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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How sweet.

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

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

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

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I’m not quite ready for that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh sorry!” I blush. “It’s my gap!”

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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.

About the author: Mark Woollard

Mark David Woollard graduated from Brunel University, West London in 2009 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing and Journalism. Since then, he has written for many publications as a freelance writer. He has been ‘The Undateable Gay’ for The Gay UK magazine since 2015 where he documents his unsuccessful dating life. He wrote an opinion column for the national Student Times, discussing LGBT issues.

He also writes educational pieces for ‘Massage World’ magazine, giving advice to Reflexologists about treating certain ailments. He authored a novella in 2013 entitled ‘The Fun and Frolics of FIFI a L’Orange’, the crazy adventures of a drag queen.

And is currently working on a series of LGBT books for children and a collection of flash fiction.

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.