#my god

It involved a Lebanese man.

A very handsome, sexy Lebanese man.

Works in the convenience store near my apartment.

He’s from the western suburbs.

Fully sik.

And fully hot.

And very friendly, chatty and polite.

Such a total turn-on.

But while I have always been polite in return I have remained fairly circumspect in my responses, controlling any effusive homosexual outbursts, imagining that they would perhaps be unwelcome.

Although recent events have had me re-thinking tendency towards unfavourable profiling.

And just as well.

@hot_leb compliments me on my tan.

Says he has noticed I haven’t been around for a while.

Tells me it’s been quiet in the shop today.

Then looks around conspiratorially, crooks his finger at me and beckons in manner of hook-nosed-witch-from-fairytale and lures me through the plastic strip curtain to the back of the shop.

Heart is a-poundin’ and loins are a-stirrin’.

@hot_leb truly is hot.

As hot as @hot_terrorist.

He could take me hostage anytime.

I slyly glance in direction of his crotch and wonder about the mass of his weapon of destruction.

You want some? he says.

Throat is dry and I am momentarily and uncharacteristically lost for words.

You don’t like? he asks.

Realise he is gesturing towards the cooktop.

Am crestfallen.

But also hungry, so consolation prize is welcome.

He has cooked something and wants to share it. 
Balmain bugs.

Seems he has friend who works on trawler.

Hoe into bugs, thinking life is not so bad.

Remember last man I’d met in convenience store and know that I am better off.

He’d given me crabs.

Of which I’d managed to rid myself prior to being sucked off by assistant priest at nephew’s christening.

Of course, at the time, I was unaware that he was going to assist in the christening of nephew.

Or in fact that he was a priest.

Had happened in sordid venue at end of trashy night.

Lucky it had been dark.

He showed no recognition as we all stood around the altar.

Maybe it was the beard.

Apart from moment of panic at first sighting of @blow_jobbing_priest, christening went almost without a hitch.

And @blow_jobbing_ priest did not have pivotal role so was easy to avoid direct eye contact.

Was honoured to be nephew’s godfather and asked my mother what it entails, apart from not drowning the kid in the baptismal font.

Oh, you know, she said, you have to renounce the devil.

Told her I didn’t know if I could renounce the devil and mean it. 

The devil’s been a big part of my life for a long time. 

Will be hard to let him go now.

Somehow found myself committing to paying of school fees – although I can barely afford my strata levies.

Felt better at the thought of having 12 years to save.

Priest also made comment that nephew would want to grow up to be just like me.

Looks of great concern from in-laws.

He may even have a beard just like yours, he said.

Not if he wants to travel, I countered. 

Wonder if priest thinks I look like a Muslim. 

Realise that @blow_jobbing_priest has seen my uncut cock and, if pressed, could testify that I am in fact not a Muslim. 

Wonder if uncut cock is admissible as evidence in defence against Islamic terrorism charge. 

Wonder if it is perhaps not kosher to be thinking about uncircumcised cocks at nephew’s christening. 

Wonder if nephew is condemned to an eternity in limbo for having gay godfather who is mistaken for Muslim and thinks about cocks and kosher in a Catholic church. 

Now feel quite resolved that if there really is a god, he really wouldn’t mind. 

But there’s still no harm in giving nephew 8 year old Dolce & Gabbana rosary beads as additional christening gift.

Just in case.

#DNA Magazine

@urban_homo_dna

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#travel warning

So I'm a little bit bloody excited.

@fab_flatmate and @travel_stylisa have invited me to Hawaii in May.

Fashionistas to the end, they have advised that for both aesthetic and security reasons I not take a back-pack as my carry-on.

As though I would.

The warning, however, was particularly pertinent, and shall be heeded given my recent travel incident.

Not only do my swarthy looks and (what I consider to be carefully groomed) facial hair get me into all sorts of trouble in the bars of Sydney, they also prove to be a liability when travelling.

And not just abroad.

Last month saw me taking my six-monthly detox and tanning top-up in Noosa.

Returning home to attend nephew’s christening, I kept very much to myself in the wilds of Brisbane Airport.

Unfortunately, epaulettes on shirt, suspiciously ethnic scarf and aviator sunnies not the desired attire for the beeping security gateway.

One has not experienced true terror until one has been asked to disrobe at the head of a queue of impatient budget travelers.

Was exacerbated by the appearance of very large baton being sadistically tapped in the gloved hand of Tom Of Finland-like-security guard.

Despite spunkiness of @tom_of_finland, size of baton enough to make even the most ambitious bottom quake.

Cowering in fear as he waved it in my direction I was greatly relieved to see that it’s not designed for insertion.

Checking for explosives, Sir.

Am sure he winked.

Thrown by wink, I was both flustered and instantly aroused.

@tom_of_finland then handed me something to sign.

I did.

Added my address and my phone number.

Just in case.

Free to go.

Loitered unnecessarily for duration that was, in retrospect, embarrassingly lengthy.

He glances at signed, addressed and phone-numbered document and smiles.

I smile back as I re-don garments and accessories.

And then am crushed.

@tom_of_finland hands form to military-dyke-type who looks like extra from Prisoner.

She has materialised out of thin air.

Which is no mean feat.

She is very large.

Skulk off to departure lounge, feeling embarrassed, rejected and exposed.

Ponder possibility of removal of facial hair before all travel beyond Taylor Square.

Wonder if a homosexual has ever blown up a plane.

Decide it is unlikely.

I personally would never sacrifice my resort wardrobe.

No matter what the cause.

And all that tanning gone to waste.

Not much fun dying before I get to show it off.

Decide absolutely to remove facial hair after conversation with equally hirsute cousin who has had similar experience at Sydney airport, albeit without the erotic element.

Returning to Melbourne after the christening, he hadn’t realised that his flight was the first leg of an international.

No passport and no driver’s licence, only student ID which, despite bearing photo that was taken pre-beard and looks nothing like him, was adequate for his first flight.

Not this one.

Also not working in his favour was his outfit choice of very Arabic shirt and cap combination, a souvenir from aunt and uncle’s recent trip to Turkey.

Only other form of ID was his shooter’s licence, clearly not a winner in these security conscious times.

@hirsute_cousin was deemed a threat and forbidden to board plane, despite being wheelchair bound with cerebral palsy and prone to tears.

4,500 frequent flyer points later, 6 hours and an overflowing urine bottle and he made it home.

Consoled @hirsute_cousin with edited version of my own travel tales which, even after my arrival home, continued with a Middle Eastern encounter of a different kind... 

#DNA Magazine

@urban_homo_dna

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#memory laneway

So I have survived Sydney's tornado but perhaps not Sydney's Mardi Gras.

For as I survey my wet and windswept house showing no signs of damage, my body feels riddled with bubonic plague.

A painful lethargy verging on paralysis, a malaise verging on psychosis.

Complete with hacking cough, razor-sore throat and throbbing head.

And as every minute feels a day long torture, the weekend seems a lifetime ago.

And when I cast my mind back, I see not just a weekend, but a 60 hour trash-fest.

Yep, I continued partying through the day of rest.

My outdoor Egyptian tryst had been cut all too short by a siren and a flashing light.

Which although kind of ruined the mood between us, did not deter me in my search for other funsters.

So, using the hiatus between late closing and early opening as an opportunity for ablutions and a costume change I ventured back out after lunchtime.

Or what would have been lunchtime had my body not been fuelled with appetite suppressants. 

I took myself to the Laneway party at the Flinders and the Beresford.

Re-living long almost-lost memories from an earlier decade. 

A pill in my pocket, a spring in my step, and a song in my heart.

Well, that's not quite true.

Popped my pill at home.

And the song was more like a thud.

But I did have the spring in my step.

And a stirrin' in my loins.

Didn't take long for the pill to kick in.

And the crowd to close in.

Hours of sweating disco, schooners of vodka and dancefloor encounters left me saturated, dehydrated and almost satiated.

As my palpitating heart and a hottie with G led me once again to the toilet, my head showed some uncharacteristic lucidity and somehow managed to convey that this was not a good idea.

The unseen security guard also thought it was not a good idea.

But thought he’d wait til we entered the cubicle before sharing his thoughts.

A minute after we get in there, rap-rap-rap on the door.

I cast panic-stricken look at @random_hottie who has a vial of G in one hand and my cock in his other.

“ Someone in here” he calls.

“I know” comes the reply. “Two of you, apparently. Open up. Security.”

Faaaaark.

@random_hottie puts everything away, opens up the toilet and bends me over it.

I’m thinking I am the evidence and he’s trying to flush me away.

“Just shut up and try to look sick” whispers @random_hottie.

Neither of these things were particularly difficult at that moment.

He then opens the door to the biggest fuckin’ security guard I have ever

And with one step he somehow fills the entire cubicle.

I would actually be OK if the guard fucked me right there and then, bent over the open toilet.

But things weren’t really heading in that direction.

@burly_guard: “What’s goin’ on in here?”

@random_hottie: “My mate’s just spewed. I’m just looking after him.”

@burly_guard: “What’s your mate’s name?”

@random_hottie:”Ah…”

With that faultering, it was all over.

Another guard materialises out of nowhere.

And @random_hottie I are frogmarched out of the Beresford.

Then hurled onto the pavement.

Another distant memory brought back to life.

And the party brought to a crashing end.

It did somehow take me an hour and a half to get home.

From Taylor Square to Potts Point

With no t-shirt on.

In the wind.

And the rain.

So as the memories of the good times fade, the legacy of the price to pay lives on.

At least pneumonia has weight loss benefits.

#DNA Magazine

@urban_homo_dna

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#mardi gras the movie

#DNA Magazine

@urban_homo_dna

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#straight shooter

So I awoke on Saturday morning with a thumping head and a sense of remorse.

Remorse that I hadn't gotten any action.

Seemed such a shame.

'Cause I'd looked so great on Friday night.

And had celebrated the fact in a major way.

I'd started the night with a liquid dinner and had carried on to the wee small hours.

I turned over to catch my reflection in my mirrored robe, to survey the damage.

It was pretty bad.

I also caught a glimpse of something else.

An open bedside table drawer.

Containing an open bottle of lube.

And on the floor...

A condom wrapper....

And....

a condom.

Used.

Yes! 

I did get action.

Now all I needed to do was remember it...

How had my night progressed...?

Drinks on the roof.

Frocktails at Velluto, with Joyce Maynge.

And then what?

The Oxford?

No.

Stonewall?

No.

Palms?

No.

Ah...the Shift?

Yep, the Shift.

Had somehow managed to walk from Potts Point.

And convince the doorman that I was in fact sober.

Then the barman that selling me a beer was somehow in line with the responsible service of alcohol.

With beer in hand I stumbled laps around the venue, with the occasional wobbly shimmy on the dancefloor.

Pashing anyone who stood still long enough.

Or anyone who was too pissed to resist.

Reached a state of virtual sleepwalking.

And slumped against a wall.

Beer on dangerous angle.

Slowly spilling on my crotch.

Too tired and pissed to care.

Or to stop it.

But not too tired and pissed to go home.

Just one last bid.

And there he was.

Suddenly by my side.

@mr_regular_guy

I didn't say anything.

Just went the lunge.

He turned his face away.

That awkward moment.

"I'm straight" he said.

"Oh shit, sorry" I slurred.

Too pissed to wonder what he was doing there.

"But I'd like you to fuck me" he continued.

"Oh, so you're bi?" I said

"No, I'm straight. I just like to get fucked by guys every now and then."

"Can't do that if you don't kiss" 

"Oh, you can kiss me...just not here. Let's go to your place."

So we did.

We kissed.

Repeatedly.

And I fucked him.

Repeatedly.

He left as soon as he'd come.

Pretending to go to the bathroom.

Then sneaking out the front door before I'd realised what was happening.

And it all came flooding back as I saw the condom on the floor.

The condom I'd ejaculated in while fucking a straight man.

Kicking off my Mardi Gras weekend celebrating diversity.




#DNA Magazine


@urban_homo_dna


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#finale

I presumed it would be over soon.

Apparently not.

Nothing was gonna make this guy cum.

Not sure where his real dick was but it certainly wasn’t getting any action.

How does a man wearing a strap on dildo ejaculate?

I was about to find out.

All of a sudden he did this big flip.

So now he was on his back, me sitting on dildo.

A little painful but I felt sure we were closer to the final stage.

Hit me, he said.

Huh? Punch me.

Where??

In the gut.

I give a half-hearted punch.

His mid section is like a flesh toned rock formation.

Hurt my hand and he barely felt a thing.

No, really punch me. 

Hard.

So I did.

Really hurt my hand this time, but at least he registered something.

Keep doing it he commanded.

So I did.

Repeatedly.

Then he closed his eyes, threw back his head, started making this pathetic whimpering noise which lasted about 4 seconds during which time I noticed his microcock dribbling fluid like a faulty drinking fountain.

He then lay back for a micro nanna nap, awaking to lift me from his artificial manhood and reaching to finish me off.

It’s ok, I said.

You sure?

Positive.

Then he makes me a cup of tea.

Served it in the tackiest tea cup imaginable.

Complete with image of Charles and Di.

Another fairy tale gone wrong.

As I sip my Earl Grey, he tells me that he really enjoyed what we just did, but if I didn’t mind he wouldn’t give me his number because he prefers more masculine guys.

I hide relief and indignation.

Who are better endowed, he continues.

I choke on tea.

At least I’ve got my own.

But you’re cute, he says.

I put down my tea and hold up my pinky, squinting at as though measuring something in the distance, then glare at his crotch.

Then I remember roid rage and resist urge to make uncharitable remark.

Instead, I thank him for tea and for impaling me and leave with as much as dignity as possible, tripping over sleeping Lola on the way out.

Really need to get some real action.

Perhaps there’ll be a somewhat, um….larger….selection on Mardi Gras weekend.

Hope my bandaged hand won’t be an encumbrance. 

#DNA Magazine

@urban_homo_dna

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