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THE UNDATEABLE GAY | And here’s why you should never fake tan while flaccid

This Valentine’s day I decided that I was a strong, independent gay man who needed no-one. I’d resigned myself to the fact that no cards from eligible bachelors were going to be gracing my letterbox. No flowers delivered from florists were going to be displayed on my window sill. Oh Jesus, someone get the violins out and a bottle of Prozac.

KlausHausmann / Pixabay

I must tell you that I did send one card though. And that was to my dear devoted mummy. The sheer embarrassment in the shop when the sales assistant asked, “ooh, who’s the lucky man?” whilst fondling the card which read I LOVE YOU. Holding up my head (and my chins), I said, “It’s for my Mum actually!” I thought I was going to throttle the bitch as she bit her lip sympathetically.

I could see it in her eyes, the look of sheer sympathy. I could read her thoughts. The poor bachelor gay boy in his mid-thirties, whose face won’t move for botox and who’s spent more time drinking sauvignon blanc than he has been in relationships.

Well, that’s what her face said but the words that actually left her mouth were:
“I hope I have a son like you one day!”

Anyway, enough of my Valentine’s card woes. Even though I’d decided I didn’t need a relationship, a man for shagging purposes might be nice. So I went to visit a dear old friend, affectionately known as an FB. I won’t explain FB in case my mum is reading. She’ll just think it stands for Facebook so let’s just leave it at that.

Preparation for a visit to the FB is crucial. Out came my tube of Veet and the manscaping commenced. Next was a visit to the spray tan booth. I whipped off my clothes and let the rays of fake sun, otherwise known as Lauren’s way, penetrate me from head to toe. You must always have a spray tan completely naked. You can’t risk any potential white bits.

Hair free and sun-kissed, I was ready for Mr FB. It was time to build up my strength for a night of Valentine’s passion so out came the spinach and the rocket. Just call me Popeye. I gobbled my way through the meal fit for Popeye and off I went.

As the passion began, we ripped each other’s clothes off. I’m fearing this column is going to turn into a snippet from a Mills & Boon. But so be it, the needs of telling this tale demand it sound so.

Now, for any man who knows me intimately, will know it doesn’t take me long before my manhood stands to full attention. A red-blooded man, Kylie would sing.

As Mr FB went to attend to my man soldier, I saw his eyes widen.

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“What?” I screamed.
“Have you got some sort of skin condition?” he asked.
It was time for my eyes to widen.
“No! I fucking don’t!” I bellowed.

He instructed me to look at my erected soldier and as I did, my eyes widened even wider. Cor! Where I’d had the spray tan naked with a flaccid penis, it clearly hadn’t fake tanned all the skin. My erect penis had stripes!

“Where I’d had the spray tan naked with a flaccid penis, it clearly hadn’t fake tanned all the skin. My erect penis had stripes!”

“You’ve got a Zebra penis!” Mr FB thought it was funny. If only it was the size of a Zebras.

To quickly move on from the sheer embarrassment of the Zebra situation, I held Mr FB down and performed fellatio. I’m using that posh word in case my mum is reading. She’ll think it’s a character from a Shakespeare play.

As I pulled away from my act of fellatio, I noticed a bit of rocket dangling from the end of Mr FB’s manhood.

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OH GOD, PLEASE GROUND, SWALLOW ME NOW! Normally it’s me that’s doing the swallowing.

Mr FB looked up, or I should say down actually and he noticed the rocket dangling.
“Where did that come from?” I asked innocently.

Perhaps I should avoid sexual encounters as well as relationships. Over and out from the Zebra/Rocket man…

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