. Not that I was complaining.

    He took us into our very own beauty room, which had two Massage beds waiting for us.

    “Lay on the beds! Face down!” He barked.

    We did as we were told but Tullene looked up. He obviously wasn’t happy at her disobedience.
    “FACE DOWN!” He barked again at Tullene.

    We both started doing our nervous laughs that we’re famous for. And then I felt another tap on my shoulder. As I looked up, I was greeted by a rather large Turkish erection. It practically took my eye out.

    But it seemed such a shame to waste a perfectly good erection. So we swiftly asked Tullene to leave the room.

  • 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…

     

  • JOURNEY TO FATHERHOOD 8 | Planning to be a single, gay dad

    About a year ago I was approached by a documentary production company, who were producing a documentary on different types of families from the UK, going through the surrogacy process. They had a straight couple, a gay couple and were looking for an individual gay man as well.

    The company asked me to take part. At first, I was like ‘no, not really interested,’ and then when I mentioned it to my project manager he said “well, they can pay a lot of money”. Surrogacy is an expensive business, so I was like ‘okay, for the money’. Time past, I met them and we did some filming, but when it came to the crunch there was no money available – small production company etc… Then my first surrogate and transfers didn’t work out, so the whole thing fizzled out.

    Nine months later, I had a new (and my current) surrogate and was getting ready for the next transfer. The production company contacted me and said, “well things have changed, it would just be about your journey now”. I ignored it for a bit and then thought about it in detail. Obviously, it would expose my child and me to national coverage (it’s for Channel 4), and, potentially lead to ridicule, humiliation and social media trolling (just look at the recent McCain oven chips ad for families, featuring a gay couple part way through). However, I also work in media relations and marketing. Do you know how difficult it is to get coverage or even to get prolonged coverage on an issue? For example, last year I led a big charity campaign on an emotive ongoing issue. We got the TV news, radio, press, and had a launch in the House of Commons. For one day there was a ‘buzz’ and then apart from the charity’s own community, it essentially died away. My own professional experiences like this, built up over many years balance the negatives that spring to mind. Apart from a ‘buzz’ over a day or two, what’s the worse that could happen?

    I guess the realisation for me, is that this isn’t an issue about being on TV, it’s about how you belong to your wider family or friends and the values you jointly hold. To draw a correlation with my own situation, I read somewhere over the last week that the couple in the McCain oven chip ad was now saying “what a mistake it was’ to be involved in the ad”. McCain has stood by the ad, and I agree with McCain. If my charity campaign experience from last year has taught me one thing, it is that too have acceptance in the wider world, an issue must be normalised or ‘everyday,’ and to achieve this, it must be ‘visual’, on TV, on the high street, at school and in workplaces. The McCain ad has helped to normalise surrogacy in my view.

    However, if I was a betting man, I would bet that the couple in the McCain ad were getting the most ‘pain’ from their parents, friends and relatives, not the man down the road or the lady in the supermarket; although the online abuse is what the media has reported about. We can all ignore Facebook, Twitter and Instagram for a couple of weeks, but we can’t run from our parents, relatives or immediate friends. (These are of course assumptions as I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with the McCain ad couple.)

    I draw the correlation with the couple in Manchester because of my own family’s vociferous and I think hysteric reactions to my own filming situation. Again, it comes back to my mother. In part three, I wrote about how my mother reacted, from: “Why do this now, you’re too young” (I was 38 at the time), to a discussion about the baby’s gender, name and how I would cope. In light of this, I approached the filming discussion with her, with a touchy-feely build up. It was no good though. Despite working with the film crew for six months, having recorded video diaries and sense checking with cousins first, the result was more hysteria. Unfortunately, this time we had reached a ‘bridge too far’. Effectively my father told me that I had put their marriage at risk and my brother’s mental health was becoming unmanageable. If I was going to continue agreeing to film, it would be without the support of my parents and brother, and we would stop speaking. No amount of my professional experience or helpful insight from the production crew could change this. I spent two weeks in abject family hell.

    My mother went on about how surrogacy was unnatural and how we couldn’t tell the neighbours. We were going to lie and say that the child’s mum is in the States that we’d gone through a separation and I was left with the child. (Question, which is worse in modern Britain: a child in a single parent family through divorce or through surrogacy? Also, see column seven about what we had agreed.) She said, it would be the talk of the town and that we would be humiliated, abused and shouted at, day-after-day-after-day. And then, how could you raise a baby in that situation? What’s in the best interests of your child? (Well in my opinion, not lying for a start and making everything as normal as possible.)

    My brother was next, but what was worse, was that for him, this was all about me being gay. “You’re not some gay rights warrior, you have no right to raise gay issues on national television, who do you think you are’”.

    I came out at 18. I’ve been humiliated for being gay in an international sales meeting, on the train, at work and in public places. At 20, I ran the LGBT society at university and was a public figurehead at uni for LGBT people and issues. I was an organiser of Yorkshire Pride at 23, and, for virtually every year since 18, I have marched in gay pride parades in London and Birmingham. So yes, I feel an important personal duty about raising gay rights.

    Sadly, the fact of the matter is, that throughout all the filming so far, I’ve barely mentioned the word gay once; because I’m happy that my child will be as a result of surrogacy, but I too was scared to say that I was gay on TV. So, on the one hand, I do everything I think I can, reasonably, to raise and support gay rights, whilst considering the people around me. On the other hand, those I don’t shove it in the face of (my mother and brother), are some of the most vociferous opponents of who I am and what I choose to do with my life. Ultimately I question whether their values and my own match and although outside of being gay our values align pretty much, being gay for me is a fundamental part of who I am.

    “Thinking about my unborn child, who this is most important to, I will be her father. I will try to be a role model, I will look after her, take care of her, indeed devote my life to her. But, that includes the fact that her father is gay.”

    Thinking about my unborn child, who this is most important to, I will be her father. I will try to be a role model, I will look after her, take care of her, indeed devote my life to her. But, that includes the fact that her father is gay. There will be bumps in the road ahead because of this, however discreet I am about it. And, if you think about it, the haters will always hate and even if my child was not born through surrogacy or had a gay dad, other kids may pick on her hair colour, her weight or the way she talks. These are just things that we all have to struggle with in life.

    Which brings me back to my own reasoning for having a family of my own. The most important thing in life is family and friends. So a duty to gay rights and a fundamental part of my life once again must take a hit, so that I continue to belong to my family. In reality, I’m furious, want to scream and shout, because my being gay and my choice to have a family is reluctantly supported by my family. I feel that they have placed their own personal needs before backing me (n.b. what we say to the neighbours).

    The film company has invested time and money, understandably want to continue, but I’ll draw it to a close. The opportunities for both my own life from the pithy 15 minutes of fame, to writing or talking at public events about gay surrogacy, will have to be placed to one side while I shelve this in order to remain part of my family. (My writing name is a pseudonym.)

    As you have probably guessed from the above I am expecting a daughter, so with family and friends, I have been out buying stuff from a ‘travel system’ to clothing, bottles and all sorts of stuff. This has been fun and made things more real.

    Indeed, I now have seven week’s till I fly to the states and eight weeks until my child is born. The flights are booked, an Airbnb condo booked, and my parents (gotta love em) will fly out as well to ‘help’ me for two weeks while we get a birth certificate and passport. I have then agreed to move in with them for three or four months. Now, however, a little part of me desperately wants to move as far away as possible from them and start anew as quickly as possible.  It was my mother’s insistence for a female influence and offers of help that brought me back. Well considering the implications of what I have to deal with, I think three months after we come back to the UK, I’ll want to be at a safe distance from them.

    Finally, I just want to add a note about the NCT course I discussed in my last column. I did get back in touch and the local coordinator was apologetic, so I’ll keep the faith, get over my reluctance and sign up to a course.

  • 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….

     

    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 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…

     

    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.

  • Dear Hopeful Me… Here’s what you need to know about your first love

    Here’s what first love can feel like

    Dear Hopeful Me,

    Now that you’ve accepted which gender you happen to be attracted to, it’s only a matter of time before that four-letter-word starts playing a more serious part in your life. You’ve spent a while pretending that you don’t believe in Love, mostly because your darn low self-esteem has managed to convince you that you’ll never be worthy of it – but it’s coming, and I feel like you ought to know a little about how it’s going to go.

    The first time it hits you it is going to hit you hard and fast. It will follow you home from the club, show its head on some – few and far between – dates, and most certainly be present through the hour-long phone calls night to night. At this point, it’s going to be confusing and terrifying all at the same time, but you’re going to be feeling too happy in the moment to care about this, so you’ll dive in head first. He’ll say it first, and you’ll say it right back – and then you’ll make a habit of saying it as often as possible to ensure he’s still saying it back, right up until he doesn’t that is.

    That’s the first Love, and it’s a bitch – it will break you and hurt you.

    You’ll spend a long time after that Love living like a wounded animal, you’ll limp from day to day simply hoping that something might change. To steal some wisdom from Cat Stevens, “The first cut is the deepest”, and this has never been truer than when it comes to Love.

    Just hold on, Kiddo, you see, the truth is that Love isn’t a once in a lifetime affair – who knows how many times you might experience it in your life, but I can tell you right now that it’s definitely not just the once for you.

    It might take a while to find someone you can trust again, someone who doesn’t mind the scars and the tears in your trust. But believe me, you’ll find him, and he just happens to be well worth the wait.

    There are always going to be outside influences on your Love, PDA will never be as easy as it should be, and sometimes even holding hands might feel like a risk – thanks a lot, 2016 – but those are all the little things that you quickly realise don’t matter at all. You just have to trust your heart on this one – don’t listen to the head and all the overrun thoughts that might plague you. You are worthy of Love. You are entitled to Love. You deserve a happy future – maybe even with a diamond ring, a picket fence, and a few kids if that’s what you choose. Being Gay doesn’t change this – which is definitely something to keep in mind after that first love breaks you.

    You are worthy of Love. You are entitled to Love. You deserve a happy future – maybe even with a diamond ring, a picket fence, and a few kids if that’s what you choose. Being Gay doesn’t change this – which is definitely something to keep in mind after that first love breaks you.

    You are entitled to Love. You deserve a happy future – maybe even with a diamond ring, a picket fence, and a few kids if that’s what you choose. Being Gay doesn’t change this – which is definitely something to keep in mind after that first love breaks you.

    You deserve a happy future – maybe even with a diamond ring, a picket fence, and a few kids if that’s what you choose. Being Gay doesn’t change this – which is definitely something to keep in mind after that first love breaks you.

    Being Gay doesn’t change this – which is definitely something to keep in mind after that first love breaks you.

    It’s hard to know when you find The One – in fact; everyone might feel like The One to you at times, but that’s when you really have no choice but to dive in headfirst. At the end of the day, Love might hurt you, but it’s nothing to be afraid of.

    If it’s now or never, make it now.

    Sincerely,
    Twenty-Five Year Old (Loved, Unloved, and Loved Again) You

     

    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 | 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…

     

    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.

  • FORD MUSTANG | Just Call Me Mustang Sally

    Ford put on quite a show recently to a few motoring journalists for the launch of the 2017 Mustang Convertible. Not only was there a play in the new pony car but a polo match and tuition on how to play it albeit thankfully not on the horse and a day at Goodwood festival of speed.

    First up though was the excitement for the new Mustang that was then halted by the presence of a 1977 Mk2 Capri 1.6 L. Mustang does something to the inner you and l suppose if I was American it would do more but the Capri really was the car they said you’ve always promised yourself. And being British it stirred me up the wrong way. Thankfully Charlotte Ward from Ford Heritage entrusted me with the keys and I was able to satisfy those pangs with the joyous sound of a 1.6 pinto engine doing nothing but making noise when you pushed the pedal to the metal.

    Noise with motion was not a problem in the new Mustang with its V8 thundering under the bonnet. Motion was there in abundance. Sometimes too much was there. Even with all the traction control, you could still have some fun. You could also turn it off too but this is really only for legends. Come to think of it there were many different setting even down to a ‘track’ setting. I kept it as it was and cruised. The roads around Goodwood are not great for sideways action. As a thundering toy, I liked what I saw.

    The route took us to watch the Jaeger-LeCoultre Gold Cup polo courtesy of Guy and Charlotte from the Cowdray polo academy. As an animated fan, Guy was able to enthuse with abundance about polo, the skills needed, what made a good polo horse and the players. A gentle sport it is not and Charlotte showed off her skills at brownie making. Diet or not, I hit those hard.

    Dinner was interspersed with what can only be described as a perfect accompaniment to wine tasting five different wines and champagnes by Wiston with husband and wife team Richard and Kirsty Goring providing ample joviality per bottle per course. A lot of fun, even if we were lead down the wrong path by Richard who during the quiz asked questions he and Kirsty had not mentioned. An uproar ensued.

    Sunday was filled with a trip to Goodwood. Having never been before I can only express that it is far bigger than I thought it would be and quite overwhelming. There is just so much to see both on and off the track. This was after all The Festival of Speed.

    THEGAYUK hopes to get hold of a new Mustang for further examination so watch this space and a look around the heritage fleet too.

     

  • JOURNEY TO FATHERHOOD 7: Walking through the woods

    Looking back at what I have published in this column, I realise that it’s now been two years since my first article (2015); and indeed it’s been five years (2012) since I started this process. I can remember being told at the time, “you’re in your mid-thirties (by my mother and others) why can’t you wait till you’re a bit older?” Well, little did I know that it would take five years from when my ex and I started to investigate to actually having a child. On the flip side, ironically, I now have conversations about the discrimination I will face being an older parent, as most new mums are in their 20s and I will be 40.

    So, I am the proud bearer of good news! In my last column I finished by saying that I hope to report back, with news of a successful transfer and indeed I can. It’s not twins, but an embryo transfer took place back in March and having been grown a bit in the laboratory beforehand, the embryo has developed into a foetus. According to my pregnancy app, this week it is the size of a typical chicken breast and about 5oz in weight, developing its fingerprints and has recognisable features. The nervous system is developing and my baby’s ears have developed so that s/he (we don’t know the sex yet) can hear.

    Two weeks ago I sent my surrogate a voucher and a list of classical music to download and play through some tummy speakers. My parents have also recorded nursery rhymes, which we will send to my surrogate shortly. My surrogate, however, enjoys hip hop and rap, so I may well have a MOBO music lover in my son or daughter!

    We are also heading ‘through the woods’, as the first trimester (week 12) completed six weeks ago, and the ultrasound imagery taken at the time suggests no abnormalities of the foetus. I now have an expected date of arrival in early December 2017.

    In some ways I feel really disconnected from the whole process. I am a whole continent away from my surrogate and all of those things (good and bad) that other new dads experience aren’t happening for me. It’s almost like a surreal dream. I speak with my surrogate once a week and we are connected on Facebook, but the emotional build up and the build up with family and friends is not happening for me. So I feel strangely disconnected.

    Part of this disconnection is down to me and my circumstances. The tangled lives that we lead, mean that mine is not as well prepared as it could be. Having agreed not to come out to wider family and in the area where my parents live when I was 18, (I’m only really out in London), my parents and I have been having conversations about how we explain my situation in their local community, to their friends and to my wider family (cousins, aunts, uncles etc). The fear that I feel is immense.

    It’s like I’m coming out all over again. That carefully edited and compartmentalised part of my life which is my parental home environment where I grew up, is suddenly in peril. Here’s my current thinking: Having already come out once and the world is very different from where it was 22 years ago when I was 18, I’ve said: we won’t lie, there is no secret girlfriend in the states, I haven’t been deserted by the mother and I am gay and going through surrogacy. It’s mainly because I can’t lie and build lie upon lie, upon lie. With a child in my arms to care for and look after, it’s too much to think about a back story every time. As a result, this was the topic of some debate for a week or two between me and my parents.

    The West Country is not a liberal place. My local MP voted against gay marriage and only last year I was verbally discriminated against in my workplace in the local office in Reading, because I’m gay. I’m seriously starting to question if moving back here (because of the support of parents and family) will be the right decision. Only at the weekend the daughter of a neighbour talking to one of her friends across the street said, ‘my mum says he’s funny’ and she didn’t say it in a ‘ha ha, he makes me laugh’ kind of way.

    So, I’ve agreed with my parents that following my 40 birthday, I will come out (again!) to my wider family and explain at the same time that I will become a dad. What will be, will be: ‘Que sera sera’. To add to this I need to hold down a job and continue to battle through the surrogacy process.

    Speaking of discrimination one my female friends who strongly supports me, suggested that I contact the National Childbirth Trust ‘The UK’s largest charity for parents’. She had taken ante-natal and parental courses with them and is a huge fan. In this sense I’m like any other parent to be, I know nothing and could do with some help. So I went to the website https://www.nct.org.uk – they advertise stuff like a first 1000 days parent support. I found a course and applied. Within about 15 minutes I had a reply from the local co-ordinator. Bubbly and excited, we exchanged e-mails discussing local courses, costs, etc. Until about the fifth e-mail, “whose your partner?” was the question. ‘Um I don’t have one, I’m a gay dad to be going through surrogacy’.

    The tone of the response was muted and effectively said, ‘I’m not sure that the course we have discussed is right for you. You’re welcome to attend but we think that a one-on-one session in your home would be “what people usually offer”’.

    I noted a change of tone from first person to third person. I have to say I feel really, really let down. Why do I need a special course at home? I’d like to turn up at the course I chose, be welcomed and accepted as a new parent to be. Instead, through the carefully worded language, it’s being suggested that I can join in but it’s better at home because that’s ‘what people usually offer’ – people? Who are ‘people’? I look forward to being continually being discriminated against. I’ve yet to decide if I will try to continue with the NCT.

    In a couple of week’s time, we will start the legal process for a pre-birth order in the states to hand over rights to the baby from the surrogate to me before birth. I now also need to think about writing a Will and engaging a UK solicitor – I have one in mind. I was under the impression that there is now single parent, ‘parental orders’ but having spoken to a friend who is also a single dad he seemed to think that they were not in use yet. A single parent parental order will be much easier than getting an effective legal decision or the onerous journey of adoption.

    That’s my journey to date, I will update you all closer to December.

     

    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 | 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.