#masked man

That night saw me attending a masquerade ball.
Well I'd like to say it was a ball.
Really it was a party.
In two rooms.
Of a pub.
And I no longer fitted into the outfit I'd planned to wear.
Had to swap my light coloured slim fitting Vivienne Westward shirt for a loose fitting black Armani tee.
Under a jacket that used to do up.
The fact that I'd consumed approximately 5 litres of alcohol in the preceding 96 hours probably didn't help.
Nor, I imagine, would the daily calorie intake which I estimate has found its way somewhere to the 4,500 mark.
I was, however, happy with my solarium tan.
Which worked beautifully with my all black ensemble.
Gotta love the minimising effect of black and tan.
And I was hoping that the upward sweep and sparkle in my mask would draw attention away from my bulging waistline.
It seemed to.
And let's face it, once I got a few glasses of bubbles under that already over-stretched belt I was no longer concerned about my waistline.
To the point I imagined that it was actually fine.
And despite being the only gay man at the party felt sure that all other male party-goers were finding me irresistible.
Yeah, I'm at a party where everybody's faces are covered in sequins, feathers and glitter and I'm the only poofter.
This is typical for me.
But as I said I remained undeterred.
But all to no avail.
For despite numerous drunken advances at mysterious masked men I left alone.
I did not, however, arrive home alone.
Although I did go straight there.
And before you ask, no I didn't sleep with the cab driver.
As if I'd do that.
Anymore.
But I did meet a very handsome young man in the queue for the cabs.
Outside the Sheaf.
On New South Head Road.
In Double Bay.
I was still wearing my mask.
He was standing right beside me.
And also going to Potts Point.
It made sense to share the cab.
And apparently my bed.
In a manner of speaking.
Although I wasn't aware that things were heading that way until we arrived at my place.
And when he jumped out of the cab with me I thought it was because he didn't have the money to go any further.
So I was a little surprised when he followed me into the foyer of my building.
I didn't mind.
He was kinda hot.
In a surprising sort of way.
And by surprising I suppose I mean jumped-on-me-while-climbing-the-stairs-and-pinned-me-up-against-the-wall.
Which was great.
So yeah, I kinda lied.
He didn't actually make it to my bed.
But he fucked me on the stairs.
Which was even better.
Because he left when it was over.
Which is just the way I like it.
And my mask stayed on the whole time.
I think it's gonna be my new fetish. 

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#good times

So my mother was calling me.
I was meant to be spending the day with her and my sister.
My mother had called it A Girls' Day Out.
It was midday.
I had got in at 6 30am.
God knows when my trade had left.
All that remained was a dribble of blood from a tooth I cracked and loosened when things got a little rough.
"I'll be about an hour" I said, in my best drag-queen-cum-phone-sex-worker-in-the-morning-voice.
"I've only just woken up, and I didn't get in until after 6"
Sound of slightly disapproving sigh.
"That's fine. We're at David Jones. We'll just walk down to Opera Bar".
I had missed the shopping component of the day.
At least I would be in time for the eating and drinking component.
Because what my body really needed at that point was more alcohol.
Really?
And I had some major obstacles to hurdle before getting there.
Like getting out bed.
Having a shower.
And putting together an outfit that felt loose fitting enough for my alcohol and food swollen body, while bringing colour to a sallow cheek, and looking appropriate for a civilised luncheon.
And that I felt sexy in.
Because you just never know.
I did manage to overcome these but not quite in the allotted time frame.
While preparing a response to the challenge: "Haven't you grown out of staying out all night?"
And it was lucky that I had because they asked it unison before my bum had even hit the seat.
And just so you understand the full impact of this, imagine a visual symphony of blonde hair, pearls, shopping bags, and concerned looks from behind sunglasses.
I was quite happy with my response: "I knew you'd ask me this, so I've prepared an answer: I've recently come to the conclusion that it's not necessarily something you grow out of, because it's just part of who I am, and what I enjoy doing."
"Oh well, as long as you're having a good time, then I suppose that's OK.
Would you like a glass of wine?"
Thanks Mum.
What I neglected to tell them was that so many of these nights start out as well intentioned low-key evenings.
But as the booze intake increases, my care about what the next day holds decreases.
In direct proportion.
And the enjoyment of friends augments into a false camaraderie with pretty much anyone you meet.
And that it's not long before you start looking at anybody as a possible sexual partner.
Tossing up between Mr Right and Mr Right Now.
And when the night is still relatively young you feel like there's hours up your sleeve.
But then before you know it it's almost 5am and the lights are about to come on.
And by then your options are limited.
As is your judgement.
Which does make it easier.
There's less competition.
The odds are in your favour.
Although the quality of talent may not be.
And at this stage you've given up looking for a husband.
And you're possibly not even up for the root.
But you'll be damned if your ego is gonna let you go home alone.
Even if it's just so you're seen getting in a cab with somebody else.
Or that the next morning your regular barista can raise an eyebrow and a smirk when you order an uncharacteristic two coffees.
All this in the name of a #goodtime.

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#action

I managed to bounce back after Thursday night's little episode.

Although I did spend most of Friday in a stupor.

Reeling from alcohol.

And shock.

Older.

And fatter.

Which lessened somewhat the previous excitement I'd been feeling in anticipation of my Friday night.

I was to participate in a reality TV cooking show.

It's not going to be aired until January or February, and a signed confidentiality agreement prohibits me saying more.

Although I am probably in breach already.

But in case I'm not, I won't say any more.

And it's only relevant because being told you look fatter and older than your Grindr pics does not make you feel good about being filmed eating.

But luckily I was also filmed drinking.

Well that bit was maybe not so lucky.

The fact that I was drinking helped me accept being filmed.

While eating.

Although if my drunken raptures about the food are televised I will die.

Of shame.

So.

Unbelievably.

Gay.
But fun was had by all.
And I was fed and watered, courtesy of a major network.

I had thought that that would be all I needed in a night out.

But @fab_flatmate and @former_model were with me.

So we went to Bootleg.

I feel like I go there a lot.

Despite having gorged ourselves earlier, we ordered a cheese platter.

And another bottle of wine.

And then I went to Palms.

And then I went to the Shift.

And then I went to the Colombian.
All the while believing I would still make it to my 8 30am Saturday spin class.

Until I went to the Oxford.

Where I finally picked up.

In the smoking room.

Yep.

Classy.

At 6am.

He was young.

Cute.

And clearly completely out of it.

As he willingly came home with me.

But then by the time we get to the end of the night we'll all pretty much go home with anybody.

And it can be so much easier to pick up when there are fewer to choose from.
And everybody seems to know that it's now or never.
So I took him home.
And he was a total bottom.
Which is kind of challenging.
Because that's kind of where I find myself as well.
But his willing submission was enough of a turn on for me to fuck him.
Although I find these days that it takes quite a lot of concentration to maintain the arousal when I am the active partner.
And I may expand upon this at some later time.
But with this one I found that roughing him up a little helped things along.
I am particularly fond of biting the nipples.
So that they really, really hurt.
Pulling hair is a good one too.
And like a lot of Gen-Y's he had enough hair to pull.
Which he seemed to like me doing.
Especially when he was face down.
But I prefered him on his back.
So I could spit in his face.
Slap it too.
He was loving it.
Or so I thought.
Until one of those slaps was just a little too rough.
And I cracked one of his teeth.
Loosened it a little too.
Yep.
With a single bare hand.
Through his bearded cheek.
How is that even possible?
Needless to say, it put a dampener on things.
We dozed off.
And when I awoke he was gone.
All that remained of him some dribbled blood on my white pillowcase.
And my mobile was ringing.
It was my mother...


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#picture this

Still foggy from my Big Night In last Wednesday night, I ventured out again on the Thursday night.
On a date.
Although to be honest, calling it a date is a bit of a stretch.
Strictly speaking, it was actually a hook-up.
Grindr.
But I didn't go to his house.
Nor did he come to mine.
Which is in fact my usual approach.
Of course there's always the whole "if I don't like him or I feel uncomfortable then it's easier to leave theirs than it is for me to get them to leave mine" internal conversation.
But I always feel more in control at mine.
I know where everything is.
Fire escape.
Hidden baseball bat in cupboard.
Panic button.
Panic room.
However, notwithstanding my mental preparation for the worst possible outcome, the recent spate of app-supported dates going horribly wrong has me seriously re-thinking the whole coming-to-my-place thing.
Best to meet in a public space.
A very public space.
Full of my friends...
The Green Park.
Most unimaginative.
But guaranteed to be housing at least 6 of my nearest and dearest at any given time.
I had shown @mr_grindr_date's photos to @cool_cat and @cute_boy.
Both of whom assured me they had seen him out and about.
In numerous venues.
For several years.
But none of us recognized him when he walked in the pub.
Which is hardly surprising.
Because it wasn't him.
And the only reason I knew it was / wasn't him was because he came up and said hi, introduced himself and started chatting in such a way that demonstrated he knew exactly who I was, and quite a lot about me.
But he was not the man in the pics.
And I don't mean he appeared a little different to his pics.
He was a completely different man.
More handsome and better looking than the man in the pics.
And noticeably younger.
Completely bizarre.
The man in the pics had been very nice looking too.
But not in this league.
Although the physical outcome was better I was a little creeped out by the situation.
And therefore very happy to have decided to meet in a public space.
The personality I was getting, however, seemed to match perfectly with the one I had gleaned from our online and texting conversations.
So it seemed OK to bring up the change of pics things.
My friends quizzical looks had turned to thumbs up signs.
So I brought it up.
"Why would you have pictures of somebody else? somebody older, less fit and less good looking?"
"So that the reality is a pleasant surprise".
"But you look nothing alike, and besides, I liked the look of that other man. I wouldn't have been here otherwise."
"Are you disappointed?"
"No, just surprised. This has never happened to me before."
"Because I'm disappointed."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me.. I'm disappointed."
"In me?"
"Yep."
"But the photos you saw were of me.
And they're quite recent."
"They do you justice though. You obviously know how to work your best angle."
Now I was getting the shits: "Excuse me! At least they're me!" 
"Yeah, but you don't look as good as your pictures."
What do you mean?" I practically screeched, dreading the answer.
"Well you look older, for a start".
I died a little.
"And you're definitely fatter".
Older.
Fatter.
I had no words.
I just slowly rose from my seat.
Skulled the rest of my drink.
And left with as much dignity as possible.
Until I reached the door.
Where I turned around.
Flipped him the bird.
And yelled across the bar: "No I will not piss in your mouth. Go fuck yourself."

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#relief

Such a bad idea to have a Phenergan on a school night.

Sure they knock you out really quickly.

But they leave you really kind of foggy the next day too.

Pretty much all day long.

I've only just emerged from the mist.

Clearly there was no spin class this morning.

But I am at that Elizabeth Taylor / Carrie Fisher stage in my life where I just can't seem to get to sleep on my own.

And I am kind of OK with that.

Works with the image of Trashy Glamour that I have unwittingly cultivated for myself.

But my doctor is refusing to give me any more Temazapan. 

Ever.

I had first asked for them when I went to London at the beginning of July.

For a week. 

Insisting they are an essential part of successful jet lag management.

He had seen reason in this.

And I became completely addicted.

To the point where I needed two just to feel sleepy.

I then went to Bali in late July.

And feigned two more overseas trips per month for August and September.

He didn't believe me when I went back a couple of weeks ago, asking for more.

He refused to prescribe.

Called me on my addiction.

And threatened to tell my mother.

Oh yeah, he's my cousin.

Damn.

Lucky an uncharacteristic bout of chronic hay favour at the beginning of Spring had the chemist recommending Phenergan.

Knocks you for six.

And is available over the counter.

#winning.

And has been helping me quieten the voices and dull the pain ever since @dr_cousin stopped being so helpful.

It's particularly nice with a glass of wine.

Or indeed a bottle.

Which is kind of where I left off.

I'm not drinking.

Until Friday of next week.

Even staying home alone these days is a risky activity.

But something I'm going to have to push myself through.

So after my Big Night In last Wednesday, I backed up with a Big Night Out.

Thursday.

Friday.

Saturday.

And Sunday.

And I really can't explain what happened to my Monday.

But let me think about it all and get back to you.

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#cycle

OK, so tonight's spin class was the first exercise I've done since last Thursday night.

And it required quite the effort to get there.

I have been hung over every day since that same Thursday.

And I hadn't even gone out the preceding night.
I'd done a spin class that night too.

Which I followed with dinner of two Snickers Bars.
And two bottles of Pinot Gris (my new preferred grape variety).
A big night in.
As for the Snickers Bars, this is also a new thing for me.
But fast becoming something of a staple.
And may very well, therefore, go some way towards explaining a universal shrinkage of all my shirts.
Although I'm not quite ready to admit this.
I'm still blaming the washing machine.
Which considering the number of spin classes I've been doing lately is not entirely unreasonable.
Because they are supposed to be the most effective weight loss exercise ever.
And I've been doing at least 5 a week.
It's the only exercise I can do at the moment.
In my over enthusiastic bid to get #thinforbali all those months ago I uncovered some minor previous shoulder injury.
Which I ignored.
And pumped myself into my bikini body.
And now I can barely move that shoulder.
So after months of pain and frustrated body building I had an X-ray and ultrasound last week.
Ultrasound.
I know.
Am I pregnant?
No.
Diagnosis?
Arthritis.
OMFG.
And the treatment?
A steroid injection.
Not the great thing you may think.
You may as well have told me hormone replacement therapy.
#old
And not coping.
Perhaps explaining the drinking.
Which has actually increased since I finally, finally, finally gave up smoking.
Well technically I had kinda sorta given up smoking three and a half years ago.
When I started chewing nicotine gum.
And to which I had been seriously addicted ever since.
Of course I have been an on-again-off-again smoker since the age of 10.
But I digress.
I'll tell you about that later.
This is about my drinking.
Which has only been serious in recent years.
And the exercise regime that co-exists strangely therewith...
But, you know what?
My phenergan's just kicked in.
So I'm gonna have to resume tomorrow...

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#shut up

So after receiving a text message from Monday night's shag saying that he'd read my blog I felt even even less bad about planning to go to Malebox on Wednesday night.

Not that I'd felt that bad.
Just a little bit bad.
Although there was some regret in my modus operandi thus far.
He had been such a gentleman.
And I had not.
And after Wednesday night's experience I wish I had.

@mr_malebox is probably reading this just as you are.
He'd been a fairly good shag too.
And I'm not just saying that for his benefit.
(Although after the shag was weird).

And he had also driven me home. 

But similarity with @handsome_barrister ended there. 

(Sorry if you're reading this)

(@handsome_barrister, if you're reading it, I'm puttin' up my hand for another chance...)

Anyway, he’d been nice and all. 

Met him at Stonewall.

As you know.

And despite the three digits stuck to our left pectorals, he'd approached me the conventional way: by pressing himself up against me, thereby pressing me up against the wall.

Which was not entirely unwelcome.

Although his opening line was: “What do you like doing in bed?” 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I said. 

“Snoring and dribbling.”

He didn't get it. 

He was muscly and sweaty. 

47 years old. 

Complete with earring. 

And a New Zealand accent. 

I knew it wouldn't lead anywhere.

So I threw myself into it with gay abandon. 

Now don't get me wrong. 

He was nice. 

Husband material even. 

But somebody else’s husband. 

Dragged me back to Zetland. 

Lives in one of those LegoLand complexes, furnished as though he’d gone crazy at the SupaCenta. 

Was both anally attentive and anally retentive. 

After fucking me senseless with fingers, dick and large object from bedside table, he removed the sheets from the bed. 

Immediately.

Took ‘em off before I’d barely lifted my shag-drunk body from the mattress. 

Was like one of those magic acts where some bloke whips away a tablecloth without the crystal, china or silver even wobbling. 

Once I'd recovered suitably I stumbled towards the shower.
Feeling a little tender.

And, after the sheet incident, suddenly unclean.

He followed a couple of minutes after. 

Stepping into the shower while I was still there.

Now I will tell you that showering with somebody else is one of my least favourite activities.

Bath - fine.

Hot-tub - fine.

Shower, no.

Especially with somebody who's just whipped the sheets from under me.

Who then, and I kid you not, started squeegee-ing the glass screen and door.

While we're still in the shower...
What is it with these prissy queens and their cleanliness fetishes?
I couldn't wait to get out of there, but somehow ended up staying the night.

He even cooked me breakfast.

Which I know is supposed to be a nice thing to do.

But just feels awkward, especially when the preceding night you've been made to feel like you've somehow soiled the joint.

And that person is so far down on my suitable husband's list.

(I'm hoping you've stopped reading by now)

Especially after Monday night's efforts.

(@handsome_barrister, I hope you're still here).

Presumably after all of this though neither of them would want to see me again anyway.

Note to self: keep identity secret.

Don't mention column and blog.

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#take me homo

So we went to his place.
And clearly Darling Point is not that far but it felt a world away: his apartment was a sensation. 

An entire floor.

Beautifully done.

And my excitement was palpable. 

“WOW,” I said. 

“Can you tell a poof lives here?” he asked. 

Yeah, but a poof with style. 

And to tell you the honest truth I've always felt that was rare.

All these poofs who know their way around an Ikea catalogue thinking that makes them stylish.

Or even worse, there's Harvey Norman as far as the eye can see.

And as for Fantastic Furniture, well, fantastic is the one thing it's not - and if there's even a whiff, then I'm out that door.

Or if they do go for something 'designer' it's the most obvious choice.

And if a guy registers even the faintest blip on my husband-hunting radar then the way they decorate is a deal breaker.

Because for me the potential for a long term relationship with someone is dependant almost solely upon our decorating styles being able to successfully merge. 

I prefer no style to poor style.

A mattress on the floor and milk crates as bedside tables is something you can fix.

Real commitment to bad taste is not.

But there was nothing I'd fix about this guy.

The look was perfect.

Chandeliers.

Panelled walls.

Parquetry floors.

Perfect mix of fine antique and modern classic. 

He did lose points for lack of originality in a pair of Barcelona Chairs. 

But I was prepared to overlook this in favour of everything else. 

And to top it off, he had this amazing art collection. 

All contemporary. 

It was the art I'd always aspired to own. 

In fact his entire apartment and collection was exactly what I'd always planned to have when I grow up.

He's 42.

I'm 36.

Oh yeah, did I also mention he was a great shag? 

The best.

For although having this old world charm gentlemanly thing going on, he was in fact an aggressive top.

Exactly what I like in a man.

Well mannered, well dressed, well spoken, and dominant in bed.

And a keen interest to catch up again.
This weekend.
But I'm feeling on fire.
And don't think I can wait.
So I think I'll go to Stonewall tonight, and see if I can get in a little more practice.


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#husband material

He sauntered past me and left his card on the bar. 

I love that.

Who does that anymore?

The paper resembled the finest linen. 

The text was embossed. 

Seems he’s a barrister. 

With a double barrelled-surname. 

Which, let’s face it, is up there with a trust fund as a guaranteed turn on.

If you're a social climbing snob.

Which, let's be clear, I am.

And it looked like he was gonna leave.

So I skulled my beverage and headed him off at the pass: “You can’t just dump your card and piss off,” I say. 

“I beg your pardon,” he replies. 

I tell  him I’m very flattered by the leaving of the card but less flattered by the departure of the cardholder. 

“I thought you may like to call me some time,” he says.

“I’m calling you right now,” I counter. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” I offer. 

“Louis Roderer,” he gratefully replies. 

Thank God for credit, I say to myself. 

“Crystal,” he adds. 

Seriously hope I’m not maxed out. 

Again keep this thought to myself. 

He turned out to be not only handsome, evenly tanned, perfectly teethed and impeccably attired, but also devastatingly witty and charming. 

He was also quite sober. 

So I did most of the talking. 

But he was quite attentive. 

And apparently sincerely so. 

Asked me all sorts of questions about my work, education, friends, family, pastimes and holidays. 

Impressed by my knowledge of the law. 

Kind of intrigued by the fact that I live in a one bedroom apartment. 

Impressed that I'm a decorator.

Although somewhat concerned by my casual attire.

Decided not to tell him that I do own some fancy clothes too, but felt them a bit much for a Monday night.

And kept my investment property to myself too. 

He should like me and my poverty. 

Seems he did. 

Although poverty not so evident once clothes were removed. 

Which of course did not happen at The Establishment. 

@handsome_barrister had little difficulty in presenting his case for dragging me back to his place. 

In quite a sudden manner he retrieved his keys and wallet from the bar in a confident and manly sweep. 

Gestured towards the door in a fashion that gave me no alternative but to leave. He said nothing as we walked towards his car. 

Top of the line BMW. 

Brand spanking new. 

“So where are we going,” I asked? 

“I could drive you home to Potts Point,” he said. 

“And Option B?” I enquired. 

“You could come back to my place for some fun,” he replied...

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