"Everybody's gotta learn sometime"

Last night I was one bad date away from being bitter, today I am just bitter.
I am through with men. Oh yes indeedy. That’s it. Over. I will date men no more. This Homo is closing down for season. I am on the Celibacy Express. I am relocating to Baron Island. Alone. I used to think that I was genuinely unlucky with men, today I know it is the only thing I am certain of in this show called life.

I had met Dave whilst on holiday a few weeks back, on the island I have now renamed as Gross Canaria. We got chatting on a boat trip and he was definitely the type of guy I fantasize about. An ASBO. A scaly lad, very straight acting, with a real London accent decked out in tracksuit bottoms and trainers. The gay ideal. The dream. We were from very different worlds, He was a baggage handler at an airport, and I work in events for a charity. He shopped at Morrisons for his food, I wouldn’t be seen dead in anywhere but M&S. I wore a simple silver bracelet and he was dripping in the entire Argos jewellery collection. My spare time is spent going to galleries or exhibitions; his spare time was spent sitting in a mate’s studio flat above a kebab shop listening to drum and bass, getting stoned. He was what I would call Chav-tastic, I mean this guy should have been in a laboratory being studied. So when he asked for my number I practically tattooed it on to him for fear that he may forget it or lose it. I couldn’t believe my luck. We said that we would meet once back in London. He wrote down his number for me and signed it with his tag, a smiley face and also a message, to remember him by ‘Grrrr’. Perfect.

So he contacts me last week out of the blue to ask if I want to meet him for a drink. In fact his text message said ‘wana meet up wiv u soon m8. U up 4 a drink’ I hadn’t contacted him because I had thrown his number away when he had given it to me eliminating any chance I may start to stalk him. Although I didn’t recognise the number, I knew who it was, it had Dave all over it.

We arranged to meet last night and have been sharing a bit of banter via text for a few days. One of his messages said ‘I really wana sleep wiv ya 2nite m8’ I have never really understood the whole ‘text talk’ and hate it when anyone uses it, mainly because I am not an imbecile and have a good grasp of the English language but that was quite possibly the most perfect text message I have ever received. I sent one back saying ‘you are very forward. I like that’. The more text messages he sent the more excitement within me grew and I started to really look forward to this date. The possibility of one of my fantasies actually coming true was almost too much for me to bear. Having sex with a scaly boy has always been at the top of my list. I think for most Gay men it is up there. There is even a whole gay porn company that makes movies with scalys and nothing else and they have titles like Scaly Boy Orgy, Trackie Lads and Scaly Football Orgy. Those of us who are of the lavender persuasion really cannot get enough of dirty little scalys.

As I navigated my way along Oxford Street last night to go and meet Dave, I called my friend Telstar to rub in the fact that I had a date with a scaly. He quickly pointed out to me that not only was I living the dream, I was living his dream. The realisation that I could lose his friendship started to appear very real indeed. Telstar dreams of scalys. His entire porn collection is dedicated to them, so the fact that I had a date with an actual scaly was, in Telstar’s eyes, the ultimate betrayal, and completely unjust. I worried that he might even sabotage the date and ruin my chance to turn a fantasy into a reality by turning up and pretending to be a jilted lover, or tell Dave he was pregnant with my child…

Dave came straight up to me as I entered the bar, which I was thankful for because I had only met him once, about a month before, on a gay cruise during which I had drank twice my body weight in beer and tequila. So although I remembered that I was attracted to him, I couldn’t actually remember what he looked like. We got a drink and then sat down, and I had to stop myself form laughing at the sight of us. He was over six foot, wearing trainers & trackies, and me 5’ 5” wearing a suit. It was all so Pretty Woman and I felt like Richard Gere in the leading role. Dave was very talkative and kept saying things like “Ur ‘Orny” (he found me attractive) and “u look a lot branner than me” (I had more of a suntan) and "wanna novver one?" (was I thirsty) He also told me about his new car, he described it as bullet. As in: have you heard the new Madonna single? It’s bullet. It was all so deliciously scaly.

There were a few problems though, mainly his lack of diplomacy and tact. At one point he asked how old I was. When I told him I was 28 he said “nah mate, I thought you were about 35” and asked me to prove that I was in fact 28. He then said that he was really into bigger guys who didn't spend too much time taking care of themselves. A minute later he told me how much he fancied me and asked did I want to go to XXL with him? XXL is a well-known gay club for chubbys and their chasers. I weigh 76 kilos. Yes I could probably do with losing a stone but would hardly call myself fat. However in Dave’s eyes I was Richard SImmons before he found aerobics. Basically Dave was saying I looked old, overweight and had let myself go. I should have been insulted but I wasn’t. I actually found it highly amusing. He didn’t have the intelligence to see how offensive he had been, and for some reason this tickled me. I was not tickled though when he started showing me explicit text messages form some bloke he was having a fling with or when I came back from the toilet to find him setting up another date. I came back to find my date on another date. I hate it when that happens. I realised that if Dave couldn’t be faithful to me for 2 hours, he wasn’t really the sort of man I want in my life. So I made my excuses and left. My fantasy wasn’t about to come true this evening

On the way home I bought Scaly Boy Orgy and decided that scalys are best left as fantasies.

In the name of The Father

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tequila Mockingbird. I am a single gay man living in London, and I have decided to write a blog about my non existent sex life, and maybe give some laughs, and hope to some of my fellow Lavenders out there.". In fairness I've never really liked it a huge amount nor have I been lucky in the sex department. I always end up drawing the short straw and I think this is what has caused my lack of appetite in this area. I simply cannot be bothered to have sex anymore, because I always end up being disappointed. Lets give you an example. My last encounter was with a friend of a friend type set up.......... Why on earth I decided to go along with it I will never know, because historically these things tend to be disasters, especially in the World of Lavender (the gay world). This is because our heterosexual friends always automatically assume, if you're gay, and he's gay, you will of course want to screw each others brains out. They seriously think that you and this other gay man are the only two on the planet, and therefore MUST sleep together. Hold the phone? It is a sweeping generalisation but it happens the world over. Friends of Homo's please note- not ALL gay men are George Michael and will sleep with anything that resembles a human, a tree, or a bench on Hampstead Heath. Ipso facto, some of us have standards.

Against my better judgment, I went for drinks with an old friend known as Big Sis in a watering hole just off Brewer Street and down a dangerously steep staircase......... This was the place I was to meet my date, Jacques. I had told Big Sis the ONLY way I would consider meeting him was if she was present. At least that way if this guy was the cretin I had predicted, I would have someone to talk to.

I was fully expecting a monster, so I was more than pleased when he arrived and appeared to be tall, attractive, funny, articulate, and IN TO ME. Right from the start he was extremely forward, and I found his confidence intoxicating. At some point later the penny dropped and I saw that his confidence was actually arrogance, which of course just made him even more desirable.

He charmed the Calvin's off of me, and I broke my rule. My rule not to act like a common dog who eats the face off someone in a bar. I feasted on his face like a tramp on chips. After a good 4 hour's drinking, and realising poor Big Sis had made an exit, things between Jacques & I started heating up.

Before I know it I was in a cab on the way back to Clapham and Jacques is practically trying to have sex with me. Truth be told I'm just as bad. He kept asking what my fantasies were saying he would fulfill every one of them. Now my fantasies are MINE and MINE only. Fantasies are not spoken of. Fantasies never come true, so I like them left as fantasies. I told him so too. I tried to explain that we had just met and I wasn't really comfortable discussing my deepest darkest secrets, but was looking forward to some torrid sexual liaisons. I I was trying to stop this fantasy talk, as it was starting to make me feel raw and exposed. Like a Virgin Atlantic Air Steward without 3 inches of make up.

But if he asked it once he asked a million times. Alarms were ringing, but I couldn't hear them above the dangerous levels of wine I'd consumed. What is fantasy etiquette? Is it the same as the 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine' playground standard I wondered? I didn't want to ask him. Lets be brutally honest- asking someone what their fantasy is can be akin to having unprotected sex: you never know what you're going to get.

We get back to his hovel of an apartment and I manage to suppress my urge to run around with bleach and clean the place. So he makes me a drink. It was Advocat. ADVO-fucking-CAT. Had I been transported back to the 60's, landed in Fanny Craddocks living room and been left for dead? There was no way I could ingest a drink that looks like raw scrambled eggs and the smell of sink was starting to make me feel light headed, so I pounced.

Now Jack can kiss. And Jack is good with his hands.......... but he keeps yapping on about bloody fantasies. And that's when it all went wrong. Jack whispered in my ear 'now I can tell you what my fantasies are'. I went cold and came crashing back to earth. I may not have done this casual sex thing very often, but I have enough nous to know when someone whispers that in your ear, its likely going to end with a fan, and shit.

I quickly scanned the room, taking in as many mental images as I could, as I knew that when my half dead body was found washed up on Brighton beach wearing half an inner tube these memories might be useful when trying to trace my captor. "I want you to pretend that you are my father and rape me" Jacques says, quite loudly and with a look, you just know was the last thing Ted Bundy's victims saw. Whilst terrified and in fear for my life, I was also repulsed and couldn't stop my self asking him if this was some sick joke. This is when he became somewhat indignant and started chanting "my father is watching us, he wants you to fuck me". Without looking, Jacques pointed, causing my eyes to follow to what he was pointing which was a picture of a man above his bed, whom I am assuming was his father.........

"um, this isn't working for me" I said in what I intended to be a really assertive and almost threatening tone, but instead a shrill sound omitted from my mouth like Mrs maple on helium as I am tried to get the hell out. But now he is whimpering and waving his arse in my face saying "come on and rape me you f*cking f*cker" So engrossed was he in his role playing that he was oblivious to the fact that I was fully clothed and asking him for directions to the nearest cab office. I ran out of that house like a refugee running for the border and swore that I would never be set up on a date by a friend again. In fact to turn lesbian, to be celibate, to chop my gonads off and become a eunich. I sent Big Sis a text to say "honey you're fired" and then got a cab home. It was at this stage that I realised just how sober I had become, and what an utterly frightening experience it has been, and once again how typical it was of my life to end up with such a complete and utter freak.

I got a text from him the next day saying 'I was really drunk last night, can't really remember much. Hope I didn't do or say anything embarrassing. I'd really like to see you again'

I sent one back saying 'Who's your daddy?' He hasn't responded.