THEGAYUK

Category: Column

  • What’s it like to have a doctor check your balls for lumps?

    Oh no; not a third bollock! I had found a lump!

    Nothing significant but it was a lump on my right testicle. I had woken one morning stretching, raking, scratching, checking and there it was. I did nothing, well not precisely nothing I kept checking every day to see if it would just go. It didn’t. After about a week I knew I should see a doctor just to be safe.

    Having recently moved into a new area I had yet to register with a surgery. I lived in an apartment in a large converted Victorian house, halfway up a hill. At the foot of the hill was the nearest clinic. Registering as a new patient seemed to be a good idea, so I filled in the form when I went to ask to see a doctor. There were no appointments, but I could sit and wait to see the duty doctor. I was told the duty doctor for today was the GP I had just registered for and I would be his first patient on his first day.

    It was the summer of 1992, a hot August day. I sat in the waiting room, worried about sweating in the heat and wondering if this was the best time to be here. How long would I have to wait? Long enough to be considered of dubious personal hygiene? I hoped not. I wanted to be cool and calm, but I just felt hot and sweaty.

    Surrounded by seniors, some with quiet dignity, an old lady with her head to one side. “Earache,” the old man accompanying her said sharply as he looked across at me. Oops had I been staring? Small children, some running around, others looking very sorry for themselves and clinging to their parents.

    “Tom Driver to Doctor F……..”, the loudspeaker announced. I followed the instructions the receptionist had given me and went up the stairs to the door on the left. I knocked and almost immediately heard back “Come in.”

    Deep breath and in through the door and shocked, absolutely stunned! Sitting in the chair, formally attired, smiling back at me was a young man who was the spitting image of England Rugby Union Captain Will Carling. “Tom isn’t it? Do take a seat.”

    Take a seat? I wanted to run out of the door. This man was wank fantasy material incarnate, and I was going to tell him I had a lump on my right bollock!

    Pleasantries over and I had made my disclosure, while mumbling, looking away and staring at the floor. “Well, we better have a look then. Stand up and drop your trousers and underwear.”

    Mentally I was in agony dreading what would happen if my cock reacted during the examination. In my head, I was watching the Salvation Army marching band and old ladies knitting while reciting “Bromide in the NAAFI tea keeps the cock at half-mast or lower.”

    In the time I had been having these thoughts and thinking of what excuse to offer should he excite me, the doctor had got on his knees in front of me. Oh My God, focus on the matter in hand, IN HAND, he has my balls in his hand fondling squeezing and checking. He reached to his desk and took from it with his right hand the instrument they use to look into mouths and ears (Otoscope). With his torch in his right hand and the lump exposed by his positioning of my testis with his left, he shone the light. I thought; ‘he really wants a good look’. Then he got up, and I heard him say “All done, pull them up.”

    I had to ask, “What were you doing?” He explained to me that he shone the light because cellular tissue is denser than fatty tissue. Having this knowledge and the fact the light shone into and through the lump indicated it was not cellular (potentially cancerous) and was most likely a polyp, a lump of fatty tissue the body would probably reabsorb over time. I was told to keep an eye on it and if it changed, itched or grew to come back. I thanked him and left.

    On the stairs, on the way down I stood back to let an elderly couple pass on their up. It was the old lady with the earache who was his next patient. I smiled, knowing where the instrument he would use to examine her had just been.

     

    If you are concerned about lumps on your testicles, you should make an appointment with your GP as soon as possible.

    THEGAYUK.com has teamed up with The Naked Rugby Players to help raise money and awareness for testicular cancer with the Balls To Cancer charity, through their Naked Rugby Calendar 2018. To buy a copy click here.

    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.

  • COLUMN | The time my friend used his private ambulance as a “cottage”

    COLUMN | The time my friend used his private ambulance as a “cottage”

    Got a stiffe?

    Clker-Free-Vector-Images / Pixabay

    In the 1980s I knew a man who had an entirely respectable occupation in the funeral trade. He was a driver/bearer, drove the hearse and carried the coffin

    He lived in a city which at the time had a one-way system designed in the 1960s.

    For pedestrians, there were access routes under the road system via a series of subways. The subways often led into the centre of roundabouts at a subterranean level where gardens, memorials and open spaces could be found. Many of these subways also provided the service of public toilets or as we knew them at the time “cottages.” A number of these toilets were a prolific source of activity – sometimes 24 hours per day.

    The term and act of “cottaging” never appealed to me. I could not get to grips with the morality of hanging around public loos in the hope of meeting another man for sex. Though when homosexuality was “the love that dare not speak its name”, for many this was the only way to make a connection with a like-minded soul in a vast number of towns and cities throughout the country.

    I knew the slang term for a toilet as being a “bog” and used to jibe my driver/bearer friend that his action was that of “bogging!” He was totally a serial “bogger” at all times of the day and night, never getting caught. Why? You may well ask.

    He drove the private ambulance (decked out Transit van. No need of a defibrillator, as his passengers were past the point of resuscitation!) of the funeral directors he worked for. When not on funerals he would collect bodies in it from various hospital morgues in the city or be moving bodies from one office to another for the convenience of mourners to view in a “chapel of rest.”

    In the evening he would be “on-call.” Inconveniently as it may seem, but many people die outside of regular working hours; just no consideration. Those who die at home unexpectedly have to be removed. The police are always called to sudden deaths. They often have better things to do, such as catching criminals, or speeding motorists and so a private ambulance was never stopped by the Force as it could be on its way to where another of their colleagues was working.

    This courtesy extended by the police equated to a carte blanche for my friend to drive around the city centre day and night; parking where he liked never getting a ticket, picking up “trade”, with somewhere to take them (a roll-up camping mattress on a shelf in the back of a van made an excellent makeshift bed). Hence he saw and got more action than most of the rest of the population.

    His dedication to his pastime was beyond question. Except for the mechanic at the garage who serviced the vehicle. He raised questions about the wear and tear on the vehicle. My friend who was able to be solemn informed me he was totally “deadpan” when his senior had questioned him. Though subsequently, he varied his route to equal out the number of left and right turns on his nighttime cruising missions, it previously having been a number of left turns around the road system.

    I always wondered why no one ever questioned the mileage the vehicle covered, sometimes hundreds of miles every time he was on call, whether anyone died or not. Not surprising funerals are so expensive! He also did favours for friends, moving furniture and trips to the tip!

    More of a concern was what did other men think climbing into the back of a van with coffins in it? Amazing what a man will do when his cock is calling! The risks he will take. Had my friend been a serial killer he could have disposed of thousands.

    I wonder how many people’s recently demised relatives went “cottaging” with him during the time of his employ. “Oh don’t worry about Auntie Maud, she’s dead quiet!”

    Sad really, I lost touch with him years ago. For all, I know the deceased relatives of you, and I could be out cruising for trade with him tonight.

     

    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.

  • Why do straight guys ask this question when you come out to them?

    No… we don’t fancy you

    At some time many of us will be one of a group of mates, whether at school, college, work, in military service or member of a club or association.

    There is the inevitable question you will be asked by them almost one and all, en-mass or individually when you come out to them, “So, do you fancy me then?”

    I have a standard answer to this question it is: “No. As a gay man, I do have standards!”

    Generally, this confuses them as it seems, most have a secret desire to be longed for by anyone with a pulse, and they don’t like rejection. A few have even been really needy to know what they could improve or change. They can get quite desperate, and then they realise they are throwing themselves at another bloke and in an instant they ‘man-up.’

    Remind your straight mates they don’t go after everyone they see. Like them, you have a taste that is unique to you and in which all the aspects of a person they consider, you do too. Though if your friends are like mine, those rules fall by the wayside the more alcohol they consume and the later it gets into the evening.

    Another reason not too fancy all your straight mates or at least most of them is a working olfactory sense. Among your group, if they are anything like mine, will be those who could do with a shower or a stronger deodorant and those who have liberally splashed it all over to the point of having an aroma one associates with going through the door of a department store onto the women’s perfume floor. You know the ones; you can smell they are on their way as they step out of their front door and start to walk down the street to the pub.

    Another reason not too fancy or go with some of your straight mates is that you will know their sexual history. Ask yourself do you really want to take that risk?

    You’ve probably stood next to them at a urinal at some time. They will be thinking of that now and wondering if all the time you have been a secret “willy watcher.” Personally, I didn’t have this problem as my tiny todger is not a public performer and I always go into a cubicle. So you are on your own with this one.

    Chances are they already knew anyway, so what was all the panic and worry about telling them?

    Finally, if all else fails, the best thing is to tell them you really do fancy them and let them make the next move.

     

    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.

  • What’s it like to go to BDSM dinner party?

    It comes around every year, announced by the crashing onto the doormat in the hallway, abound (well it would be) invitation to the Mid Devon BDSM Dinner and dance.

    I only too well remember last year’s meal… I was sat at a table facing the door. The man from the table next to me was on the floor in the foetal position. He was already at his dessert; I made a mental note not to order anything with crushed nuts.

    A couple entered and were being shown to their table when I heard a resounding thud and splat. The sort of noise only heavy-duty surgical rubber makes when over lubed. Sure enough, the sub of the couple had lost his butt plug. Forced out by the 30-second long rasping fart that followed, accompanied by musical lows and highs. I could only imagine the look of embarrassment and relief on his face, as his full cover gimp mask rendered him quite expressionless.

    My date for this event was Clive. A massive 22 stone of a man clad from head to foot in Biker’s leather, boots, gloves with studs and a helmet with a skeleton in relief on the back. Rather like a secret Santa event, the seating was chosen at random. I inquired of Clive as to where he had parked his bike? In the most effete of voices and with a Birmingham accent he replied, “Oh no bab, I haven’t got a bike. I came on the bus!” (pronounced buzz by Brummies). At this juncture, he extended a hand, as limp as a left out lettuce and requiring a bone in the wrist to prevent it from dangling perpendicular to the forearm. I returned the greeting taking and shaking just his index and middle finger.

    Clive had long dishevelled hair, a matching beard and wore corrective glasses that almost worked. His head was facing me, one eye looking at me, the other looking for me. Our drinks arrived. I took my pint of real ale with my cuffed hands and Clive his Babycham. There we sat making small talk, a pseudo biker and me in my PVC maids outfit, crotchless panties, thigh length rubber waders and cast iron ankle shackles. I glanced around the dining room and given the assembled company I felt we blended in and were perhaps even a little conservative in our garb.

    Our order for dinner was taken by an orange-hued spray tanned muscle Mary, shrink-wrapped into the tightest of trunks. I would have aged him to be in his 40s. The badge announcing that his name was Doris was worn through his pierced right nipple. From the way he twitched when it jiggled I think the piercing was new for the event. He seemed to be enjoying the pain. Though he was less than steady on his 6-inch heels, part of the reason we had steered clear of the soup.

    Neither Clive nor I had any food or gunge fetishes and we wanted to eat and not wear our food. Though the same could not be said for all the diners, one of whom was having his rectally inserted, the decision having been made by his master. I think they were vegetarians and the choice of the Raw root platter must have been a veritable delight, given the moans of pleasure coming from the recipient who was bent over the table.

    But I have reminisced too long. Time to look in the wardrobe, I want to stand out this year and was thinking of wearing something a little risque. I do hope they have “pigs in slings” on the menu again. I avoided them last year, being as they were, past their best by date. I will, of course, report back

  • COLUMN | I got knocked down, but I got up again

    COLUMN | I got knocked down, but I got up again

    It is my birthday today. I am 55. I thought I would share with you why I have started to write.

    DariuszSankowski / Pixabay

    My dad died in the summer this year. He had been diagnosed with dementia in the early part of 2016. As a family, we first recognised the signs in December 2015. My sister and mother committed him to a care home in April of this year. His last connections to memory through his environment were taken away from him, and it accelerated his rate of decline. He died before the end of June.

    He had vascular dementia. The support received from the Alzheimers charity who help, inform and signpost carers and families coping with all forms of dementia was priceless. They gave us an indication of what to expect and even an optimistic prospect of the journey taking 6-8 years. They warned it would be difficult and was not the same for everyone.

    In a matter of around 18 months this illness called dementia ravaged my dad and robbed him of his vocabulary, then his speech, it took his dignity leaving him doubly incontinent, he lost his place in time, and in the end, he lost his life.

    I have led a very full life. It has been a cross between a roller coaster ride and a series of car crashes. In my current circumstance, I have nothing, having filed for bankruptcy in January 2014. I live in social housing and because of series of debilitating illnesses can only work part-time. In my life, I have been a very heavy social and private drinker. I would describe myself as a functioning alcoholic.

    There is damage to my short-term memory. I have had to put in place strategies to ensure, I switch off the cooker, lock the door and take the right medication at the appropriate time. The issue with my short-term memory is likely to have arisen because of years of alcohol consumption.

    My fear is that of losing my memory entirely. Currently, I am no more than the sum of its content. So I started to write about me, about my thoughts, beliefs and recently about my love of cooking. Initially, it was just going to be a file saved on my computer.

    I decided to share it all because I live a solitary life. In writing, and some of the stuff I write being published I no longer feel alone. In the last couple of months, writing has become more than a repository of who I am. It has developed into a passion and a pleasure. It is a new journey that is a positive in my life. I needed a hobby, and this has become a very welcome distraction, through which I have recalled and re-experienced aspects of who am and explored my connection to the world I live in.

  • COLUMN | Boys will be boys even when they are men

    From cave man drawings to the selfie…

    Since man was a cave dweller and drawing on walls he has had a fascination with his penis and images of it.

    It is a route to pleasure unknown in childhood and stirs new and exciting emotions and experiences. It can be a source of pride and proof of manhood. Hardly a surprise then that men take pics of their dicks!

    One of the current extensions of this is self-promotion, using the image as a tool to attract praise, attention, and get some action. There is a problem. Once an image is shared, it is no longer under the control of the person who took the pic. It can subsequently be shared among a peer group or wider audience if the owner is a person of celebrity or later becomes one.

    An image can become a monster if it is used to manipulate, exploit, or expose someone.

    The only safe dick pic to share is a head and shoulders shot one a man called Richard, ie Richard Madeley of Richard and Judy fame. Sharing his image shouldn’t get you into trouble.

    It is not only the male and not only men who take these pics. Whether teenagers take these pics of their volition or not the images can still be used against them and are inappropriate.

    Should mobile phone manufacturers include a software app that has image recognition to prevent inappropriate images being sent or received as part of a parental control package? Such an app could, for instance, send a copy of the image to a parents phone for approval prior to dispatch or prior to the intended user being able to open it.

    A campaign could be mounted by some of those who are in the public eye and have fallen from grace because of either something they shared before they were known or from a momentary lapse in judgement.

    Sad to say but, sometimes we need protecting from ourselves. I dread to think what I trouble I would have got into if these options were available to me when I was a teenager!

     

    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.

  • COLUMN | The media needs to stop reporting on historic homophobic Tweets

    Sticks and Stones… may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Somehow this just does not ring true anymore.

    I find myself wanting to tell the media to “grow up” and stop reporting these menial items. If I had run to my school teacher about another child being racist or homophobic I would have heard either the words above or been asked: “Did he just say this to you now?” What a killer of a question.

    “Erm, well no, not exactly sir, not to me personally, it was a general comment, and I don’t have perspective on it to give context. In the sense of time being forever, it was recent. It was two years ago, five years ago, 10 and even fifteen years ago!”

    How pathetic does that sound?

    People who become celebrities have a life outside of their public image, or at least they should be entitled to have one and to have had one. What a petty minded, snivelling, crawling group of people reporters must be to go searching for this dirt. They disgust me, I feel ashamed for them and for the organisations who react to the information that is shared with them.

    When there are so many more newsworthy items occurring all around the globe, someone has nothing better to do than to retrospectively stalk a celeb via the Internet! All this from the comfort of their office chair. At least the paparazzi had to camp out looking for news and maybe even dig through some bins.

    What a shameful statement of our time that celebrity has created a new lower status of life, whose sole purpose is to feed on it and destroy it. Not a symbiotic existence the way some parasites have a benefit to its host, more of a cancer that kills what it has to feed on.

    The Romans sacrificed Christians in the arena and used them as fodder for gladiators in sport. I think many a celebrity might know how those early Christians felt. What will history say about this behaviour, that is becoming a “Witch hunt in our time.”

    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.

  • 21 Things I learned about me having sex in my 20s

    In my 20s I still had no sexual experience. This was not a lesson learned at school but with anonymous partners in public places.

    The danger of getting caught was part of the initial thrill, until I moved on and became true to myself about who I was.

    1. I cum too quick. OMG, I have a one-shot willy with a “hair trigger!”
    2. Doesn’t matter because I can immediately do it again. What a relief.
    3. Still cum too quick,  but it’s not a single shot; it’s a repeater.
    4. Hey, no problem I can still do it again.
    5. It’s boring now. How long has this been going on? Now I want to cum, I can’t.
    6. It’s OK; I can fake it! (Thought it would never end)
    7. What do you mean it’s not just about my cock?
    8. “Hey take your finger out”, discomfort and then “Oh! So that’s what my “G” spot is!”
    9. I like that do it again
    10. Learn to do it myself, pokey bum wank, oh happy days.
    11. I have a narrow view on who I will consider having sex with.
    12. “Have a drink”
    13. Now I have a wider view on who I will have sex with
    14. “Have another drink”
    15. Now I would even have sex with you.
    16. He told me what felching is and wants to try it…
    17. I hide my hamster.
    18. Sex in a house; and an introduction to foreplay instead of looking out for passers-by
    19. I like foreplay, but it makes me cum too quick
    20. Cuddles
    21. Sleeping together

    Read more from The Knee Jerk column

  • COLUMN | Know ourselves: LGBT+ rights should be covered in the school curriculum

    I am discrete about my sexuality because it is my choice. I don’t have to be as I live in the UK and have been openly gay in the past.

    I am known on my medical records as being homosexual because I chose to make the disclosure. Publicly I have spoken openly about my sexuality and it is known by the police.

    I have never been victimised by any authority in this country because of my sexuality. Policies of governments, education and employment support the diversity of our culture.

    When I read about the oppression of people in other countries because of their sexuality I realise how much freedom I have that is implicit in being a UK citizen.

    There is an inner desire within me to do something to express that I do not take these rights for granted. I want to show support and solidarity for people who are being oppressed.

    The problem I have is when it comes to politics these days I am nothing more than a “keyboard warrior”, who has an opinion but wants an involvement that takes me no further than my armchair.

    Perhaps if I was part of an army of warriors with typing fingers we could have an impact. Maybe a lobbying group? It’s free to send an email, or post on social media. It would not be too difficult to share a common message. Does anyone else feel the same?

    The other part of my conscience when it comes to the rights I have is I feel LGBT+ rights should be covered in the school curriculum. When I left school I did not even know what a homosexual was, let alone that I was one or more importantly what my legal status was.

    There is a history of campaigning and standing up to be recognised that has come at a cost. If we all knew some LGBT+ history it could help to give respect to us as a group and to be more accepted in the community; because to get to where we are, there has been a journey.

    Our place in law and our rights were not gifted to us, they came as a result of landmark changes which eventually led to equality. By knowing our history and the route that got us to where we are today might help all of us remember not to take our freedoms for granted.

  • THE KNEE JERK | MILD instead of MILF

    MILD: Men I‘d Like to Do! That is the collective term. There is the singular where the word men is replaced with man. Just makes it safe in the street for me to say to a friend “He’s a MILD” or about a group of workmen “They’re MILD” and it all sounds so innocuous.

    What makes a man MILD? The first thing I notice is the walk if they are moving, or a stance if standing. These two things speak volumes and have almost gotten me into trouble in the past. Of course, they are not foolproof. I once followed a man who had the sexiest walk. When he stopped to answer his phone I walked past him and he was a minger of the first water. We are talking ugly above and beyond the call of duty. This dude would only have been my choice on a dark and foggy night, after 14 pints, and a poke in the eye with a pointy stick!

    Another qualifier is “the bum factor.” Those buns have got to stay in place, be pert physical specimens and a beauty to behold whilst retaining the strength to crack a nut. They have to be shown off properly, cossetted and displayed to perfection in trousers or shorts. If I am left with the need to stare and an urge to touch then I know the man is a MILD.

    I am a sucker for a handsome face, a great smile and blue or green eyes that look like a reflection of the sea and contain the same hidden depth. Top it all off with a great sharp haircut and you’ve got another MILD. Lingering to look for too long can result in being challenged and I have heard “what you looking at?” and “You got a problem?” more times than I care to recollect. When just looking sets them off  I am grateful men are not mind readers or I would have had the poo paddled out of me so often.

    In the physique, I like a natural build. The sort tradesmen have from manual labour and hard work. Too much time at the gym can make a man narcissistic. I like a man who looks after himself, but not one that loves himself more than he is ever going to love me.

    Do I ever pursue these MILDs I see? Oh yes. I have had mixed success over the years from frightening narrow escapes to passionate one nighters and even the odd repeat. Are they of any sexuality other than Hetro? Hell no, what they are is desperate! It’s the time and place. Could be alcohol, could be single for too long, or in a strange place so no one they know will ever find out and even a few with pregnant girlfriends.

    Of the 1000’s I have scored on my MILD chart I have converted less than 1 percent. That’s what makes the game worthwhile, you just never know. It could be you I am looking at tomorrow!

     

     

  • COLUMN | The time I fell for my sister’s boyfriend…

    I was 18 and going to be 19 in a few months. The legal age for sexual acts between men at this time was 21.

    Having moved away for 2 years I returned to live at home. My sister was dating a guy I knew by sight but not by name. I knew his last name as his sister was in my class at school but he was a couple of years older. The housing estate we lived on was new and still being developed. The older kids had to go to another school on an established estate as the high school I attended with his sister was not built in time for him to be a pupil.

    He often met his sister from school. I used to see him on his racing bike at the top of the school lane waiting for her. He was a DJ, not in the modern sense. He ran school discos for younger kids around the local area and his dad drove him around. When I got to know him I found out the reason his dad drove him about was because he was epileptic.

    He had a hefty bulge in his patch pocket trousers which perfectly set out his store of goods and a very pert arse. I once saw him cum in our kitchen/diner. My sister was teasing him. I came in through the back door from the garden and his release pumped through his pants and trousers and lay on the material of his upper thigh for me to see. He was not embarrassed.

    My grandfather was away in Spain or Malta with his brother and sister. They did this for 13 weeks every winter. Coming back in time to collect their old age pension. My sister and I with her boyfriend in tow went over to my grandfather’s to move the post and check his home was secure.

    The boyfriend leaned over the fridge door and looked inside. He was so perfectly bent over and the material of his trousers was taut from the stretch. At school as children, we flicked each other’s arses to inflict maximum pain with minimum touch. A quick flick that just grazed the material and the skin using the merest contact with the nail from the fingers could cause the butch-est of lads to squeal and jump. It did with him, he yelped and looked at me in a way that expressed his displeasure.

    At the end of the night (usually around 10 PM) it had become my duty to walk him home. This was a precaution as his epilepsy was not under control and by this time my sister was usually bored with him. As we walked through the houses I suddenly felt a searing pain and realised he had spanked my arse. He looked at me and smiled, telling me he had waited all day to do that. This punishment continued as we walked the 10 minutes to his home.

    At the last but one turn in a darkened alleyway he pushed me up against the fence of a neighbouring property to his parents. I could feel his excitement pressing against me and struggling to be free of the restraints of his underwear and trousers. His face was close up to mine and he leaned in to kiss me. There was the noise of a dog sniffing against the fences and then relieving itself and a nearby resident moved into view. We stood silently moving apart from each other and the moment had passed.

    I walked him to his door. He asked me to come over in the morning. Telling me he would be up from 8.30, by this time his dad would have already left for work. I could watch out for his mom to leave and then knock.