Category: Comment

I was talking to a friend the other day about cocks. It’s a perfect subject for polite conversation on a sunny Sunday over lattes and pastries. My friend and I have similar pedigrees and there was a cock related question I needed to chew over.

In my thirties I had a period of being quite sociable and my friend remains very sociable too. When I say sociable, I mean the kind of conversations that involve you being naked and muttering just occasional words (e.g. ‘Harder!’ or ‘Yes, yes, yes’). I was newly single after a couple of lengthy relationships, it was all safer stuff and I wasn’t hurting anyone or not that I knew of, anyway. I suspect that there was the odd cuckolded wife or boyfriend tucked away here and there. It was all pretty harmless, very diverting and the only downside was that I had to change the bed sheets a lot and keep up with my depilation.

After a few years of intermittent promiscuity, I gained a peculiar skill. I began to be able to predict what someone would look like naked. One look at a man fully clothed and I’d get an instant feel for what he’d look like once the layers were stripped away. Musculature, hairiness and penile length and complexion; you name it; I could guess it and was often proved right. It’s not a skill I could teach. I don’t suspect it’s a psychic thing either. Who knows what it stems from? Maybe it’s the nose shape, the hand size or most probably the fact that we often fall into set body types which match up with other features or characteristics. It was just borne of the fact that I was seeing an awful lot of men naked.

Of course there were always exceptions and nasty or pleasant surprises can lurk in a man’s Calvins. I won’t go into some of the things that I saw but let’s just say that some of them still stick in my throat when I contemplate them.

Miss Marple, the elderly spinster sleuth, had similar skills but hers tended towards knowledge of the criminal mind gained from studying the locals, rather than her knowledge of men’s undercarriages gained from a lot of time spent on her back. I like to think of myself as a kind of latter day Agatha Christie sleuth but with a whole different skill set.

Interestingly, my friend has the same ability. He can guess a girth at 50 paces and is invariably not disappointed by what lies beneath the trouser. Maybe the two of us should take ourselves on a tour of Northern Working Men’s clubs with our novelty act. Just think of the furore we could cause on Britain’s Got talent. We’d certainly winkle out a few interesting winkles and definitely make the front pages of the gutter press.

On second thoughts, I’ll stick to familiar territory. I have a long term partner now and my guess-the-weight-of-the-sausage skills are probably much less than they once were. I can’t go back to all that. My washer wouldn’t take all that bed linen.

My partner used to like to take off his clothes in public. This was a frequent occurrence, the minute he’d consumed alcohol.

I blame it on the set he was hanging out with; horsey and aristocratic. That sort of running into ballrooms naked at midnight and jumping into swimming pools is more acceptable there than it would have been in the urban backstreets and dull suburbs where I grew up.

Funnily enough, I’ve always had a bit of an issue with public nudity. It’s not that I don’t like my body. I have the standard love/hate relationship with it that most of us possess. I wasn’t one of those teenagers who strutted around the locker rooms at school in the buff. I was too embarrassed. There was a whole dimension to growing up gay in the 1980s whereby I was mortified that the other boys would think I was ogling their bodies. I’d hastily change in the corner and dash through the showers, hoping to stay inconspicuous. I also didn’t grow up in one of those liberal families where everyone wandered about the house naked. Thankfully: to recall my father happily chatting about the day’s activities whilst stepping out of the shower with water dripping off his appendages is not something I’d want in my memory bank.

As an adult I’ve had brushes with public nudity, as many gay men have. The obligatory nudist beach on holiday, the drunken visit to a sauna in Blackpool and the ill advised trip to a clothing optional bar in Amsterdam: these things happen. If you’re anything like me then they only happen once. I’m a quick learner.

I decided to venture to a nudist beach once, whilst on holiday in the U.K. I’d never been naked in public before and decided that it sounded like a liberating and romantic notion to swim naked in the sea. I trekked the standard torturous 3 miles to the gay part of the nudist beach, arriving with aching limbs and a sweaty face. I put down my bag, stripped off my clothes and let the sun warm parts that the daylight had never seen before. I had a sneaky look round and it was like I’d suddenly entered a leather sofa store. The only difference was that the sofas were in the shape of elderly gay men. Expanses of orange leather flesh dotted the horizon as a variety of shapes and sizes of toughened hides stood lifelessly. Strangely, they seemed to be imitating poses from Kays’ Catalogue circa 1978. There must be something about being naked on a sand dune that makes men want to look out to sea with one knee flexed and their hand on hip at a jaunty angle. I didn’t stay long on the beach. There were drawbacks to the idyllic experience of sunbathing naked which I hadn’t thought through a) I’m not keen on sunbathing b) where would I stow my belongings while I dipped in the sea?

Another daunting experience was visiting a gay nudist beach in a slick resort in Europe. This was a time when I was going through a hate cycle in the love/hate body thing. The sight of gym fit gay Europeans with perfect pecs and all over tans, lolling on designer label towels was enough to send me scurrying back to my hotel room to hide under a duvet. I’d have been like the ‘before’ picture in an advert, had I taken off as much as a cardigan.

Naked bars, saunas, nudist beaches: they’re not for the insecure like me. They’re also not for the practical minded. Where do you keep your wallet and change, for one thing? I reproach myself sometimes. Why should I be ashamed to be naked? It’s our natural state and think of all that Vitamin D we’d absorb too. Then I remember all those lovely things that you can buy which can flatter and accentuate, hide and mask and make us all look better: they’re called clothes. I’ll keep mine on for now.

Last week I saw a tiny little man who was wearing a floral shower cap on top of his turban. He was all of 5 feet three tall, wizened and elderly and a lurid 1970s shower cap topped off his immaculate dark suit exquisitely. I think he was a very sensible man, it was raining after all and no one wants a damp turban all day.

I often see a man who dresses as an Edwardian gentleman. He must be in his 50s and is tall and rotund. He sports a series of fetching waistcoats stretched over his ample belly and he has a huge waxed moustache that sprawls over his face. I saw him walking through the city centre one evening and he was also wearing a cape that night and carrying a sliver topped cane. I admire him and often smile at his outfits, commenting on a particular natty cravat or a dashing checked trouser. I asked him once if he lived in a re-created Edwardian house and I was gladdened when he affirmed that indeed he did.

There used to be an elderly woman who walked around the streets with a small white poodle in a huge Silver Cross pram. He was harnessed in by his lead and would sit quite happily, yapping at passers-by as he was wheeled around in style. She would merrily chatter away to him as they strolled.

I always admired a tall thin elderly lady who lived nearby. She would set out from her house with a very purposeful gait, striding briskly, head down, sending people scurrying out of her way in terror. She always wore a blue raincoat and a matching hairnet and had a full beard. She would often smile at people, revealing a lot of missing teeth, and give a jaunty wave with her hand held high. She’d shout “Hello!” at deafening volume. Occasionally she’d appear with a huge brown dog on a lead that would drag her around and she’d trot along breathlessly behind with a happy expression on her whiskery face.

I could write all night about these people. There are scores more of them in my mental bank of people I regularly see. To me, these people are rational and normal. No one wants a wet turban. They must become so heavy. Why not arrive in style in a shower cap if it keeps you dry? The Edwardian style suits a large man and if you can get away with sauntering around in full costume then why not? It’s fun. Poodles are unwieldy things to carry around. They wriggle so. If you have a spare pram to hand going to waste then why not convert it into a poodle carriage? I’m sure he was a good listener to as she talked away. If you struggle with messy hair and don’t have time to shave your beard then why not be proud of it? Walk along with a tooth deficient grin and shout greetings at full volume. The depilatory process can be wearing to maintain. Brazen it out.

My point, I suppose, is that “normal” is all about perception. Maybe we’re the mad ones for spending time plucking stray hairs or walking around with wet hair when we have perfectly nifty shower caps to hand?

I asked on social media last year for people I knew to come out of the closet and admit their inner freakiness. The response was quite phenomenal. People admitted bizarre rituals, filthy habits and strange beliefs. They collected nail clippings, believed that their identical twin was better looking and were scared of sponges or wet wood. They ate inappropriate foods, had attachments to unusual items and perceived things in peculiar ways. All perfectly normal to me. It doesn’t take much chipping away at the surface to reveal a great big scary freak underneath. As for my odd habits, well, I describe them enough on here.

My definition of strange is a teenage boy in canvas shoes on a wintery day, walking along with trousers halfway down his thighs and buttocks showing. Wearing jeans with elasticated ankles and a baggy gusset that makes it look like you’re wearing a nappy, suits no practical purpose and looks pretty odd. Surely we should stop stare and point.

I think madness is to spend thousands of pounds on a huge white wedding party, inviting people you barely know to attend the protracted rituals and wasting money on a frock you’ll wear once and then look back on with blushes as the fashions change. I’m puzzled by people who watch TV constantly, celebrate Christmas with gusto, believe in vengeful deities or find clowns endearing. Now that is very weird.