15 April 2019


So, had my first date in Melbourne the other night *squeals*

My excitement at starting a new life in Melbourne with a new man was off the chart. The Favourite still hasn't messaged me, mind you I still haven't messaged him, but let's not split hairs. And even though I knew this was my first date since landing in Melbourne, I couldn't help but start making wedding plans. Spring bride? Well anyway, let's not get ahead of ourselves because things didn't exactly go to plan.

So I matched with this guy on Tinder, we shall call him The Software Developer. Chat, chat, chat, and we arrange a date. This has to be the number one difference between the gays in London and the gays in Australia: with a few exceptions to the rule (namely me), people actually chat when they match instead of racking up the matches and inflating their already inflated egos. Then they actually ask to meet after a prescribed amount of talking. It’s a fucking revelation! Australians are forward and to the point. They're pragmatic about dating and dating apps - we're on here for a reason, and that’s to find someone for a relationship or a good old DTF sesh, so let’s do that. If I even dared suggest (after pages of chat) taking the conversation out of the app and for a drink or horror of horrors, dinner, Londoners made me feel like a filthy sex pest.

In saying that, we are the sum of our digital dating surrounds. When I first arrived in London, I joined a new dating website called my single friend. I was brimming with anticipation and so open to the prospect of meeting an English gent, I was agape. I started chatting with this guy, he’d lived in Australia and loved the Aussie accent, but as soon as I mentioned a date, he disappeared faster than you could say flamin' galah. I was confused and satisfied he had died at his keyboard and therefore, unable to respond. I mourned his death momentarily, until another gent and I started chatting, but then the same thing happened again. And then again. And then again. Londoners are exceptional ghosters. So good, they recruit the newly arrived. It became OK to ghost because I had been ghosted so many times before. Bad behaviour begot bad behaviour, and I begot all over the fucking place.

So anyway, back to the date. I'm not gonna lie, I wasn't really that pumped about going on a date with The Software Developer. His messages were really dull, but he said he was a top and that really is enough for me these days. Then he suggested a wine and charcuterie bar he'd always wanted to go to and if you say red wine and cold meats in combination to me AND you're a top, I dilate.

Now I like to get to my dates a little early just so I can check where the toilets are, get a table, see how the light falls on my face, or as I call it, first date reconnaissance. So I walk in and this tiny woman posing as a waitress (srsly, she was like a Shetland pony) asks 'how many?' I said two and held up two fingers just in case she needed visual confirmation. She then asked if I wanted to be seated side-by-side on the banquet seating or face-to-face? I ran the potential for awkward moments through my mind and then, as though an oracle had passed through me, decided face-to-face would be best, side-by-side might be tad intimate. See? This is why I like to arrive ten minutes prior. Imagine making that decision with your date in earshot?

So I take my seat and check my hair in the reflection of my cracked iPhone, wondering when I'm going to get that fixed - it's been a year. I was confident my hair hadn't moved since leaving home due to the fog of hairspray that still hung in my bedroom, but I looked anyway. Not one strand out of place. And...we're ready.

Then he walked through the door. Can I just tell you, The Software Developer was hot. So hot I immediately deny who I am and muster my biggest outside voice. I went for the handshake like the masc motherfucker I am trying to project, and he went for the hug. I then thought he was going for a kiss, but even though he wasn't and my lips didn't even land on his cheek, I still made the kissssing noise.

Off to a flyer.

The tiny waitress/Shetland pony gave us menus, and we start to get to know each other. Sometimes I find it really difficult to concentrate if I find someone incredibly attractive. Coupled with the fact The Software Developer did a form of software development I had never heard of and had already used three words I didn't understand, I was utterly lost. I just had to listen to the cadence in his voice and throw in an 'ahh, oh right,' if I felt he was trying to make a point. If I ever say to you 'do you love what you do?' I have little to no fucking idea what it is you actually do. And I'm also super attracted to you and cannot concentrate on anything coming out of your beautiful mouth.

I have to say beyond this, the date was pretty stock standard. We agreed on all the right things. I over laughed at all his lame jokes, he over laughed at my lame jokes, you know? A first date. We left the bar, and he said he had to go home and 'send some emails,' a likely story, but the date was so good I was like, 'aww, emails.' I said we should see each other again to which he agreed. He then said I'll message you and get your number through Tinder, which I thought was odd considering I was stood in front of him, but he said he would, and I had to take him at his word. We then kissed on the lips, nothing longer than a peck-and-a-half and said our goodbyes. I floated home and awaited The Software Developers message containing said mobile number whilst flicking through bridal magazines.

On the walk home I thought, why wait for him to send his number? Why not send mine? So I did. Well, at least when I got home and on wifi, don't want to use up my valuable data allowance. And can I just say, glad I didn't waste my allowance on this bozo because he ghosted me. And not only ghosted me but also unmatched me! He un'd me! Fucking brutal. It made me long for the quaint old days of London when people just never messaged you back, and you wondered/hoped they'd met a grizzly end rather than completely deleting you from their life.

I guess Australian pragmatism comes in many shades:

I like you, let's go on a date.

I don't like you, delete, delete, delete!

1 April 2019


So anyway, I’m back. So sorry for the late reply, but I have been *bizzy*

Anyway I’m in a new city, a new country, a new chapter of my life. I’ve left London after twelve glorious years and headed for sunnier climes, specifically Melbourne, Australia.

And also, I turned 40. Ugh, I just sicked a little in my mouth. Remembering you're 40 is like when you remember Donald Trump is still the leader of the free world and you scream ‘why am I not more outraged by this?’ I guess there is an adjustment period, but just like Trump, I will never accept being 40.

So anyway, without becoming too bogged down in details, in the end I fucking hated London. Loved my friends - adored them - but the grind of London made me want to eat a plate of my own pooh instead of sticking it out another year, so probably best I got out before tucking into the faecal feast.

Plus I had completely lost my mojo: I hadn’t sucked dick for nearly twelve months. I mean, what the actual fuck? That’s not good. So many of my formative years spent training my epiglottis, I hope I haven’t forgotten. There has to be some sort of automatic muscle memory or reflex, right? Although it has been so long, perhaps the only reflex will be gagged.


So I have been on Tinder and Grindr in Melbourne. Ok...this is going to seem a little strange…when I was in London there was a guy I had been chatting to who seemed interested, but we just couldn’t get it together, to get together. In fact, apart from a few messages every now and then, we never actually met. But he was/is Australian and now lives in Melbourne *squeals* I know this because I favourited/starred him on Grindr so I will ALWAYS BE ABLE TO KNOW WHERE HE IS IN THE WORLD…hmmm, let me rephrase that…I favourited/starred him because...because...I don’t really have any other reason other than the aforementioned.



Anyway, we shall refer to him as The Favourite.

So I have already sussed out his possible location. Where I am staying, he is nine kilometres away. Then I was in another part of the city on the weekend and The Favourite was only two kilometres away, so I went home and put a pin in a map on my wall and drew a two kilometre radius to whe-

I’m kidding, I don’t have a map.


Maybe you’re wondering why I am being so batshit fucking crazy about The Favourite – believe me, it gets better. Let me take you back to a kinesiology sesh I had a year ago: I was told I would meet an Australian – a Melburnian, no less – in London before returning home. He would also be ready to leave London and then we would leave together or something wildly coincidental like that.

Well, that never happened. I met one guy who was from Melbourne. He was a composer, but had no desire to move back. He also wasn’t gay and harboured no erections for me, which I’m pretty sure is a red flag.

So it is super tenuous, but it has to be The Favourite, right? Or the kinesiologist is full of shit and I have been sold snake oil.

Anyway, I’m not entirely sure what the game plan is...move to his suburb and hope that he messages because I’m a lady and I never message first? I know, I know I just need to message him. I better do it soon because the gays are brutal: they treat those who have passed over into their forties like a boom town recently bypassed by the interstate. The only people to visit are lost or there to reminisce about the 20s and 30s.

Or you’re dragged kicking and screaming into a new sub group #daddy.

I have been very vocal in the past about my impending daddy-hood. It seems beyond a certain age you are no longer allowed to be anything other than "sane" and "sorted" (actual words used as markers of your personality in daddy dating profiles). My profile reads "Miss Vanjie" so, not sure I'm gonna cut it as a daddy.

Thankfully, I'm attracted to the older gay, but those same older gays who found the number next to my name attractive because it began with a three, now no longer find me attractive because there is a four in its place. It pains me to say that in some cases I'm actually too old for the older gays. Ugh. And I thought turning 30 was hard.

I have to say that turning 40 has focussed my mind on finding a boyfriend - this shit needs to be expedited. I feel more relaxed about meeting someone in Melbourne, though. I always wanted to meet an Australian for an LTR in London. I was worried I would meet someone, feel the pull of home and they wouldn’t follow or worse, they would follow and then realise it wasn’t for them and return to Europe, leaving me broken hearted - AND THIS WAS ALL BEFORE THE FIRST DATE. Anyway, my unrealised fears of abandonment aside, meeting an Australian just made sense. Now I'm in Australia there are so many Australians to choose from!

You wait, I’ll meet a Brit and be back in London within a year. Maybe that’s what the kinesiologist meant.

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17 August 2017


Another day, another Tinder date. I sound so bored, I promise I'm not.

So I matched with this guy, let's call him Michael because that was his name. A few messages here and there, and we arranged a date.

I have a new Tinder policy, it's basically swiping right on anyone and everyone. Cast the net far and wide, you never know what you might catch, venereal or otherwise.

I started doing this because I met a guy in a bar a few weeks ago that, if I had been presented with six photos of him in an online capacity, I would never have swiped right. You know why? Because you need to meet people in the flesh to actually know whether you are attracted to them or not. Crazy, isn't it? Making your decision based on six carefully selected photos which show nothing but how to take a great selfie, is not a good business plan.

So, we decided to meet at a pub in a suburb that had the village-y feel Londoners love. I arrived and he was already seated at the bar. OK, straight out of the gate, he was a little heavier than he appeared in his photos, and while he wasn't completely catfishing me, girlfriend needed to do a round of updates on those pics. He then had the gall to tell me he did marathons.

Like movie marathons?

Anyway, we then had six large glasses of Pinot Grigio on empty stomachs.

Cut to, me sucking his dick.

Not sure how it happened, but I do think I was in a waking blackout. That's my story anyway and I am sticking to it. This is no joke, I remember leaving the bar and then I had his dick in my mouth, that's it!

The reality of the situation dawned on me/I sobered up, and made a hasty exit stage left, into the night only to meet a lovely trans woman on the street who I then convinced to come out for one last drink, because I wasn't done with the night.

At about 1am she departed after we had a lengthy discussion about the assassination of JFK (I mean, WTF?) and then I picked up ANOTHER guy and went back to his, still with the smell of Michael's dick on my hands.

I woke up in the morning on a blow-up mattress in a lounge room next to a cute guy, who's name I am still not sure of, and who's cleaner was vacuuming around us. We then went to a bedroom (why we weren't there in the first place, I do not know) and slept until the cleaner left. We then sat on his couch eating reheated lamb biryani, watching Amy Schumer videos.

This was a Wednesday.

4 May 2017


So I was out the other week on a Tinder date with this perfect guy when he quickly became the least perfect guy.

Let me back up.

I had swiped right on this Australian guy a few weeks before and didn't get an immediate match. I know it seems like every time I make myself vulnerable in an online capacity it needs to be met with instantaneous validation, but it does. Then a couple of weeks later we matched and I messaged him. Fascinating.

So he organised the date in this fancy cocktail bar, in an equally fancy hotel in Mayfair. I didn't realise how fancy it was until I arrived. Thank god I didn't wear my boob tube, instead opting for a collared shirt because, ah, err, he was in a three piece suit. Admittedly he had been at work, but still, where do you work, the Academy Awards?

In these sort of instances, you can tell I am really into a guy because I suddenly turn into a bellowing mini-me of my father. I'm basically trying to be the most masc version of myself I can be, which isn't exactly masc in the traditional sense of the abbreviation, but you get the picture. And I've noticed it with other friends of mine: I once overheard a friend talking to his new boyfriend on the phone and wondered where this (more) manly voice was coming from. When he got off the phone, I asked who he was talking to - assuming it was his homophobic uncle from the country - but when he said it was his new boyfriend, I wondered how long it would be before he accidentally high kicked through that butch facade and was found out.

It's sad to think we value masculinity over femininity in our community. It's so clearly an offshoot of misogyny. And trust me, I've read all the articles in the gay press that try to put this issue to rest, but when you read Grindr profile after Grindr profile that specifies "masculine for same", you get beaten down. And when I like someone my big boy voice comes out because that's the ideal I've been presented with my whole life.

Anyhoo, we order drinks. Two martini's, so masc, and get talking. Okay, full disclosure: I have never met a guy who's life was almost identical in terms of upbringing. So alike he had even been to MY SCHOOL as part of his school's mock trail and debating team. And I would have been there at the same time, in the same year group. I cursed the day I dropped Legal Studies.

I don't think I can actually explain how implausible this moment was for us. I went to school in a spec of a town, in the middle of Australia and the guy I was sitting across from in London 20 years later had been to that school when I was there, even if it was for a day or two. As you can imagine, I completely blew it out of proportion and treated it like Jesus himself had returned and was dating me.

So we ordered another martini.

I'm getting a little loose by this stage and he starts talking about wanting to raise a family. I've never really been for or against the subject, but suddenly I'm stuffing my face with complimentary almond clusters, trying to soak up the pure vodka, saying things like "I've always wanted three or four children". What? Where did that come from? Then I said, "I want to adopt because there are too many unloved children in this world". Um Angelina? Pipe down please.

We then started talking about country vs city and, again, I have never really wanted to live in the country - grew up there, was damaging enough the first time round - but again I am saying things like, "I've always wanted to own land in the English countryside." No I haven't!

I think the takeaway here is that I'm telling my dates what they want to hear and adjusting myself to what they want to see. It's obviously coming across as disingenuous, otherwise I'd be raising four adopted children from the streets of Delhi on acreage in the Lakes District. But when did I stop being myself on dates and why? Have I ever been myself??? I'm blowing my mind right now.

So then he talked about what it would be like raising kids in the country being gay - oh and I forgot the best part! He only came out three years ago! Does that still happen? Apparently so.


Anyway, the conversation continued about attitudes towards the gays in country Australia vs in the UK when I committed a cardinal first date sin.

I we'd us.

I said something like, "well I think if we were walking down the main street with kids..." I had to immediately make a joke out of it and honestly, he handled it pretty well, but let's just say we didn't order another martini.


There was a burning smell that came from the table next to us and we both turned to investigate. There were two black women seated adjacent who told us it was just a drink that had been lit on fire to bring out the flavours. He then said, and I am not making this shit up, "I thought your weave was on fire." Now, regardless of whether he thought it was or not, you don't fucking say that. I could see the collective speech bubble above their heads go, WTF? But they were very gracious and explained to him, and for some strange reason, me, that their weaves were real hair and not acrylic. I gave them an I-have-nothing-to-do-with-this-man look and turned the other way.


I excused myself and went to the bathroom.

When I had come back, he had paid the bill which I thought was sweet until I remembered the casual racism. I was like, oh, grrr.

We went our separate ways and there weren't any follow up messages. A week later he, that's right HE, unmatched me on Tinder. And fair enough, I wasn't my true authentic self, but at least my true authentic self isn't a racist fuckstick.

16 October 2016


For a relatively small country, in the past few months, I seemed to have hit a rich vein of gay New Zealanders.

OK well two, but that's a lot.

I present to you their stories.

Kiwi #1.

It's taken me a while to talk about this sexual liaison in the public sphere because, while I have always been quite candid about my experiences, there's a Josephite nun inside me, just waiting to wave her knobbly finger at me. And as this story unfolds, she's likely to burst through my chest like a small alien creature and attach herself to my face.

After a lovely dinner with my friend Fran in Sitges, we made our way into the night via the Mojito Bar. After two of the largest Mojitos I have ever seen, we were smashed. A few more fish bowl sized drinks later at another bar and we were catatonic. After escorting Fran back to our hotel, I made the half mile wobble back to the bar we had just left.

I was ordering another drink (like I needed it) when a handsome Kiwi entered stage right. I'm not sure how we started chatting, but his beard, his hairy chest and his cute accent had me hooked.

"Are you dancing?" he said pointing to the sunken dance floor. I nodded, unable to get a 'Yes' out, and with that he whisked me off, bounding down the steps whilst I tried valiantly not to spill a drop of my vodka lemonade.

It was 4am and suffice to say the dance floor was looking a little tired. There were only four people keeping the party going and we were a breath of fresh air. Three of them were Swiss and the other was a German called Herman. Of course he was. I'm sure they thought we were super annoying as we waved our Antipodean flag in their faces, but this place was crying out for an injection of fun.

Now, this is where things get a little hazy. Keep in mind ALL of this happened on the dance floor. In the space of one minute I went from dancing with Kiwi #1, to kissing Kiwi #1, to Kiwi #1 having his dick out on the dance floor. Mid-kiss, I did what anyone would do when faced with a dick on a dance floor.

I gave him a handjob.

Then he undid my trousers and before I knew it he was giving me a blowjob.

I know and on a sparsely populated dance floor, so did Herman.

It's not the worst thing to happen, but for me eating dick - my dick - on the dance floor is taking the PDA a step too far. I quickly covered myself up and made the suggestion we take this somewhere else. But there was nowhere else. I was rooming with my friend and he was also rooming with his friend. He then took me by the hand and led me out to what I thought was the exit, but it turned out to be the men's toilet.

Yeah. To each their own, I say.

In all my years on the scene, I seemed to have bypassed toilet sex. Not sure why, perhaps it has been an unconscious rule set long ago. Perhaps it was right up there with exposing myself on a dance floor. Well rules are meant to be broken. And besides, this is Europe and I'm on holiday, it doesn't exist, right?

Wrong! As the door closed and the dicks came out, I thought wow, we're really doing this. As drunk as I was, I could see this toilet had seen A LOT of traffic that night.

Can I get a mop and bucket to cubicle three?

The guy was a little shorter than me, so it was difficult in the confines of the toilet cubicle to get a really effective blow on my job. I thought, why not? This can't get any worse, so I sat down on the toilet to get a more front on experience. Turns out, it could get worse because this lavatory was missing a seat and I sunk further into the toilet bowl than I would like to admit. To add further insult, I was stuck and whatever organic remnants the toilet had not flushed away, were now smeared on my brand new chinos. Not that I actually realised, I was more concerned with the moment the Spanish fire brigade would have to jaws-of-life me out of a toilet bowl. Hola!

Thankfully, all it took was a tug (bwha!) from him to set me free. When it was all done, we left the cubicle, walked out, exchanged numbers, had a brief chat and then I left him sitting on a bench. I sashayed off thinking what a sexually empowered man I had become; a sexually empowered man who had just gotten briefly stuck in a toilet; a sexually empowered man who had the organic remnants of that toilet worked into his bone coloured chinos. But let's not start pulling threads. It was only after walking through Sitges Old Town and the hotel lobby that I realised the brunt my trousers had taken.

I threw them and my dignity away then and there.

*Josephite nun having conniption*

Kiwi #2.

So anyway. The other day I started chatting to a guy on Grindr who made it clear in his profile that he was only interested in dates rather than hookups. After a few messages, Kiwi #2 asked if I wanted to grab a drink and I agreed. His direct manner was refreshing: often all the date conversation happens over messenger which leaves the date void of topics. So I had no real idea who he was or what he did until we met. And that was kind of exciting. He could be a serial killer!

We sent through a few more photos of ourselves to reassure the other our profile pic's were not handsome flukes and arranged to meet that Thursday night.

After having the usual date freak outs, like this could be the last first date I ever have or I could die, I arrived to a very deserted, very quiet bar. Kiwi #2 walked in and honestly only looked about half the size of his photos. Height and weight. And while it was him, the pictures did him waaay more justice.

"Hi, how are you," I gritted, sticking my hand out to shake. I think we both felt the wait staff wince.

I didn't want to be rude (I'll save that for my blog), so we ordered a bottle of wine and sat down.

Guys, I know this makes me the worst of the worst, but he had a series of facial tic's that only manifested themselves when I talked and looked directly at him. At first I thought he was winking at me, but I soon realised they were uncontrollable facial spasms and not his amorous advances. It made it super hard to concentrate on what I was saying and I had to look around the courtyard we were sat and bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from laughing in his face.

We finished our wine and he asked if I wanted to go for dinner. I couldn't risk anymore involuntary twitching over croquettes, so I told him I was going home and we awkwardly left it at that.

Probs for the best.

15 September 2016


As the title suggests, I had a do-over.

Actually, to clarify, I didn't realise I had a do-over until I saw him naked. That's nice, when the only distinguishing feature you have is your penis.

Let me explain.

I was out and about on the weekend in my favourite bar after a night with some friends ended. I was just wasted enough to think that going out on my own was the next logical step and not too wasted to strike up a conversation with a stranger. In short, the perfect storm.

I got to the bar during its peek hour and joined the scrum for drinks pronto, as my buzz was beginning to fade. In front of me were two young gays who were sort of in the queue, sort of not in the queue. It was difficult to tell because they were dancing. I don't care what you do with the rest of your night, but either you are queuing or you are dancing, not both and until I have submitted my drink order, I'm all business at the bar. And these gays were basically doing the Cha-cha. 

I politely tapped one of them on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, are you actually in the queue?"

The most annoying of the two looked at me and said, "Oh you mature gays, we're in the queue alright."

Ummm, hmmm.

Compounding the insult was the fact I actually didn't hear him and had to say, "What?" whilst cupping my ear with my hand like an old-timey hearing aid. I bet they thought that was #hilar.

It was enough feeling self conscious about flying solo, but it was another thing to have my crows feet pointed out by these little cum rags.

It's like when you hear your voice played back to you in a recording and you suddenly realise what everyone else is bearing witness to. Ageing is like perpetually hearing the sound of your nasal lisp all day long. And the thing is, I used to be like those boys. I was that little cunt making snide remarks about age. I just hope that their karmic debt is served up to them in the same way. 

I finally got my drink and took my place on the dance floor. As I sipped my double vodka lemonade and cried on the inside, I looked around at the melee of gays and felt so out of place. I didn't even know the song that was being played. How did this happen? I'm only 35-ish.

Then I spotted a guy I had taken home four years ago. And four years ago it did not end well. Shit, that's the last thing I need right now. We had met in the very same bar and almost in the very same spot. I dragged him back to mine for a snuggle and after I sighted his rotund penis, I decided the best thing to do would be to ghost him. And I ghosted him hard. This warranted a "Rude" text message from him. And fair enough, it was rude. The very next week I saw him again at the same bar (I need to get a new venue, I mean really) and he nearly pushed me down the stairs.

One of the reasons I didn't want to pursue anything with him was because getting his cock inside any orifice would have taken a small army and a tsunami of lube. I'm usually up for a challenge, but there has to be a limit, right? He also seemed to wield it with reckless abandonment, like his sexual needs came first and they HAD to be met. In short, like a man (hot). Sometimes I think the men I meet are wasted on me.

I saw him moving across the dance floor coming toward me. As I braced for the unpleasentries, he walked up and said, "Hi, having a good night?" I thought, are we role playing now? His name had slipped my mind so I was unable to cross reference it with my 2012 self. Maybe it was a different guy? We chatted a bit more until I just had to ask, "Have we met before?" 

"Trust me I wouldn't forget you," he winked.

I felt like saying, "Could you say that to those two gay guys dancing in the queue over there?"

Then he said, "I just love your voice." Really? Because I've heard it played back to me and the nasal lisp thing has never really popped.

OK, so this clearly was a different guy. I guess so. He said he was younger than me which again, didn't ring any bells, I was sure this suitor's doppelganger was older.

So I pashed him.

We were back at mine when the do-over dawned on me. The pants came off and the choad in all it's girthy glory was revealed. Hadn't gotten any less choad either. In fact, I think it had expanded. Now, I'll be the first one to admit, I don't have a headjob mouth, it's a dainty opening, but I'm never at pains to fit a cock in it. This one however, I nearly had to lube up my lips and use cranial kinesis to get it in.

And then he started thrusting.

So romantic.

In the morning when he was getting dressed.

"Have we met before?" he said.

"I don't think so. Trust me I think I'd remember you."

14 March 2016


Sometimes when I get home from a one night stand, I feel like a returning Vietnam vet.

I've seen some things, man. I've done some stuff I'm not proud of.

This feeling applied on the weekend just gone when I met a guy who has shaken my love of masc men to the core. I make no qualms about it, I like 'em butch, but I think I should be more specific when I deliver that message to the universe next time. 

I ended up in the arms of a 6'6" South African after a night out on Saturday. He had one of the biggest dicks I have ever put in my mouth. Seriously, it was like blowing a microphone. Testing, testing? Yes, it's definitely on. 

Everything was rosey under the blanket of night, until I awoke under the stained duvet cover of day. I have never seen so many stains on so many different surfaces in one room, at one time. Stains on the side table, stains on the wall, stains on the carpet, stains on the black sheets. I know, firstly, eww black sheets and secondly, stained black sheets. It felt like if you collected all the DNA surrounding his bed, you could build a completely new person and a threesome was on the cards.

Aside from the living in filth part, he was a really nice guy. He spooned me while we made morning-after-the-night-before small talk. He seemed to only like rugby (hot) and spent most of his spare time watching it or playing it (even hotter). Maybe a few Dettol wipes and I could make this work.  

"So are you more like a bottom?" he enquired.

It's always such an interesting moment before you give that answer. I'm pretty sure when most people meet me they can tell I lean toward the receptical side of the spectrum, especially when I meet them doing justice to the Beyoncé Crazy in Love years, but I humoured him.

"Ahh, I'm a bottom. And you?"

"Top." Although he said it in such a guttural South African accent (hot) that it sounded like he was saying "taupe". Such a great neutral on any wall, I thought, but really my anus winced just thinking about that sledge hammer coming anywhere near it.

Any attraction definitely vanished when I went to the toilet to pee. If I thought the multi-surfaced, multi-stained bedroom was disturbing, then I was in for a rude awakening. The toilet looked like it hadn't been cleaned since 1995. I don't think I even sighted a toilet brush. Now, I have a very sensitive gag reflex which, I'll admit, doesn't really help when you are trying to swallow a microphone sized penis, but it especially doesn't help when I come face-to-face with a toilet that looks like its owner takes a scatter gun approach to pooping. It took every fibre in my being not to dry wretch mid stream and spray piss all over the WC. Honestly though, I don't think he or his flatmate would have cared.  

The toilet seat was already up (obvs) and when I put it down, I nearly careered back through the door and rolled down the stairs. Skid marks on the toilet seat! Not only was there remnants in the bowl, but there was remnants out of the bowl. I dry wretched all the way back to the bedroom. 

Guess it's time to book that uber then.

As I dove into the back of an idling Prius and yelled "Just drive!" to my driver Abdul, forgetting he already knew where we were going, I thought about stereotypical perceptions around gay men. He certainly bucked the cleanliness trend our people are well known for, but I did think we are just boys after all, why is it assumed that all gays are germphobic, OCD, super-cleaners? Remember we do put our penises in each others bott-botts. Maybe we push the sanitation trait to counter-balance the grossness of drilling for oil. Or so to speak.

Back to stereotypes though, do all gay men have an eye for design and a flare for fashion? No. Most of us do, but why should we adhere to these outdated conventions?

That doesn't really excuse poor hygiene practices though. Seriously, if you shone a UV light on his bed, it might have shown up some of the uncontacted peoples of the Amazon.

Poor guy.    
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