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.    

1 comment:

  1. As a South African , I apologize on his behalf 🤢


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