TISM

I rolled up for my third date with BN2 at his house on an estate in the north of the city. The suburb seemed pretty ordinary until I turned into his street, at which point the houses suddenly doubled in size and grandeur. When I found his place it turned out to be an elegant Italian-style villa, with french doors, terra cotta tiled floors and a honking great indoor swimming pool.

Whoa, I thought to myself. I am so out of my socio-economic league.

But BN2 carries his urbanity and privilege very lightly: there are garbage collectors who are more pretentious. He made me a drink and showed me around the place, then we sat and talked while we listened to jazz. Whenever the opportunity arose, as I walked past him or leaned over to reach my drink, he would run his fingers across my arm or my shoulder or my hip, and if I was especially close, he would catch my lips with his.

When we sat down to eat, it turned out that on top of his many other qualities he’s also a sensational cook. He made a delicious French chicken dish with asparagus, served with the last bottle of his favourite merlot. We talked some more, then tidied up the dishes.

“So, do you want to watch a movie?” he asked.

“No, I do not want to watch a movie,” I said, and I grabbed him before he could even think about picking the DVD up off the kitchen counter.

Memorable moments of the next four hours included;

* The way he threw me onto his bed with a lusty growl the moment we got up to his bedroom.

* Lying naked together, exploring each other’s skin, with the glass doors to the balcony open letting the cool, evanescent night breeze slip over us.

* Getting the little salty tang of pre-cum as I sucked his cock, and hearing his gentle moans.

* The way his body tensed up excitedly when I wrapped my legs around his waist.

* The little jolts of pain that came with him thrusting inside me, made so much easier to bear by the way he whispered and gasped and cried out my name.

* Lying in each other’s arms in the darkness, clean and dry after our shower, his hand stroking across my shoulders, so warm and soft.

* Looking down on his handsome, contented face as I reclined across his chest, tracing its outline with the back of my fingers.

However all good things come to an end. Even though he wanted me to stay the night, I had a full day ahead of me and I needed to go home. But it was so hard to leave – every time I said goodnight he enfolded me in his arms and kissed me, then nuzzled against my neck with a warm hum or a deep, satisfied chuckle.

I have a terrifying feeling that some time in the future I am going to fall for this hot, sweet, intelligent, easygoing man like a ton of bricks. And after so many years of safe, secure singleness, I don’t think I will handle that kind of vulnerability well.

In which I let him twist for a bit

Tonight I went on a second date with Bachelor Number 2 (or BN2 for short). We had a couple of drinks at the pub, then walked up the street to a little Japanese restaurant staffed by delicate Japanese girls as uniformly sweet and perky as a gang of Hello Kitties. Then we walked back down the street to a café for a cup of coffee, and followed that with a late night stroll through the park. It was around midnight when we got back to our cars, and this time when he kissed me goodnight it wasn’t just a quick touch of the lips. It was long, slow and deep, with us cradling each other’s heads in our hands.

The most memorable part of the evening for me, however, occurred as we were standing in the queue to get into the restaurant. That was when he asked me to come for dinner at his house tomorrow night, and I noticed that he was nervously twisting the paper bag around the neck of the wine bottle he was carrying, almost to the point of tearing it.

He’s so cute when he’s nervous. How could I refuse?

When it's rainin' men, it pours... Part II

I met Bachelor Number Two at an oceanside cafe, and had a bit of trouble recognising him since he looked nothing like his photos. This is not, however, to say that he didn't look good. As is always the case it took us a little while to get comfortable with each other, both being too busy analysing this new person to put too much thought into sparkling conversation. But once we'd found a place to have dinner and got ourselves seated, we found we had a lot of common interests. It's not often that I meet someone who makes me feel like an unsophisticated rube, but this guy had travelled more than Henry Kissinger, read everything worth reading, followed his career through all sorts of high profile institutions and mixed with all of the most important power gays in the country. Now this may make him sound like a preening gasbag, but all of this experience just came out in the natural course of conversation, and he mentioned it as humbly and inconsequentially as if he was mentioning what kind of vacuum cleaner he owned. He was also the very antithesis of a girly man... not a leather-clad macho man, but just deeply, refreshingly ordinary. I could never imagine him flouncing, or shrieking, or getting hysterical over the announcement of a 50% sale at Dolce & Gabbana. He was just a man, and I like that.

After dinner we went for a long walk along the beach, then repaired for coffee at another cafe. We finished up around 10.30, he walked me back to my car, and I in turn gave him a lift to his car. As he gave me a quick kiss and got out of my car, he invited me to a party he was having in a couple of weeks, and added:

"But I'd really like to see you again before then."

And I thought, Cool!

"And it'd be great if you could come to the party, and if you wanted to bring someone that'd be fine."

And I thought, Er... okay.

"Or you could just come by yourself, which would be even better."

And I thought, Hee hee... nice save! And you know what? I think I respected him more for that recovery than I did for anything else he'd said all evening.

When it's rainin' men, it pours... Part I

Well, that was an unusual Easter.

After months of man drought, I found myself going on two dates within 24 hours. And in both cases, it was with an interesting, good-looking and very masculine guy who'd approached me online.

I had dinner with Bachelor Number One on Sunday night. He lives right on the outskirts of the city, almost an hour's drive from my place. I'd accepted his invitation without a lot of interest, since the single photo on his online profile showed an odd, slightly feral man in dorky sunglasses. But I figured that it's always interesting to meet new people, and if he turned out to be a complete creep I hadn't really lost anything other than a few dollars in petrol.

I managed to find his place after a few wrong turns and knocked on the door. The man who opened the door was not an odd, slightly feral creep. The man who opened the door was a big strapping lunk with a ready smile and an oddball sense of humour. Well, I thought to myself, this changes everything. Damn it.

I don't deal well with change. It unsettles me.

So we had drinks, and dinner, and talked, and the sexual tension got wound tighter and tighter until it almost seemed to be thrumming in the air between us. He turned out to be a nervous talker, and eventually, as we sat on his couch late at night with him chattering away and me smiling and nodding, I reached over and stroked the back of his neck, partly because I really wanted to run my fingers across his skin, and partly to shut him up before he did himself an injury.

So we stroked, and then we kissed, and then we fondled, and then we moved to the bedroom and got naked. It was a little while after that that the stress of the evening caught up with me. I'd intended to spend a pleasant couple of hours talking to someone over dinner... and here I was with his tongue jammed in my ass while I sucked his cock. When we reached a bit of a natural hiatus, an hour or two after we'd started, I felt physically and emotionally wrung out, so I told him I had to head home, and I got dressed and let him walk me out to my car.

And thus now, by the cold light of day, I have to decide where to go from here. On the downside he's a smoker (which I find gross), he's a lousy kisser, he talks and drinks too much and I don't relish the idea of having to drive for two hours every time I want to see him. On the upside, though, he's sweet and kind, he's got a very sexy physical presence in bed, and, most importantly, he seems very interested in me. I almost wish that he had been the creepy feral, so that I wouldn't have to confront these issues.

As for Bachelor Number Two... well, that story can wait until tomorrow.

The rest of him isn't so bad either

It seems that suddenly everyone is realising that Shaven Head = Hot Stuff.

I feel so validated.

The Gayest Songs Of All Time, assuming that time began somewhere around 1977

In the interests of helping struggling gay men to fag up their iPods, samesame.com.au has published a list of the 50 Gayest Songs of All Time. For the record, I have five of the fifty tracks in my collection:

42. Culture Club 'Do You Really Want To Hurt Me'
40. Wham 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go'
28. Cyndi Lauper 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun'
6. Pet Shop Boys 'Go West'
1. ABBA 'Dancing Queen'

Three of these are in my collection as part of 80s nostalgia compilations. Who knew the 80s were so gay? In fact, who knew that 80s music is gayer than disco?

With the exception of 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow', apparently all music was straight before the mid-70s. Prior to that, the campy tunes of Marilyn Monroe and Marlene Dietrich were never regarded by anyone as "fabulous", and Tchaikovsky's 'Waltz of the Flowers' was only enjoyed by women.

How many of these songs do you have, and which pink sparkly tunes have they omitted?

My tastes are backed up by an impeccable source

Am I the only one who finds men who shave their heads irresistible?



Judging from this image that gaydar splashes all over its homepage, I guess not.

Suck it down, beach.

A short while ago I mentioned to an email correspondent that I'm not really a beach person. Of course in Australia that's tantamount to disliking beer, not understanding football or hating puppies, but it's true. Partly it stems from a lifelong body image issues, and a resultant aversion to wandering around in public in little more than my underwear.

But maybe there's more. I'd like to like the beach, and it frustrates me that I don't. I find myself wondering if my attitude to the beach is similar to my attitude to women: I can understand the attraction, but I don't feel it myself, and try as I might I can never get into it.

It leads me to wonder if it might not be a gay thing. The beach is a raw, wild, natural place. At the beach you are stripped (literally) to your basics, both in appearance and in relation to nature. On the other hand, your stereotypical gay is a creature of artifice and contrivance. The classic gay professions - floristry, interior design, fashion, the theatre - are all about creating fanciful facades to either cover over the baseness of reality or to frame it in such a way that its beautiful aspects become all the more apparent. Whereas the cliched straight man enjoys the beach because it provides him opportunites to pit himself against nature, the cliched gay man is more comfortable with the inner city cafe or nightclub scene where his carefully cultivated image can be shown to its best advantage.

Of course there a plenty of gay guys who love the beach, and plenty of straight guys who don't. But I'm looking for a broad generalisation here. Plus I am more or less completely pulling this theory out of my ass.

At the end of the day I'm sure many gay guys will claim to adore the beach, but perhaps not purely for the presence of waves and sand.

There's no need to be rude... unless it's fun.

More recent GMM (Grammar Merits Mangling) taglines for your edification:

mmmm WHATS OUT THERE?
Apostrophes! Free apostrophes for all!

look for casual sex
Is that an order? Well, if you insist. Just let me finish writing this blog post before I start looking, okay?

Hi..........
It's not a good sign when your conversation skills fail you one word into a tagline.

My life is like a Romantic Comedy, but not in a good way

I've been in a perpetual bad mood lately. It ebbs and flows, increasing and decreasing, but it always seems to be there. I'm snappish, intolerant, snide and officious, with a simmering hostility to everything and everyone who doesn't meet whatever criteria I consider applicable. I've been demanding at work, sullen with my friends, and pugilistic towards myself.

And to my embarrassment, over the last couple of days it occurred to me that if people said behind my back, "Whoa, does that guy need to get laid or what", it'd actually be true.

I'm a walking example of that sad cliche seen in a hundred movies and TV shows; the petty uptight tyrant who would be transformed into a mellow cruiser with a judicious dose of hot lovin'. I'm that pathetic character redirecting all of his frustration and thwarted desire onto the hapless people around him. If my life were a movie, it'd be at around this point that the hero organises a sexy friend to go out with me and jump my bones, and then we'd have a scene of me bounding into the office the next morning with a big stupid smile on my face, while the soundtrack plays an upbeat pop song (I'm thinking "I'm Walkin' On Sunshine" myself). Everyone relaxes and the hero's plans can resume unimpeded.

Unfortunately, there's no hero with a sexy friend in my life. I do know a couple of guys who would be happy to get me naked, but they're not sexy. They're very definitely unsexy - my skin crawls at the thought of them touching me. If such a coupling ever came to pass, it'd be even more miserable and unpleasant to be around than I am now.

Maybe I just need to be an even bigger bastard, so that someone eventually snaps and says, "Damn it, I'm either going to have to get him laid or kill him, and I've run out of bullets!"