THEGAYUK

Tag: The Knee Jerk

  • 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.

  • COLUMN | Is it wrong to give someone you met on a train a BJ?

    Double whammy!

    I was coming home and so grateful to have such good friends, to have been treated to a weekend away in London. With careful planning and just one change of train I was able to stay later; leave from Waterloo, change in Taunton and be home for teatime.

    I sat back on the train acknowledged my fellow passenger, who was going all the way to journeys end, returning to university and started to do the crossword in the newspaper.

    At the first stop, a number of passengers got on. A few of them came into the carriage where I was seated. The first 2 sat down with no fuss and the minimum of apology to people who had to stand to let them sit or those they reached above to stow luggage.

    The third was a portly lady of middle age. She wore an outfit which contained within it all the textures found in Chelsea girl and all the colours of the rainbow. On her feet, she had Arabian style slippers that curled up at the end and coming to a tip carrying a bell on each foot. She stamped along as I imagined an angry hippo might, with every footfall ringing out like a death toll for “Tinkerbell” as she got every nearer.

    At arriving to be parallel with where I was sitting it all became too much for her. She started to go off into some sort of panic-meltdown about having to be seated at a table and not being able to find her seat. The other passengers with true Englishness ignored her. I got up and offered to look at her ticket. She thrust it into my hand and from the number, I realised she was sitting behind me and not at a seat with a table. I indicated the seat to her. The incumbent of the inner seat next to the window was, unfortunately, unable to kill me with the death stare he gave as he looked up; though I did feel a little withered by it. I returned to my seat.

    She took a call on her mobile phone confirming she was getting off at Newton Abbot. Her friend with whom she spoke needed the mobile device. The female passenger behind me did not. I was relieved the call was of short duration as my eardrums were at their limit.

    She started to tell the passengers either side and any who met her stare she had booked a seat at a table. I heard her go on to say she wanted to watch a DVD.

    I could hear the sound of leads being connected and a disc inserted into a player. I eased myself back into my seat and picked up the newspaper to once more immerse myself in a puzzle beyond my ability.

    At glancing behind me just to be certain, I saw she was inserting her earpiece. Then it started. The DVD player still played an awful soundtrack that was loud enough for those of us nearby to hear indistinctly, but enough to know it was an abomination. I considered the title must be “Death of a musical and a career”, as surely no one with any hope of ever working again would be involved with such a thing.

    Worse, she, had seen it before. She knew the words or at least some of them, mostly the end of sentences to choruses from the big songs in the show. The scratching screeching irritating sound of the DVD player would suddenly be drowned out by the loud monotone howling of “Love”, “Like a Dove”, “Until the very end!” Oh please let it be soon.

    The conductor came along. When he checked my ticket I asked how much it would be to upgrade to first class. I could hear disgruntled muttering from my fellow passengers. I paid the amount requested of me (£15).

    The conductor went to the passenger behind and told her she had been upgraded and would get a seat with a table in first class.

    He duly escorted her away.

    The sighs of relief and change of atmosphere were both audible and palpable. A man from somewhere behind got up and on coming past on his way to the refreshment car or the loo, left a £2 coin on the table in front of me. This started a bit of flow of money and I had quickly recouped most of the expense of her upgrade. I am sure in first-class passengers would have been too polite to comment and have suffered in silence.

    At Taunton I alighted.

    There were a number of other people waiting for the connecting train. I would guess at around 18-20 of them. I cast an eye around for any male totty. My gaze may have lingered a milli-second to long as through the crowd a very handsome young man of about 6’2” made his way past others and over to me.

    He looked at the train opposite and commented a leak from it seemed to be like a long urination (though not in such eloquent language). I thought OMG, another one. I must have a label on the forehead that reads “Nutter friendly”, for now, I was engaged in conversation with a man I could best describe as “The Somerset Fruit Loop!” The only saving grace being he was gentle on the eye and caused the right stirring in the groin.

    In the next 40 minutes, there were 3 announcements informing passengers of a further delay making for the arrival of the connecting train, later and later.

    Had I made a mistake? I never got his name but he was 24, coming home from a festival, where he informed me he had been a steward as he was SIA registered. He was tactile in conversation and offered to show me restraint holds. He certainly seemed to be giving me a lot of attention.

    Perhaps he was OK after all. I was getting mixed messages. Was he flirting with me or wired up wrong? Perhaps he was wired in the chemical sense. Maybe he had tried something he had confiscated at the festival.

    The train arrived and I climbed aboard. My new best friend got on with me. There was nowhere to go. To get to my seat would have taken longer than the remaining journey so I resigned to stay between carriages with some others.

    At this juncture, I think I was mistaken by a woman across from me as being the carer or support worker of the fellow who got on with me. He was leaning on me and standing intimately close. He was striking up a conversation with people who were trying to be polite but doing their best to end the exchange. Then he turned to me and said: “Are we there yet?” That left no doubt in anyone’s mind he was my responsibility. Worse I already knew we were getting off at the same stop.

    At Tiverton Parkway we got off and walked over the footbridge together. I am not sure if he was uncomfortable or making a final play for me as he was rearranging himself in the trouser department and seemed to be wrangling with a python in his pants. I elected safety and made my farewells. He started to walk along the long lane to the connecting road.

    In the car park, I breathed a sigh of relief. As a younger man I would have taken the risk, played the odds and provided a blowjob or at the very least a Hand-Shandy. But for today it was safety first.

    I started my car and drove along the lane. There he was looking back at me and standing in the middle of the road. Should I stop or swerve to avoid him? I’ll let you decide what action I took given a second chance.

  • 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!

     

     

  • COMMENT | Social Media: Is forgiveness a forgotten concept?

    Sometimes people are full of sanctimonious self-satisfying pandering to the masses actions.

    In the name of reasonableness do we not all have a past? I know I have said things in the past I am not proud of. I probably hold opinions now, some would disagree with.

    I loathe being near people who smoke, possibly more than any other person than an ex-smoker! It is those who are reformed who often have the strongest opposite view of the things they have taken part in.

    Life is about growth. We only learn who we are by experiencing life and that includes making mistakes.

    Whether it is an editor, a politician, a member of the local parish council, a film star or a worker at the checkout at the local supermarket, we are all likely to have sinned.

    “Let he or she who hath not sinned cast the first stone.” John 8:7

    Where would we be without forgiveness and understanding of change to promote growth. The best example I can think of where not holding a grudge against past actions would be the Germany of the Second World War, through to reunification and where it is now a strong European power.

    Please give it a rest. It is getting to be more frequent than a re-run on the BBC

    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 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.