I think the flat above mine must be a gay flat. I don’t mean that gays always rent it, they don’t, in fact most of the time I’ve been here, it’s been heterosexual couples.
The thing is, they don’t last. Just before Christmas, the male half of the couple knocked on my door looking a bit tearful, and told me his girl had left him, he didn’t know where, but he was going because he couldn’t afford the rent on his own.
A bit odd, that, I thought; I mean, as it often is in London, we’d never said much to each other before. But it’s not the first time; I think I must have a shoulder that invites crying on or something.
They don’t last long, up there. The couple before had a huge row on the landing above my flat; I thought somebody was going to get killed, it was so bad. Anyway, it turned out she was on the landing and he was locked behind the flat door. And my shoulder got a bit wet . . .
Well, she left, obviously, and not long after (the previous Christmas, funnily enough) he did a moonlight flit and just vanished.
And there was the couple before them. They kept having rows and they split up too.
I actually lived in that flat briefly. And I had a sort of off-on relationship with a girl while I was there. (Look, I’m bi, I’m allowed!) I just wanted the sex, and I thought she did too. But then she started showing signs of wanting to ‘change’ me. Or ‘rescue’ me or something. (Rescue me from boys, maybe?) Now that I really hate.
I’m not going to change. I made a huge change when I left home, like I told you once, pretty well re-created myself altogether, and I like the way I am now. Mostly. So I didn’t like it, and that all ended in a ginormous shouting and screaming match that I’m sure everybody in the bloody street heard. It was summer, and all the windows were open . . .
It’s the only relationship I’ve had that’s ended like that. Not that I’ve had that much experience. One-night (or weekend) stands don’t usually allow much time for huge stand-up-row-partings. More like sitting in the bed sticky and naked hugging your knees and wondering a bit tearfully why the hell you did that, and why did he say he loved me when he had a boyfriend he was going to go back to anyway? is the way they end. For me, anyway.
Still, that’s not the point. I’ve made a few enquiries, because I happen to know a girl who lived in that flat (not one that left her partner or got kicked out, but she was only there for a year, and she said she didn’t like it) and she told me a bit of what she knew of the history. That kind of thing seems to go way back to one couple who’d apparently lived there happily for years. And no, they didn’t leave because they broke up, they bought a place.
They were gay.
I reckon that flat is jinxed for heteros. The landlord was moaning about the turnover. (The other flat in the house is occupied by a guy. Who is gay, by the way. He’s been there ages.) I thought of suggesting he should only accept a gay couple on the grounds they were bound to stay longer, but I wasn’t sure how he’d take it.
I’d like it. My bathroom is outside my flat, on a landing off the main staircase (silly conversion, you see) and if everybody was gay I wouldn’t have to grab a pair of shorts or jeans when I went to the loo. Sometimes I can’t be bothered and just go down naked. Haven’t come face to face with anybody yet that way.
Couple of times I’ve bumped into somebody with just a bath towel around me, though. And once ditto with boyfriend, which was a bit embarrassing. At least we weren’t caught nude together on the stairs like we had been earlier . . . No, I’m not going into that. It was a bit stupid really. And we were a bit pissed. Be nice if everybody was gay though, and wouldn’t care.
But I didn’t suggest it and a girl’s moved in. With her boyfriend. I hear them bonking sometimes. Doesn’t seem to last very long. But apart from that — I don’t reckon it’s a very good sign — I wonder how long their stay will last? They’re getting shorter and shorter from what I can make out.
The ‘gay curse’ on that flat—I’m sure now there must be one—must be getting stronger. Weird, isn’t it?
Feeling a bit Catty . . .
I don’t get Google at all. As most readers of this blog will have gathered by now (unless you’re blind, in which case you’d better stop that, hadn’t you?) ‘Blogger’ went on a censorship spree last year closing down gay picture blogs left right and centre.
I did one, and that fell victim too, after what looked almost like a concerted campaign about pics of ‘underage’ boys . . . None of them were, by the way, and a couple of those I got emails about was actually me.
If the complainants (or anybody at Google) had read a bit instead of just ogling the pics, they would have cottoned on that, being a university graduate and all now, I was an adult. (I suppose it might just have been possible to go to uni at 12, but clever as I am, I’m not that clever.) OK, stop sniggering at the idea of me being ‘adult’ just because of what you read here. I try. Anyway, I’m over 18, which is what matters here.
Anyway, it looked for a while as though the only gay piccy blogs Google would let survive would be ones full of heavily muscled hairy hunks who are not my type at all, thank you very much.
But something odd seems to be going on, but before I get into that (I’ll have to work out a way of being circumspect about it, or the ‘googlequisition’ will axe this blog as well) I’ll tell you a little story. Well, three, really.
I’m fairly sort of slightly built (even despite the junk food and beer, well, just, anyway) but not (boo-hoo!) particularly handsome. Certainly not beautiful. (breaks down and cries.) I don’t think I ever looked ‘pretty’ as a kid either, though I suppose some men must have thought so.
Especially one on a bus journey, who got himself next to me and kept chucking me under the chin and stroking my jaw. I realised a long time afterwards that he was probably stroking something else with his other hand as well, but I was only ten, and that sort of thing hadn’t cropped up before. He said I had ‘a chin like a cat’s’.
I hopped off the bus to get away from him, pretending I lived around a corner and along a street I didn’t even know, and got into bother for being late, because it meant waiting nearly half an hour for the next bus, and on top of that I had to plead with the driver about not having any money left . . . Never told my mum.
You know, that made me self-conscious about my chin for years. It’s probably, subconsciously, what actually made me grow a beard as a student for a while, even. Apart from finding shaving hard on my skin, that is, which I used as the real excuse. And I’ve never been able to stop myself checking real cats. And yes, I suppose I do still have a chin like a cat’s.
That there were certain men who took an interest in boys my age got a lot clearer over the next couple of years. There was one, son of somebody well up in the church, who kept offering to take me out. Coincidentally, in summer when I was wearing shorts or cut-offs and displaying a bit of leg he used to manage to manoeuvre to touch a bit too often. I just never liked the way he looked at me. Now, of course, not that I get looked at like that very often, I’d be able to describe it as sheer ‘lust’.
Anyway, I got the hang of it, and usually managed to keep out of their way through my teens, though after a bit of a disastrous interview at one uni I won’t name, where I’d already been up against a fair bit of snobbery one way and another, bumped into a guy in a pub I was moping in, who did his damnedest to pick me up. I might have fallen for it, too, feeling pretty lonely and fed up, except he got the same look, and he . . .tipped my head up with his fingers under my chin and said . . . Well, something about cats . . .
I spent an hour dodging out of his way . . . Christ, he was persistent. It was only after I went up to a policeman I spotted (just to ask directions, but he wouldn’t know) he finally disappeared.
By the time I was 18, I’d abandoned hitch-hiking as well. I’d been hitch-hiking with a mate, but we split up because we were offered a lift in a sports car. Posh one too. We tossed up for it, since there was only room for one of us and our backpacks. I won.
Except I didn’t, really. We both lost, but him a lot more than me it turned out. We hadn’t gone more than about five miles (first time I’d ever been in a car at well over a ton as well) before the driver’s left hand was accidentally grabbing my thigh instead of the gearstick . . .I managed to keep him off, and got dumped on the hard shoulder of the fucking motorway, the bastard. Had to trek over the bloody fields to the back entrance to a service station, and it was hours before I got to where we’d said we’d meet up again.
Except we didn’t. I thought he must have got fed up with waiting and gone on home. It was only after I got back that I heard. He’d got a lift just behind us (probably why my lift put his foot down, the sod) but the car had crashed just past where I’d been dumped, and he’d been killed.
The driver survived. I've always wondered what he was doing with his hands when they crashed. I couldn’t face hitching lifts after that. Apart from being fed up of forever being touched up. And I didn't want to die fending some fat red-faced sweaty-browed groper off. Total fucking waste.
Anyway, you can see why I’m not keen on those sort of guys. And I’m not going to risk using either of the two words for them—neither the one derived from Greek nor the one they use themselves— because you let those appear on a Google blog and they seem to think you’re automatically in favour of them. Google isn’t too good at contexts, as you’ll know very well if you use Google Mail or AdSense . . .
And what has that to do with Google blogs? Well, I trawl around looking at the pics like everybody else, and you know how one link leads to another? I don’t know why, but I swear there seem to be a lot of new blogs turned up recently doing pics of boys who’re definitely not just young-looking. (And the difference between ‘young’ and ‘young-looking’ I do know about, never having been able to actually buy a drink in a bloody pub until I could prove I was 18, my mates always having to do it for me. And even then, always having to have an orange juice handy so I didn’t get us thrown out.) Not kiddy porn exactly, but a lot of concentration on underwear and tight Speedos . . .And a lot of questionable words and fancy phrases about the ‘beauty’ of boys and so on.
My arse. But some of them look to have lasted longer than some that show 18 or 20 year olds. The difference is, I suppose, it’s OK by Google to lust after pics of pre-pubescent boys in underpants, but not after 20 year old slim men (don’t give a toss what that ‘USC whatever-number it is’ law about not being adult until you’re 21, everywhere else you’re adult the day you turn 18 for christ’s sake) without.
Yeah, well, I know about those sort of guys. I don’t like them. They told me l me I had a chin like a cat’s. Or eyes like one. I don’t. Never have. They’re hazel, not green. But I learnt to show my claws. And I’m grown up now. I’m a big cat. Well, bigger, anyway.
I did one, and that fell victim too, after what looked almost like a concerted campaign about pics of ‘underage’ boys . . . None of them were, by the way, and a couple of those I got emails about was actually me.
If the complainants (or anybody at Google) had read a bit instead of just ogling the pics, they would have cottoned on that, being a university graduate and all now, I was an adult. (I suppose it might just have been possible to go to uni at 12, but clever as I am, I’m not that clever.) OK, stop sniggering at the idea of me being ‘adult’ just because of what you read here. I try. Anyway, I’m over 18, which is what matters here.
Anyway, it looked for a while as though the only gay piccy blogs Google would let survive would be ones full of heavily muscled hairy hunks who are not my type at all, thank you very much.
But something odd seems to be going on, but before I get into that (I’ll have to work out a way of being circumspect about it, or the ‘googlequisition’ will axe this blog as well) I’ll tell you a little story. Well, three, really.
I’m fairly sort of slightly built (even despite the junk food and beer, well, just, anyway) but not (boo-hoo!) particularly handsome. Certainly not beautiful. (breaks down and cries.) I don’t think I ever looked ‘pretty’ as a kid either, though I suppose some men must have thought so.
Especially one on a bus journey, who got himself next to me and kept chucking me under the chin and stroking my jaw. I realised a long time afterwards that he was probably stroking something else with his other hand as well, but I was only ten, and that sort of thing hadn’t cropped up before. He said I had ‘a chin like a cat’s’.
I hopped off the bus to get away from him, pretending I lived around a corner and along a street I didn’t even know, and got into bother for being late, because it meant waiting nearly half an hour for the next bus, and on top of that I had to plead with the driver about not having any money left . . . Never told my mum.
You know, that made me self-conscious about my chin for years. It’s probably, subconsciously, what actually made me grow a beard as a student for a while, even. Apart from finding shaving hard on my skin, that is, which I used as the real excuse. And I’ve never been able to stop myself checking real cats. And yes, I suppose I do still have a chin like a cat’s.
That there were certain men who took an interest in boys my age got a lot clearer over the next couple of years. There was one, son of somebody well up in the church, who kept offering to take me out. Coincidentally, in summer when I was wearing shorts or cut-offs and displaying a bit of leg he used to manage to manoeuvre to touch a bit too often. I just never liked the way he looked at me. Now, of course, not that I get looked at like that very often, I’d be able to describe it as sheer ‘lust’.
Anyway, I got the hang of it, and usually managed to keep out of their way through my teens, though after a bit of a disastrous interview at one uni I won’t name, where I’d already been up against a fair bit of snobbery one way and another, bumped into a guy in a pub I was moping in, who did his damnedest to pick me up. I might have fallen for it, too, feeling pretty lonely and fed up, except he got the same look, and he . . .tipped my head up with his fingers under my chin and said . . . Well, something about cats . . .
I spent an hour dodging out of his way . . . Christ, he was persistent. It was only after I went up to a policeman I spotted (just to ask directions, but he wouldn’t know) he finally disappeared.
By the time I was 18, I’d abandoned hitch-hiking as well. I’d been hitch-hiking with a mate, but we split up because we were offered a lift in a sports car. Posh one too. We tossed up for it, since there was only room for one of us and our backpacks. I won.
Except I didn’t, really. We both lost, but him a lot more than me it turned out. We hadn’t gone more than about five miles (first time I’d ever been in a car at well over a ton as well) before the driver’s left hand was accidentally grabbing my thigh instead of the gearstick . . .I managed to keep him off, and got dumped on the hard shoulder of the fucking motorway, the bastard. Had to trek over the bloody fields to the back entrance to a service station, and it was hours before I got to where we’d said we’d meet up again.
Except we didn’t. I thought he must have got fed up with waiting and gone on home. It was only after I got back that I heard. He’d got a lift just behind us (probably why my lift put his foot down, the sod) but the car had crashed just past where I’d been dumped, and he’d been killed.
The driver survived. I've always wondered what he was doing with his hands when they crashed. I couldn’t face hitching lifts after that. Apart from being fed up of forever being touched up. And I didn't want to die fending some fat red-faced sweaty-browed groper off. Total fucking waste.
Anyway, you can see why I’m not keen on those sort of guys. And I’m not going to risk using either of the two words for them—neither the one derived from Greek nor the one they use themselves— because you let those appear on a Google blog and they seem to think you’re automatically in favour of them. Google isn’t too good at contexts, as you’ll know very well if you use Google Mail or AdSense . . .
And what has that to do with Google blogs? Well, I trawl around looking at the pics like everybody else, and you know how one link leads to another? I don’t know why, but I swear there seem to be a lot of new blogs turned up recently doing pics of boys who’re definitely not just young-looking. (And the difference between ‘young’ and ‘young-looking’ I do know about, never having been able to actually buy a drink in a bloody pub until I could prove I was 18, my mates always having to do it for me. And even then, always having to have an orange juice handy so I didn’t get us thrown out.) Not kiddy porn exactly, but a lot of concentration on underwear and tight Speedos . . .And a lot of questionable words and fancy phrases about the ‘beauty’ of boys and so on.
My arse. But some of them look to have lasted longer than some that show 18 or 20 year olds. The difference is, I suppose, it’s OK by Google to lust after pics of pre-pubescent boys in underpants, but not after 20 year old slim men (don’t give a toss what that ‘USC whatever-number it is’ law about not being adult until you’re 21, everywhere else you’re adult the day you turn 18 for christ’s sake) without.
Yeah, well, I know about those sort of guys. I don’t like them. They told me l me I had a chin like a cat’s. Or eyes like one. I don’t. Never have. They’re hazel, not green. But I learnt to show my claws. And I’m grown up now. I’m a big cat. Well, bigger, anyway.
Weighty Matters
I’m very concerned about obesity. Not mine, I currently weigh about 63 kilos (with my kit on, now I think about it, wonder what it is without anything on?) which given the amount of junk and beer I knock back all things considered isn’t really too much more than I did when I was young and fit and healthy and things. And skinny.
Since I sprained my wrist, I haven’t been out much. It wasn’t so much that I reckoned I’d get pretty bored with the obvious cracks about how I’d done it, just that being my right wrist, handling my crutch with it for walking wasn’t making it much better. Decidedly worse, in fact. Though GF got me a very natty sort of ‘sports’ neoprene bandage for it, a kind of Speedo wrist support, royal blue with a black velcro band and a white stripe I was quite pleased with. Smart, I thought. And I wear blue a lot, so it matches. Quite fancied sort of showing it off.
But I have been feeling withdrawal symptoms a bit. (Not only from going clubbing either, but I’ve already hinted about the other withdrawal symptoms that’ve been getting to me the last week or so.) Writing about something else reminded me of the last night I went out, and why I have this thing about not wanting to go to bed with anybody more than a couple of kilos heavier than me.
There’s the aesthetics of it, too. A girl once told me about one of those nights. You know, the boys you really fancy are either taken or they’ve got off with someone else, you’re a bit pissed in consequence, and suddenly this totally unsuitable guy catches your eye and next thing you know he’s all over you in the back of the cab and smuggling you past the guy at the reception desk in the hotel pretending he’s just invited you over for coffee and a chat about theatre at three in the morning?
And you can see the receptionist grinning out of the corner of your eye, knowing perfectly well what’s going on?
You don’t? Aren’t you lucky?
Anyway, the thing I remember was the girl telling me how he bloke sat on the edge of the bed working his dick hard trying to get it up, until when it did, it just disappeared under the folds of his beer gut propping his belly up like a tent. Ugh. I kind of went green. And then, a bit later, well, that’s more or less what happened to me. Except he kind of rolled me over, but by the time he’d lumbered into position on top of me, his erection had gone and his dick was the size of my little finger.
I didn’t know that at the time, I saw it later. At the time, I was struggling to breathe with all his weight on top of me while he fumbled desperately, thinking, bugger, at least girls end up face up so they can bloody breathe . . .then he just kind of collapsed on me and nearly stove in one of my ribs with his elbow.
I managed to turn my head sideways enough to start breathing again, but it took me ages to kind of lever him off. That’s when I noticed he had a pretty small cock. And a very hairy stomach, and chest. And man boobs. And I wondered what the fuck I was doing there, except, of course, neither being fucked nor fucking, and on top of that getting the sort of headache you know is going to take a lot of orange juice and aspirin to cure in a few hours.
And then I fell asleep as well. Woke up with the inevitable pounding headache and him on the edge of the bed . . . just like she’d described . . . As luck would have it, I saw the clock and could grab my jeans and stuff and do a runner: “Sorry, look, oh shit, I’m late, I can’t miss classes again, gotta go . . .
He actually did crack a rib. Didn’t realise it until that night, when suddenly every breath I took hurt and I damn nearly doubled up with the pain at the bar. Fell off my bike, I told the doctor. Well, I wasn’t going to tell her what I’ve told you, was I?
I made a vow then, that in future I’d never ever go to bed with anybody who weighed more than a couple of kilos more than me. It is getting trickier to keep though. I’ve noticed there do seem to be a lot of hefty guys about, and they do tend to come on to me. But I’ve stuck to it so far.
But actually, that’s one reason I reckoned I’d steer clear of one of my regular haunts for a bit. Last couple of times I’ve been there, it’s been pretty obvious a guy’s been eyeing me. And he’s huge. I mean, I swear I could fit into one leg of his jeans. And I’m a nice boy, I’m no good at turning people down, I just can’t do what some do, just turn their back on you or look past you or even mutter ‘Fuck off’. And I know all too well I’m liable to get myself into a really stupid situation after a few too many. And what with a sprained wrist, I really can’t cope with any broken ribs as well.
So I’ve been nursing the wrist at home. Anyway, it’s bad enough sometimes just having a crutch, you get some real weirdos coming on to you, apart from the ones who kind of go all sentimental and do all the ‘ah what a shame’ stuff that gets on my nerves sometimes as well. Don’t want to get pestered by neoprene fetishists on top . . .Er, definitely not on top if they’re more than a couple of kilos heavier than me, like I said.
Since I sprained my wrist, I haven’t been out much. It wasn’t so much that I reckoned I’d get pretty bored with the obvious cracks about how I’d done it, just that being my right wrist, handling my crutch with it for walking wasn’t making it much better. Decidedly worse, in fact. Though GF got me a very natty sort of ‘sports’ neoprene bandage for it, a kind of Speedo wrist support, royal blue with a black velcro band and a white stripe I was quite pleased with. Smart, I thought. And I wear blue a lot, so it matches. Quite fancied sort of showing it off.
But I have been feeling withdrawal symptoms a bit. (Not only from going clubbing either, but I’ve already hinted about the other withdrawal symptoms that’ve been getting to me the last week or so.) Writing about something else reminded me of the last night I went out, and why I have this thing about not wanting to go to bed with anybody more than a couple of kilos heavier than me.
There’s the aesthetics of it, too. A girl once told me about one of those nights. You know, the boys you really fancy are either taken or they’ve got off with someone else, you’re a bit pissed in consequence, and suddenly this totally unsuitable guy catches your eye and next thing you know he’s all over you in the back of the cab and smuggling you past the guy at the reception desk in the hotel pretending he’s just invited you over for coffee and a chat about theatre at three in the morning?
And you can see the receptionist grinning out of the corner of your eye, knowing perfectly well what’s going on?
You don’t? Aren’t you lucky?
Anyway, the thing I remember was the girl telling me how he bloke sat on the edge of the bed working his dick hard trying to get it up, until when it did, it just disappeared under the folds of his beer gut propping his belly up like a tent. Ugh. I kind of went green. And then, a bit later, well, that’s more or less what happened to me. Except he kind of rolled me over, but by the time he’d lumbered into position on top of me, his erection had gone and his dick was the size of my little finger.
I didn’t know that at the time, I saw it later. At the time, I was struggling to breathe with all his weight on top of me while he fumbled desperately, thinking, bugger, at least girls end up face up so they can bloody breathe . . .then he just kind of collapsed on me and nearly stove in one of my ribs with his elbow.
I managed to turn my head sideways enough to start breathing again, but it took me ages to kind of lever him off. That’s when I noticed he had a pretty small cock. And a very hairy stomach, and chest. And man boobs. And I wondered what the fuck I was doing there, except, of course, neither being fucked nor fucking, and on top of that getting the sort of headache you know is going to take a lot of orange juice and aspirin to cure in a few hours.
And then I fell asleep as well. Woke up with the inevitable pounding headache and him on the edge of the bed . . . just like she’d described . . . As luck would have it, I saw the clock and could grab my jeans and stuff and do a runner: “Sorry, look, oh shit, I’m late, I can’t miss classes again, gotta go . . .
He actually did crack a rib. Didn’t realise it until that night, when suddenly every breath I took hurt and I damn nearly doubled up with the pain at the bar. Fell off my bike, I told the doctor. Well, I wasn’t going to tell her what I’ve told you, was I?
I made a vow then, that in future I’d never ever go to bed with anybody who weighed more than a couple of kilos more than me. It is getting trickier to keep though. I’ve noticed there do seem to be a lot of hefty guys about, and they do tend to come on to me. But I’ve stuck to it so far.
But actually, that’s one reason I reckoned I’d steer clear of one of my regular haunts for a bit. Last couple of times I’ve been there, it’s been pretty obvious a guy’s been eyeing me. And he’s huge. I mean, I swear I could fit into one leg of his jeans. And I’m a nice boy, I’m no good at turning people down, I just can’t do what some do, just turn their back on you or look past you or even mutter ‘Fuck off’. And I know all too well I’m liable to get myself into a really stupid situation after a few too many. And what with a sprained wrist, I really can’t cope with any broken ribs as well.
So I’ve been nursing the wrist at home. Anyway, it’s bad enough sometimes just having a crutch, you get some real weirdos coming on to you, apart from the ones who kind of go all sentimental and do all the ‘ah what a shame’ stuff that gets on my nerves sometimes as well. Don’t want to get pestered by neoprene fetishists on top . . .Er, definitely not on top if they’re more than a couple of kilos heavier than me, like I said.
Life can be a Right Load of
Shit, basically. On top of nursing my sprained wrist (which happened on Christmas Day, btw) I've ben trying to deal with the effects of some new medication that was supposed to help the pain I get often.
But it is getting me into a mess, and I don't mean the kind of scrapes I describe here every now and then. I was told initially, that the side effects 'cause drowsiness', and when I pushed a bit harder (always feeling a bit sceptical about how specialists tend to describe the effects of drugs they've never taken themselves) was also told it might cause 'some mental confusion'.
Well, I laughed that off a bit, saying that was a bot awkward, since I was perfectly able to get myself mentally confused as it was without the aid of drugs, but actually it's turned out to be worse.
Somehow, apart from feeling dopey (more than usual, even, that is) half the bloody day, it seems to have changed my personality. At least, GF is sure it has. I've now had two terrible rows with GF, more in two weeks than I'd normally manage in as many years, all because I somehow got into a sort of "oh who gives a fuck" mood and just let fly and shouted and screamed, in a way I can't remember doing before.
I've spent two days in bed hiding under the duvet, hardly eating, not wanting to come out, not answering the phone, and refusing to let anybody in, in a thoroughly black depression because I don't want to be like that and I don't really want to lose all my friends that way.
And hoping, now I've stopped taking the crap, that I'll get back to normal. Jesus, I daren't go out. Like this, I'd get into an argument and get a knife pulled on me.
Look, I don't want sympathy, I'm just explaining why I've not been blogging (again).
I am not alone!
No, I'm sure it was quite innocent how it happened. Lifting a very heavy sack of potatoes with his right hand for his mum. Moving his brother's weights to vacuum the bedroom carpet. For example. One of those things teenagers so often do to help out around the house. See? Now do you believe me?(Actually I was a good boy. When I was little, my granny let me help polish the brass and the silver once a week. It was great, because the polish made my fingers and nails black, and that was kind of legal grubbiness so my mum couldn't moan about me being a mucky little pup and stand over me in the bathroom making me scrub my hands clean before I'd got to really enjoy them being dirty . . .)
Only the lonely?
I think I mentioned I’m an only whore, as it were. I mean I don’t have any brothers and sisters. I’ve been envious (but only a bit, only now and then) of boys who have. Most recently I worked a bit with a young guy (very nice body, what little I saw of it), slim and quite a looker. Liked one of his T-shirts. “A blow job is better then no job.” “Hmmm?” I thought. . .But he’s just got married. . .
Met his brother, too; not quite as dishy (not to me any rate, don’t know why exactly, because they’re close enough in looks almost to be thought of as twins, maybe it was the T-shirt) but the thing was they seemed to get on really well, more like really good friends than some brothers (and sisters) I’ve come across. Honestly, some seem to behave more like enemies at war . . .
But then, I’ve never really got to grips with that, being an only whore and all. Always thought it a bit strange so many people look sort of sad and go all sympathetic when they ask if I have any brothers and sisters and I say, “No. I’m an only child.” Or maybe they have a brother or sister that makes them wish they were an only child as well. . .
What got me thinking about it was that GF (Girl Friend) has been about quite a bit lately. She knows me, I suspect, better than her brothers by now.
I’m not sure I like that. It really is hard to keep much secret from her.
And (like most of my friends) she’s very protective of me. I don’t know why, but it’s always seemed to be like that. I don’t think I exude some sort of aura of vulnerability or helplessness, but people always seem to want to ‘look after' me. They tell each other to, I've just discovered. And it’s not just ’cos I’m a bit crippled now, it was like that all the way through school and uni before the accident that did it.
Good job I manage to keep some of the scrapes I get into very quiet, or they’d get even more determined about 'looking after' me. Even though I’ve managed to get out of them without any serious damage (mental or physical), at least so far . . .
Not that I really mind that so much in a way. I like friends wanting to hug me and give me a bit of a cuddle when I’m a bit down, or there’s been a bit of a disaster. Even though I really am tough enough to cope on my own as a rule.
Mind you, GF probably fusses more now because she was the one who was around when the damage got done, and she spent hours every day by my hospital bed for weeks. Even all the days when I was unconscious and I didn’t know she was holding my hand. Or even there.
But trying to keep one or two of the slightly less savoury aspects of my gay life well out of her ken does get a bit of a strain, especially as she has her suspicions. I’m sure she fears I might get up to much worse things than I actually do when she’s not around. She doesn’t know about the camerawhoring though. And she’s not going to find out if I can help it.
And it’s getting really tough trying to disguise how much I smoke from her, too. It’s costing me a fortune spraying deodoriser all over the bloody flat. And then I usually forget to empty the ash tray(s) and give it away anyway. And get told off about it.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago she was in one of those “Look, I don’t think you should really . . .”/ “Is that such a good idea?” sort of moods, and I got a bit annoyed and told her to “stop behaving like my big sister. I’m a big boy now. I’m a grown up!” I don’t know why she wouldn’t stop giggling, she’s younger than me. See what I mean?
Then I realised that actually I didn’t know what it was really like, never having had a proper big sister. But I keep wondering if it really is like this? Glad I didn’t have that when I was 14 or 15 or thereabouts. Though it would have been nice to have had a sister who’d give me a comfort hug around then sometimes because of something I couldn't tell my mum. As long as she would have been as gay-friendly as GF is. I wonder about that. I know some sisters aren’t.
Anyway, she’ll be going abroad again soon and she’ll only be able to come over all protective on Skype, and I can disconnect the camera if I have to fib a bit or hide something I don’t want to talk about. I’ll be quite relieved to be an only boy again. But I know I’ll start missing it all. Like those two brothers do, apparently, now one’s just got married. (Bit young for it at 20 I thought, but still . . .) But I noticed the girl already behaves to her husband’s brother like a big sister . . .I can recognise the signs . . .
I know I said I can't really type because of my wrist; I'd actually written this earlier, but it suddenly struck me it might be wise (given Google's current attack of prudery) to post something just to shunt that last pic a bit further down the page . . .)
Met his brother, too; not quite as dishy (not to me any rate, don’t know why exactly, because they’re close enough in looks almost to be thought of as twins, maybe it was the T-shirt) but the thing was they seemed to get on really well, more like really good friends than some brothers (and sisters) I’ve come across. Honestly, some seem to behave more like enemies at war . . .
But then, I’ve never really got to grips with that, being an only whore and all. Always thought it a bit strange so many people look sort of sad and go all sympathetic when they ask if I have any brothers and sisters and I say, “No. I’m an only child.” Or maybe they have a brother or sister that makes them wish they were an only child as well. . .
What got me thinking about it was that GF (Girl Friend) has been about quite a bit lately. She knows me, I suspect, better than her brothers by now.
I’m not sure I like that. It really is hard to keep much secret from her.
And (like most of my friends) she’s very protective of me. I don’t know why, but it’s always seemed to be like that. I don’t think I exude some sort of aura of vulnerability or helplessness, but people always seem to want to ‘look after' me. They tell each other to, I've just discovered. And it’s not just ’cos I’m a bit crippled now, it was like that all the way through school and uni before the accident that did it.
Good job I manage to keep some of the scrapes I get into very quiet, or they’d get even more determined about 'looking after' me. Even though I’ve managed to get out of them without any serious damage (mental or physical), at least so far . . .
Not that I really mind that so much in a way. I like friends wanting to hug me and give me a bit of a cuddle when I’m a bit down, or there’s been a bit of a disaster. Even though I really am tough enough to cope on my own as a rule.
Mind you, GF probably fusses more now because she was the one who was around when the damage got done, and she spent hours every day by my hospital bed for weeks. Even all the days when I was unconscious and I didn’t know she was holding my hand. Or even there.
But trying to keep one or two of the slightly less savoury aspects of my gay life well out of her ken does get a bit of a strain, especially as she has her suspicions. I’m sure she fears I might get up to much worse things than I actually do when she’s not around. She doesn’t know about the camerawhoring though. And she’s not going to find out if I can help it.
And it’s getting really tough trying to disguise how much I smoke from her, too. It’s costing me a fortune spraying deodoriser all over the bloody flat. And then I usually forget to empty the ash tray(s) and give it away anyway. And get told off about it.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago she was in one of those “Look, I don’t think you should really . . .”/ “Is that such a good idea?” sort of moods, and I got a bit annoyed and told her to “stop behaving like my big sister. I’m a big boy now. I’m a grown up!” I don’t know why she wouldn’t stop giggling, she’s younger than me. See what I mean?
Then I realised that actually I didn’t know what it was really like, never having had a proper big sister. But I keep wondering if it really is like this? Glad I didn’t have that when I was 14 or 15 or thereabouts. Though it would have been nice to have had a sister who’d give me a comfort hug around then sometimes because of something I couldn't tell my mum. As long as she would have been as gay-friendly as GF is. I wonder about that. I know some sisters aren’t.
Anyway, she’ll be going abroad again soon and she’ll only be able to come over all protective on Skype, and I can disconnect the camera if I have to fib a bit or hide something I don’t want to talk about. I’ll be quite relieved to be an only boy again. But I know I’ll start missing it all. Like those two brothers do, apparently, now one’s just got married. (Bit young for it at 20 I thought, but still . . .) But I noticed the girl already behaves to her husband’s brother like a big sister . . .I can recognise the signs . . .
I know I said I can't really type because of my wrist; I'd actually written this earlier, but it suddenly struck me it might be wise (given Google's current attack of prudery) to post something just to shunt that last pic a bit further down the page . . .)
Ow. That hurt. (Part 2)
Might go quiet for a bit; had to walk home from the party last night. Wasn't far, but my wrist hurts again from gripping my crutch (yes, that's a 'u' ot an 'o'!) on the way back. Typing with just the left hand is a bore.
(Did you say something about taxis? Believe me, you do not get a cab in London in the early hours of New Year's Day. That's assuming there are any that aren't ferrying rich kids to and from the posh clubs in Town. Not unless the cabbie agrees to take about ten of you. That's the only way you can afford it.)
(Did you say something about taxis? Believe me, you do not get a cab in London in the early hours of New Year's Day. That's assuming there are any that aren't ferrying rich kids to and from the posh clubs in Town. Not unless the cabbie agrees to take about ten of you. That's the only way you can afford it.)
Oh well, it's the very least I can do . . .
Have a little pic. Saves me typing. (Yes, I know. My thumb and fingers are still a bit swollen.) Sexy bandage isn't it?
You know, it just doesn't seem to work for me with my left hand? Can't think why.
Exit, pursued by a bear?
If you log onto my webcam site
You're in for a big surprise;
The hairy bears are hugging the trees,
The fat old geezers let 'em down to their knees,
And where the hell am I going to find
The smooth slim boy that's gonna be mine,
If I log onto my webcam site
When the bears are having their pic-nic.
(To be sung to the tune of The Teddy Bears' Picnic of course.)
And, oh no, I am not gonna give you the URL. Or my cam name. Not even if it is New Year and the season of goodwill and all that. (And don't bother hunting around for "gay camerawhore". That's not it.) I may not have a lot of pride, but I do have a little left. . .
You're in for a big surprise;
The hairy bears are hugging the trees,
The fat old geezers let 'em down to their knees,
And where the hell am I going to find
The smooth slim boy that's gonna be mine,
If I log onto my webcam site
When the bears are having their pic-nic.
(To be sung to the tune of The Teddy Bears' Picnic of course.)
And, oh no, I am not gonna give you the URL. Or my cam name. Not even if it is New Year and the season of goodwill and all that. (And don't bother hunting around for "gay camerawhore". That's not it.) I may not have a lot of pride, but I do have a little left. . .
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