18 June 2011

THE FIST PIG

Now.

There comes a time in any Gay man’s life, when he has to make some pivotal decisions about his Gayness.

Bottom, top, versatile. Butch, fem. Dirty,vanila. Kylie, Madonna.

I used to wear socks on my ears that I referred to as my "girl hair", so a decisive decision about my Gayness came pretty early on.

Some things are predisposed (in my case), some things can be learnt. Some are consciously made, some not. Some are played out in the privacy of our own bedrooms; some take a more public approach. While I am sure we have all dabbled in either extreme, I think most Gay men, including myself, fall somewhere in the middle.

So you can imagine my surprise while dancing in the most amazing club in Berlin, I met a local gent called Rolf, who then proceeded to spit in my mouth, pash my armpits and then spit my own sweat back into my mouth (clearly Lynx Effect-ed) and then ask if I would go home with him and allow him to stick all manner of things, no less than his fist, into my rectal area and into his.

Sure, are we getting a cab then, or an epidural?  

I don't mean to degrade anyone who enjoys the practice of fisting (*motions you closer* believe me, I think they do a good enough job on their own), but I am a 7.30 timeslot gay - I am suitable for families and Grandmas - and if that makes me boring or vanilla, stiff shit, it's my ass and I will put in it what I please. And quite frankly, to feel the girth of a human limb inside me is not one of those things.

I want a Boyfriend who is going to hold my hand, not my internal organs.

That is all.

2 comments:

  1. Laurence my love. You had both my dogs running for cover after my laughter, at reading your post woke and clearly frightened them. Its 4am here in Sydney and it's the most enjoyable 4am I've had in a while. Boring me but brilliant blog mr :-D :-)

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