Archive for the ‘LGBT’ Category

“..And God said “Let there be drugs!” and there was drugs, and drugs was gooooood!”

JCDo you drink every night, or most? Twice a week? I’ll begin this post, sanctimonious drinker, by pointing out that you have a governmentally approved addiction, you’re no better nor worse than any other addict.

If you can’t go to a party, club or dining room without a glass then you’re the same as me, only my fix is un-taxable (in the UK at least) and springs-forth from the Earth; modern civilisation is based on it, it has never killed anyone directly, but for some sordid, cynical reason it’s illegal.

Lend me your beers for a moment so that I can make them illegal. How would you feel if booze was, quite rightfully by current legislation, outlawed? You can buy alcohol from more shops than you can buy milk and water these days.

“What you faackin lookin at?”

The drunk mockney slurred as he walked in to the lamp post, after taking a thoroughly unbalanced swing  at me.

“I wasn’t looking at you, I was looking through you…” I calmly explain.

“Faakin Paki…faaack owff..”

He tries for another punch but this time falls flat on his face. I slowly kneel down beside him.

“I’m Egyptian actually, good luck with your liver.” I whisper like snow.

Why is it that a substance that causes people to lose their dignity, endlessly repeat themselves then get in to fights is completely legal and socially acceptable, but one that makes you happy, inspired and sleepy isn’t? What kind of a society accepts that above all else? It baffles me.

Of all the drugs I have ever used alcohol is the worst, hands down, no contest. Do we really need to poison ourselves in to amnesia when there are far softer, more enjoyable ways to accomplish the task, without the vomit, violence and depression?

Rant over. The truth is I’m jealous, that’s all.

I wish I got from drink what I get from green, but it simply doesn’t come close. I get a hangover before I finish my first drink and then it makes me feel like I’m dying. Lucky bastards, able to stroll down the road to any shop to get your fix where many a diasporic Arab will gleefully sell you your poison; they won’t touch the stuff themselves of course, like any good dealer. Please don’t be offended by the ‘A’ word, I am one.

It’s not just substances though, they pale into insignificance when compared with addiction to love, to people, and in turn addiction to others is nothing compared with addiction to God. Holy fuck does religion get you good!

Jesus ran through my veins, changing my brain-chemistry, disabling logic and reason, clouding my judgement; I made very poor decisions as a Christian – no sex for example. My addiction to JC was from birth. I’m a Christ-baby. During my childhood, religion was fun and colourful, church was where my best friends were, where I socialsed. It was soft and friendly, warm and innocent, just like McDonald’s once seemed. Goddamn, I’d kill for a Big Mac right about now..and a Coke.

As I became an adult I  ditched the institution but desperately clung-on to the faith. I outgrew the need for a dealer and went straight to the source. Jesus kept me safe from reality, he loved me even in my filth, he made me need him, or at least it felt that way, I’d never known anything else.

I’d snort a line of Savior in the morning, gum some Christ at lunch, then mainline some Redeemer at night. Mmm the warm buzz of forgiveness and acceptance. There’s no high that comes close.

I was once a slave to Christ. I’ve been a slave to love and desire. I’ve been drug’s bitch. Be wary of the things you need most in life.

God, I miss Jesus sometimes. I have been clean of religion for 4 years, almost to the day. De-conversion was not an easy process, it still isn’t. If I had realised I could actually have been  gay and Christian, life might not have been so hard these past years.

Ultimately, I have no doubt my life will now be all the fuller and sweeter for my sobriety. On good days I love the freedom that our ambiguous existence gives us, on bad days the world makes no sense at all, not one bit. They have AA for alcoholics, where is GA for those desperately trying to ditch their God-habbit? Maybe I’ll start a group.

I choose a life that is fully mine. I dream of a day when I am beholden only to myself.

Liebster Award!

Posted: January 27, 2014 in award, Bisexual, Gay, LGBT, LGBTQ, Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

LAWell, what a pleasant surprise!

The other day I was Liebster nominated by my new friend Adam – his blog is called In Search Of Adam I highly recommend anyone reading this check him out, he writes beautifully, humbly and honestly and I think I might love him. The way he talks about his journey through the extraordinary trials of his life is incredibly inspiring. I look forward to following him closely (not stalking this time I promise).

I also want to thank him because I was just about to say goodbye to this blog to just focus on writing offline, but I think I’ll stick around a while longer now.

So there are some rules which I must now follow:

The Rules of the Liebster Award

1.  Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.
2.  Answer the 10 questions given to you by the nominee before you.
3.  Nominate 10 of your favorite blogs with fewer than 200 followers and notify them of their nomination.
4.  Come up with 10 questions for your nominees to answer.

OK so rule one done (GO CHECK HIM OUT GUYS!), now for the questions..I have only found 5 new blogs to nominate so far, but I will add to the list over the next week or so.

1  If you could have any superpower what would it be?

Interesting. My inner pervert is drawn to invisibility, my inner bird to flying, but how could I pass-up the ability to read people’s minds? Then again telekinesis..this is hard..I guess regeneration would be a good one, like that cheerleader, but then I’d most likely end up locked in some fortress with the military performing tests on me, hourly, for eternity…fuck…

One power I already possess is that if I think about the big toe on my right foot it starts to dislocate! I am yet to find a use for such a burdenous power: with great toe comes great responsibility.

2. If you could kiss/make out with one celebrity, who would it be?

Is the Queen a celebrity? I know I am gay as Tom Cruise, but still, you would, wouldn’t you? (if Tom Cruise or his cult-captors are reading this – I’m joking of course!). I have had an undying crush on Russell Tovey for years, which is unlike me as he is actually gay! That rugby player that was on Strictly Come Dancing recently wouldn’t get kicked out of bed either..

3. What song should be your life’s anthem?

Hmm. Definitely ‘Go Do’ by Jonsi. I dare you not be invigorated and inspired by it.


4. What is the best gift you ever received?

Probably the Jabba the Hutt toy set from Star Wars when I was about 6 or 7. I got so excited I puked. He had a little monkey friend, it was detachable, and a torture pit. Amazing.

5. What is your dream job?

To write whilst living on my own hemp farm and animal sanctuary with a community attached to it, self sufficient (with nature’s help of course!), off the grid, free and happy. Whatever in life brings happiness, love and freedom is the right thing to do. You simply can’t put a price on freedom.

6. What do you miss the most about being a kid?

I miss the ability to find wonder in the world effortlessly, soberly, pure deviant innocence. I miss the unhindered belief in magic and unaffected personality I once must have had. I miss getting so tired from running round all day that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, Dad carrying me upstairs, my head on his shoulder, back when I was his little boy. I miss finding value in the smallest of things and beauty in the strangest of places. I miss life before society forced me to choose a box that turned out to be a closet.

7. What is the last movie or TV show that made you cry?

At the moment anything where two people love each other, or someone comes-out, literally anything, even Eastenders. I cried watching Amelie the other day because I would love life to be that colourful and for romance to feel that playful and real.  The last film that actually made me sob was Brokeback Mountain. That film changed my life, it was the very first time I had seen my actual story on-screen, it was the first movie that I identified with as a man, a gay man. It was devastating, a horrific vision of my future if I didn’t begin to accept myself. The journey was long, and is indeed on-going!

8. What was an experience that made you a stronger person?

I have spoken a lot about coming-out so I will choose something else. Moving to Japan for a year could perhaps be a good example, it certainly changed me forever and broadened all of my horizons. I think though I will go with quitting the corporate world for good so that I could write, make films, do nothing, have a breakdown, lose my faith, develop an anxiety disorder then come out the other side, slowly but surely. If I hadn’t taken the plunge, and it was only at the point that it was literally life or death, I would never have had the time to breakdown completely. Sometimes everything must go in order to see what is really there.

9. What is a pet peeve that you can not stand?

I really can’t stand breadcrumbs, especially from fresh, crusty bread, all over the work-top. I’ll happily clean up cat vomit, clogged-up sinks and filthy toilets, but breadcrumbs? I just can’t stand the bastards.

10. What is your favorite day of the year and why?

Valentines day. I used to hate valentines day due to my perpetual, terminal solitude and loneliness. I could barely make myself get out of bed on that particular day, the horror and weight of all the love in the world and my inability to scrounge even a line of it. February 14th 2011 all that changed. I decided that I didn’t need anyone else in order to celebrate love. I could be my own Princess.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked myself lovingly.

“I want to smoke weed, eat the worst things and watch the Simpsons..” I coyly replied.

“Sounds perfect, sweetheart” I beamed.

I had the best day with myself. No one knows how to please me like I do. No one can truly love me until I love myself. Every Valentines day I renew my vows, to myself, then treat myself like a Princess, finally taking myself by the hand to bed. I can’t wait!

The blogs I will nominate are:

Humblefoot

Be Your Own Hero

All these motherfucking feelings

Till He Comes Along

dark horse

And now for my questions:

1. What are you most scared of?

2. What do you like most about yourself?

3. What is your earliest memory?

4. Will you tell me a secret?

5. If you could transport yourself to any point in history when would it be and who would you be?

6. How similar are you now to who you were as a child?

7. Who do you most admire in the world and why?

8. Do you think there is anything out there? Aliens..God..?

9. What new skill/ability would you like to learn?

10. If you could be instantly fluent in any language which would it be and why?

Done..finally!!

Originally posted in April 2012.

I think each coming out story is as unique as the individual, aside from reaching the essential understandings - we all deserve to be free, equal human beings, we all deserve to love and be loved by whomever we choose, free from judgement from ourselves and others. The fact that we even have to discuss this and be ‘accepted’ is of course one of this life’s cruel absurdities but that’s a whole other issue.

The most interesting part of a coming out story for me is the point that the decision is made and the reason behind it. My final step was inspired by a documentary, a very simple one, it was called ‘The world’s worst place to be Gay’:

It’s not the best film in the world, and it had been shown on what I thought at the time was the worst TV channel on the planet, but it was the trigger I needed. I understood that there were people in this world who were  being persecuted and even killed for being gay, in this case by ‘Christians’. I had to do something about it, I knew that I could do something, I need to do something… It’s not that I hadn’t realised this before, it’s just that I hadn’t identified with it, but now as a gay man I felt their fear and pain and it was unbearable. It was a good enough reason. The thought of my parent’s potential grief was overshadowed by the need to do something for those who didn’t have the luxury of the choices I was taking so long to even make. Scott Mills set me free in a way.

As soon as I had made the decision it struck me as being incredibly warped that it had taken the plight of others to realise my own need for liberation. I had never even for a second thought that I deserved such a thing or saw it as a possibility. My struggles in this area defined me as a person, it was who I was…who would I be once fully out the closet? I looked at my reflection for some clues but couldn’t see beyond the tired eyes and puffy cheeks.

It was decided, I was really going to do this. I needed to set a date. It was October so I decided that we would have one more peaceful Christmas and that I would do it in the New year..maybe tell the brother and sister beforehand..not too beforehand though as don’t want it used as ammunition…I decided on 20th January 2012. It may well be the last year of human existence, so why the hell not?

I began to plan, I had a dream that I could find a way of dealing with my parents personal feelings and not their religious beliefs. I’d need to go back to my prison manual…Christians are obsessed with sex, the Bible isn’t so much when you actually know it. It was easy: God is love. Jesus didn’t say a word on the matter. Only anal sex is an abomination. Abomination means ‘against tradition’. Mixing fabrics is an abomination as is divorce, eating rabbits, eating river fish…the list goes on of course. The only thing that would change would be that I wouldn’t be lying to them anymore, they had always taught me to tell the truth.

The reason it was so important to attend to the religious matters so thoroughly was that my Dad was a Baptist Minister, and my Mum the devoted wife. I didn’t know how this was going to go, both my parents are also Egyptian and the mixture of blind faith and Arab passion can be quite a heady one. At best I imagined my Mum screaming, pulling her hair out and puking in my face whilst my dad prepared me for burning. I really didn’t know what to expect, I just knew how I needed to feel, I had to have compassion for them and compassion for myself. It was hard because I hated everything and everyone involved with the situation at that point.

I wouldn’t recommend anyone set a date too far ahead for these events, it nearly killed me. Time passed, very slowly, every time I saw my family and they pissed me off it was nearly spat in their faces. I knew I wanted to tell my siblings first but I also didn’t want to pressure myself, so I told myself the right moments would present themselves, which they did.

My sister has had her own struggles, severely bullied at school and then thrown out because they couldn’t deal with the situation. She struggled with my Mum as girls do, Dad spoiled her to make up for early mistakes. The usual. We were tidying her room one afternoon and she started crying to me about how hard life had been for her and that no one understood how it felt. I knew it was the right moment, I suppressed a gag and went for it.

“Life hasn’t been easy for me either you know..”

“Yes it has, look at all the places you’ve been and things you’ve done, anyway you’re stronger than me..”

“I’m Gay. I’m telling Mum and Dad on the 20th January..and I’m shitting it”

We talked for about 2 hours, she asked me if she could meet my boyfriend, I explained that he hadn’t reached my consciousness yet, she understood. Part of me felt relieved and part of me felt disgusted, it was the strangest feeling. I had set in motion a series of unstoppable events and my unconscious knew it.

My sister was taken by surprise which I didn’t expect. She told me that she had never considered it as I didn’t seem typically gay, I explained that there are just people in this world, we all act differently and it has no relation to where we stick our bits. She didn’t want to think about my bits, and I didn’t want that either. We laughed, hugged and she forgot about her problems for a little while. It felt good but I also felt naked.

My brain began to feel weird, like it was in a panic and angry with me. I was doing something that I thought I would never do, I had surprised myself and part of my mind was desperately fighting it.

Part 2.

It was now late November and it was time to tell my older brother. He had been my hero until I was 16, then something happened and he lost his appeal. I know now it was because I was unable to be myself around him and all those homophobic jokes he would tell over dinner. I went over to his one Saturday, giving myself a talk in the mirror before I left

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to mate, you do whatever you feel, no pressure – ok?”

It helped. Good to talk to yourself. Sometimes all you have is your reflection. I spent the day there with my brother, sister-in-law and five nieces and nephews (he really took that pressure off me!), it was nice. The kids went to bed and I knew my moment had come. Every time I went to say something I nearly threw up or laughed like a maniac.

“Ok, ok..Just leave the room, go to the loo, come back in and just say it…we have to say it…”

I sometimes refer to myself as ‘we’, not in the Royal way, more in a conscious/unconscious sense. I went, I came back, time slowed down, I felt sick and finally I said in a high nervous flutter

“I have something I need to tell you both, it won’t be a surprise, but basically I’m Gay”

I looked at them as if I had just asked a question and was waiting for a reply, they stared back at me with concern and fake disbelief. They knew, of course they did, but they didn’t realise I had been so open about it with others in my life. I explained that with all their fervent religious beliefs and the fact that I was never going to tell Mum and Dad I just didn’t think it was fair to tell them. We chatted for 4 hours, it was beautiful. He gave me a big bear hug and thanked me for telling him and said he was sorry that I didn’t feel I could have told him before. I got my big brother back that day, it felt really warm and light.

He asked me if I wanted him to be there when I told my parents, I said no, but thanks – and meant it.

Christmas arrived. I missed the annual heart-to-heart that I would usually have with my Mum on Christmas morning because I couldn’t bear to lie to her or thought I might let it slip. She missed me and it made me feel sad. It was a tense Christmas, I stayed over at my parent’s house for a couple of nights, on the last night I wandered round the house while they were all sleeping shuddering at the thought of all of it collapsing because of me. I looked at all our happy faces on display, knowing the pain behind the smiles and I wanted to smash them all, it all seemed like a lie.

“Just a couple of weeks to go mate, then it will all be over for better or worse, just a couple of weeks, we can do it…”

Of course we could, I’d already waited a lifetime.

Part 3.

The alarm goes off and I stare at the ceiling. It’s time to make the call, now before anything else gets in the way. Breathe..don’t forget to breathe, and don’t think too much, stupid.

“Hi Mum, I need to see you and Dad today, there’s something really important I need to tell you both”

Brief silence. Gulp, inhale.

“What is it? Tell me. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you, I’ll be there at 12. Bye Mum.”

It didn’t quite seem real, would this be the day of days? It was the 20th Jan 2012, and it had been a long time coming. Every time I thought about my parents reaction I shook, like a wet dog. Best not think too much. But what if I break her heart? I remembered a story about an Egyptian Aunt I never met who cried herself to death, or was it blind, or white hair? I didn’t want any of that for either of my parents, especially not Mum.

A week before ‘the date’ someone close to me asked me if I really had to do it. He said that, knowing the culture, it might kill my Mum and that it seemed selfish to him. It was hard at that stage to deal with the discouragement, but he did make me really consider why I was so sure about going ahead.

“It’s what’s best for me mate, for once I’m gonna do what’s best for me, if I can’t do that for myself, who will?”

We can spend the rest of our lives living a life that we never chose, to protect others from their own ignorance or we can stand proud and defiantly march out those closet doors. It didn’t matter how late in life it was happening, it was time for the lie to end.

I get up, shower, dress, trying to keep as calm as possible. It was like I was watching a film – a bleak European one, or Russian maybe.  What was I going to say to them? Would I say gay? Homosexual? ‘Don’t like girls’? No idea. Shit..no socks, only the Christmas ones, is that bad luck? I used to hold auditions for my underwear before special occasions or going on holidays, each potential brief or sock would perform and I would judge; I swear I invented the whole format. Today deserved something special but all I had was Simpsons at Christmas.

I leave the flat and get on the bus, I am suddenly aware that this will be the last closeted bus journey of my life, a tear comes to my eyes and I nearly lose it, it wouldn’t take much for this to turn in to a panic attack so I go back to thinking of nothing and breathing in blue. There’s the sea.

“Hello beautiful, wish me luck”

Having lived by the sea most my life she was a real presence to me, and I called her beautiful. Many tears, much laughter and even love had been expressed in front of her, so I was glad to have caught a glimpse through the filthy windows. The bus is slow and the passengers slower, there’s that smell of decay on them, gag. Seeya later suckers, I’m choosing life! Gag. The bus arrives at the top of my parents road, I get off and the panic starts to set in and I allow it this time. Heart beat races, hard to catch my breath, vision narrows.

“Maybe I’ll die now and I won’t have to do this”

It would have been a relief but also a waste I guess. With each step down the road I calm myself further until I reach the front door in a Zen-like state, which quickly turns in to anger when no one answers. What was wrong with these people? Not only had they ruined my life they also wanted to make this as difficult as possible.

I won’t lie, anger was helpful, it certainly trumped panic and fear. After 5 minutes my Dad answers, he’d been out in the garden, Mum wasn’t back from shopping yet. I could tell he was trying to distract me with things, he was clearly worried. As I look at his greying hair, tired face and kind eyes I suddenly feel nothing but care and compassion for him, the same happens with my Mum the second I see her. I felt sad and sorry for all of us, none of us had chosen this.

Mum was trying to fill my bag up with toiletries and food, maybe the last I would ever receive, at least for a while. Dad was trying to make me some food.

“Mum, Dad, get a cuppa and let’s go talk”

They do just that, solemnly but quickly. We sit and there it is suddenly, the moment that I thought would never be.

“Mum, Dad, there’s no easy way to say this but I’m Homosexual, before you react I haven’t got a boyfriend that I’m going to suddenly introduce to you and the main reason I’m telling you now is I don’t want you finding out from anyone else.”

It was done. I don’t know why I said homosexual, I guess I didn’t want them confusing an identity with a sexual preference. I braced myself for vomit and fire but none came. They sat there calmly, my Dad took his glasses off and a few tears trickled down his face, my Mum did the same. There was a strange feeling of relief in the room. I decided to carry on.

“I kept it from you as long as I could, I prayed to be healed harder than anyone has ever prayed for anything, It’s not been an easy life so far. I’ve been depressed, I’ve taken so many drugs, I tried to change and be with girls thinking it was a sickness that could be healed. I tried it all. But this is me, and I am happier now than I have ever been, all that has changed is that I am no longer lying to you, everything else is the same.”

I explained about the documentary and the plight of the gay Africans, my plans to write to all the churches and Christian organisations in the UK to challenge them to face up to what was being done in their name. I told them not to cry for me because I had cried enough for all of us. They just listened, sometimes looking at me with tears in their eyes sometimes looking at the floor.

It was time for them to speak. It turns out that the morning phone call had really scared them and they had imagined the worst. Apparently gay was nowhere near the worst thing they could imagine, it came far after cancer, aids, murder, baby…and many others. It became very clear that the tears were for me and how hard life had been for me, not for anything else. It seems that they loved me as much as their faith, I was astounded.

I told them that I didn’t mind who they did or didn’t tell, that was completely up to them, but there was one rule – they must not pray for me to be healed, that would be disrespectful.

“But you know son, God can do anything..”

“I know Mum, he could turn me in to an elephant if he wanted to, but he hasn’t”

We talked for 2 hours, they asked questions, we gently discussed what the bible says and how unclear it is, and how this is about love and life not just sex. They tried as hard as they could to understand and didn’t lay a single bit of guilt on me. That was it. They thanked me for being honest with them, we all hugged and they carried on as normal, my Mum even catching a bus back with me. But hang on! Why no shouting or anger? Why don’t they hate me? Can’t they even pretend to be a bit disgusted?? Nothing. BEAT ME! It turns out I was the one with the problem. It’s only when all the excuses are gone you see who you really are and how you feel about yourself. There was work to do.

I got off the bus, the first openly gay bus journey of my life, I laughed and cried. I became a walking cliche, it was light and free and confusing. This wasn’t the end, but it was a pretty incredible beginning.

I came out to my Parents two years ago today. I thought I would follow in the footsteps of other esteemed bloggers and use it as an opportunity to re-post the three-part entry that I wrote in the early days covering the event.

To anyone who is considering this big step know this: there is no set age, time or place to come out, it happens when it happens, for me it was when I was 31.

We all deserve a life of freedom and acceptance, firstly from ourselves, then from others. It may be the hardest thing you ever do, it may be easier than you think, there are no guarantees. Be strong and know yourself, become your own personal hero and an inspiration to others. Change this world by changing the world around you. The best I can do is simply share my story and celebrate my first two years completely out of the closet.

Come out mate, because you can. As the the world grows slowly darker we must not become complacent in our relative freedom, a freedom that was passed down to us only recently. We may well see Gay marriage legalised  across the Western world soon, but what about our brothers and sisters in Uganda? Russia? I stand in solidarity with those who don’t have the choice or relative luxury that we do. We must stand with them and for them, some battles have been won but the war is long and seemingly endless. Let’s not become complacent.

I stand in solidarity with women in their universal struggle for equality, we share the same prejudice and foe. We must fight for our neighbour’s rights, as animals it makes evolutionary sense, we need each other. As the rights of those around us are dismantled it is easy to bury our heads in the sinking sands of fear and indifference, but we must fight together, on each other’s behalf, or their will be no one to fight with us when we are the target.

If you are heterosexual and you know that someone around you is struggling to come to terms with their sexuality, please go out of your way to comfort and reassure them. If you have a family member that you suspect may be gay but your family doesn’t talk about it, how about showing them that it’s fine by you, even indirectly? Make it clear that you believe in love, freedom and equality for ALL. Be a comfort to someone living in pain and fear.

We must not be used as a commodity of political diversion, we must stand up for our rights, but we cannot do it alone. The whole of society must stand up for the ideals that many have died and are dying for; whilst clutching to our possessions, our property it’s easy to forget that most of the world has nothing, that our wealth is based on the poverty of the masses. The least we can do is be aware and take our part.

It’s two years since I came out to my family, things may not have exactly gone to plan, it may not have been easy, but my life is no longer a lie, I know who I am and I feel strong. Please be there for someone this year that really needs you, please show the world that you will not tolerate prejudice or oppression of any kind.

Now please excuse me, it’s time to eat my rainbow-coloured penis cake.

Tim Part 4.

Posted: October 29, 2013 in Bi, Coming out, Gay, homosexuality, LGBT, love, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

I’m so bored of tragedy, so sick of heartache. This is the last sad story I want to tell. You have to make room in your heart for someone new, for love, for life; ghosts take up a surprising amount of space and time.

I’m angry, really fucking enraged, it’s grown since I started writing this but the show must go on, the curtain must fall. Even anger is attachment. I know I have to let go, I’m almost there but the truth is that I now want him to suffer, I want him to feel just a fraction of the pain that I have felt, that he caused. It might not be the most evolved of reactions, just the current one, the human one.

I want to punch him in the heart so it bleeds. I want him to feel it. I want him gone.

I’d pace up and down until midnight, that’s when his pizza-delivery-round would end. We devised a system using our newly acquired analogue mobile phones: If he was coming I’d receive a missed call of two ‘rings’ to be replied to with one, that is if I was still up and it was OK for him to come over. I was always up, It was always OK. This is how I mostly spent my year-out after college, before Uni.

We’d stay-up half the night watching Live TV, Bravo or just those girls gyrating to phone calls from the morbidly obese. We’d talk about everything and nothing, mostly nothing.

Emily eventually left him, reluctantly, she immediately regretted it; I had never been happier of course. It was 2001 and I was at Uni now, he came straight up to see me the day that it happened, he played his usual deviant tricks and I clapped my hands. My happiness was short-lived however, he met Carla one week later, she was much smarter than the last. We loved and hated each other so deeply it was grotesque. She got what I wanted, I got what she wanted, no one was satisfied but him. The day he called to tell me about Carla I had to pretend a friend had died to explain my morbid tone. I was just heartbroken and somehow knew this one would stick.

Uni was a great respite, I could fake a life on both sides, it was over far too soon, so abruptly. As I returned to Brighton so did my desperation, it was getting harder to fake the smiles and mask the jealousy, especially around her. I despised her. She was such a lovely person which only deepened my hatred.

One day I popped over to show Tim a new computer game that I had found  called ‘Slut Fighters’ where big-boobed pixelated whores would fight for the chance to be bedded by the ‘King Dong’. The truth is that I had waited for three days to see him, so when he finally called I came running. I knew he’d love the game, he’d have to be impressed this time.

As I walked in to the house I quickly realised that Carla was there which immediately filled me with a murderous rage, he’d assured me we’d be alone this time. I was about to walk out, but Tim grabbed my arm and told me not to be  a prick, that it was fine, she was in a good mood.

After scowling at him for some time I popped my head round the dining room door, walked in tentatively, then said hello to Carla, she was washing some dishes at the sink with her back to me. I saw her recoil at the sound of my voice, then a shudder that seemed to convulse her whole body, brief stillness, then she smashed all the dishes. After a moment and some heavy breaths she came over and gave me a big hug, her hands were bleeding, they left a mark where she perhaps would have rather stabbed me.

Tim was upstairs.

Time passed, nothing changed.

Both Tim and I were mutual friends with a guy called Martin, he asked us both to be best men at his wedding. Martin had been called by God to go to Bible college (he failed his ‘A’ Levels and didn’t know what to do, so the church, seeing his vulnerability, stole him). Tim and I decided to take Martin and his saintly posse to a big ‘school disco’ night in Hammersmith, for the Stag do. He said that we could take-over a spare dorm on the campus so we could stay out all night.

The second we entered the club I had two girls in-tow, as was customary, I’d picked them based on Tim’s preferences seeing as I had none. It wasn’t noted by him unfortunately, they were promptly dismissed so they could return to their slaggery. I watched him the whole night, I wanted him, he saw me looking at one point, he stared back blankly then looked down.

That early morning we stumbled back to the dorm, the other guys had passed-out in the various hallways, only me and Tim were awake. We sat on our individual beds for a while chatting, until there was a silence that I will remember for the rest of my life. After what felt like an age he spoke softly, with a slight quiver that I had only heard once before.

“You love me don’t you?”

I lay there stunned, wounded, exposed. I said nothing.

“I’d let you suck me, you know? I don’t know if I’d enjoy it but I’d like to think I would..I’d do that for you..”

I mumbled something then pulled the covers over my head as I disappeared in to the depths of my own shame. I should have gone over there, I should have just done it and got it out of the way, it would have saved me the endless lust, longing that I would feel for the next decade. Instead I did nothing.

There was a reason I had only been attracted to the straight ones, it was a form of self-protection, and denial of course. They were never supposed to let me in, I should never be allowed, it could never be OK, This didn’t mean I was gay did it? I couldn’t be gay. Anything but gay. But him knowing that before me? Devastating.

How could he have known something that had been so obscured from me for so long? What did it mean? Did I really love him? It was all suddenly so fucking clear. Down, down, I sunk in to an emotional coma.

The next morning we both acted as if nothing had been said, neither of us ever mentioned it again, I had hoped that he was admitting something to me, that he would come to me perhaps over time, but nothing else ever happened. I’ll never know his true feelings. The days following the wedding were the darkest that I had ever experienced, up until then. It was too much for my already wounded psyche. I broke down, completely.

It’s 10 years since I ran away to Japan to get away from him, from us, from me. I ran as far as I could, but you catch up with yourself eventually. I’m the Usain Bolt of misery. In Japan I found myself with a guy, fell in love and for the briefest of times forgot about Tim. Since then I have re-lived my story so many times, through so many straight guys it makes me sick to think of it. Each time I would briefly forget, until they showed they were no match for him.

I distanced myself after returning from Japan, I even told him that I had tried gay sex, he was intrigued but nothing more. He would visit a few times a year, more out of loyalty than kinship, I tried many times to talk about the past but he would just switch off or plead ignorance. I could always see the fear in his eyes, the same fear I once had. Two years ago he had a child with Carla, and I knew then it really was the end. During those two years I have come out to myself over and over again, to my family and to the world. I needed him physically gone so that I could live. Now it’s time for the ghost to leave.

There is no lonelier place than the closet, especially with him standing by the door, holding it shut, peeking in. One by one we come out to change the world around us, to try and survive whilst others would take away our love, our freedom, our lives. One by one we return to innocence, back to the beginning, to the child with his eyes wide and heart open.

Next time he’ll be worth it, I swear. My name is Pete and I am a love addict.

I can still remember his scent, a unique mixture of whatever detergent his Mum used and Tim, for men. Once when he was on holiday with Emily, the selfish bitch, I found an excuse to go round to his place, his Mum welcomes me in with smiles and fairy dust. I tell her I have to get some things from his room, so she leaves me to it.

I sit on his bed then slowly get in, I can smell him instantly, it sends shivers down my spine and blood to all the wrong places. I jump out, catching myself briefly, wondering how far away I am from complete obsession, for Tim. Looking down I can see the clothes that he had worn on a night out a few days before. He’d looked so goddamn sexy that night. At one point he’d actually grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch. He now always made a point of showing me his dick when he was drunk.

Before I knew what I was doing I’d wrapped myself up in his clothes, breathing him is as deeply as I could, my hand sliding down to finish the job. As I lay there staring at the massive Blur poster on his ceiling, pants down, soiled, ashamed, I realised that something wasn’t quite right.

It’s New Year’s Eve 1998.

“What the fuck we gonna do now then?”

“Run, mate!”

We’d been ejected from a rather mediocre club earlier on in the night because Tim had managed to get too pissed too early. Emily told him to go fuck himself, knowing he would only get worse; this was enough for him to get kicked-out by a bouncer who clearly had ambitions of filling the vacancy. Bouncers were cocks in the 90′s. I followed him out, his trusty dog.

We decided that we would walk back along the seafront so he could sober-up; it’s there that we were mugged by a group of sub-human homogenised youth.

They mainly mugged me, I suspect it’s because I looked foreign, like. Halfway through the mugging I smashed a bottle over one of their heads, which threw them briefly. As they realised what I had just done they reached for what we assumed were their knives, needless to say, we ran.

“Faster, you fat fuck!”

“They kicked-me-in mate, fuck you, and thanks for the support!”

“I beat the shit outta that one

“What, the invisible one? Cheers ‘mate’”

“Shut the fuck up and run, you spastic!”

He was right, about the running at least, the truth is that there were far too many of them for him to have done much anyhow.

We ran until we threw up, which was far enough but an alarmingly short distance. We both collapse on to a bench facing the sea as it begins to thunder. He sees a tear run down my face but instead of taking the piss, he wraps his coat around me and strokes my leg softly. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. To this day it’s perhaps the most tender moment of my life.

“It was pretty cool when you smashed that bottle over that prick’s head.”

Sniff, shudder.

“Cheers mate”

“You wanna stay over at mine? Got the place to myself, you don’t want your folks to see you like this..”

“Yeah that would be cool, cheers mate”

He helps me up then we stumble back to his. Once we get there he throws me a towel and some clothes, he picks some up for himself and we head to the bathroom. I look in the mirror to assess the cosmetic damage, it’s pretty bad, he jumps in the shower.

He doesn’t pull the curtain across this time, he just showers in front of me. It wasn’t intended to be sexual I don’t think, but it was certainly intimate. As the water tricked down his torso, finding the most prominent path, I couldn’t help but look and admire. He didn’t say a word.

He finishes off, then wipes-up slowly, loosely.

“Your turn mate, jump in”

I hesitate at first, checking I’m not giving anything away, then strip, it’s agony.

“Ahh fuck, that really hurts..”

“Come here..”

He helps me get my shirt off, then I do the rest. I shower in front of him in the same way. At first he only looks slyly, but by the time I was washing the nethers he was looking as freely as I had.

As we dress and leave the bathroom the banter returns.

“Thought you said yours was bigger than mine, because it’s brown an’ all!”

“You haven’t seen it hard mate, you can never tell when it’s soft, I’ve seen it on the net..”

“yeah right, mines much bigger than yours..”

Fuck you mate, get it hard then come compare..”

I was mostly joking but partly hoping, he squints at me briefly then runs upstairs to his bedroom, I follow, my heart pounding like that day once, at church.

He puts some porn on without asking, we both sit there for a few minutes, motionless. He’s the first to unzip, I mirror him, soon enough we are both exposed and working. After a few tense moments the mood lightens.

“Mine’s still bigger though, look!”

He stands up and so do I, close enough so that we can compare but far enough so that we aren’t quite touching. For a few minutes the porn disappears and it’s just me and him. I can feel his breath on my neck, he’s so close. At one point it’s almost as if he wants to kiss me but instead he sits down and furiously finishes off the job. I do the same. Legs touching, eyes ahead.

After his breath returns he begins hurriedly cleaning up, then dressing, whilst not looking at me at all. After a minute or so he stops then turns abruptly.

“Don’t ever mention this to anyone, OK? Not even to me..”

Sledgehammer to the heart and balls. Pause, deep breath.

“Same goes for you, mate”

We both went to bed, separately, in silence. I was up the whole night thinking about what had happened, thinking about him. I didn’t stop wanking about it for days, months, years.

Things were about to get very complicated indeed.

Tim Part 2.

Posted: September 30, 2013 in Bisexual, Coming out, Gay, LGBT, love, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

Have you ever dreamt you are moments away from marriage, only you don’t know the bride/groom? The terror. I used to be plagued by them. Not surprising seeing as my Parents’ marriage was semi-arranged and my Dad is an Evangelical minister.

Every time I had that dream, Tim would be there, in the front-row, crying. Once he called out for me, once he ran up and saved me.

It’s 1997.

“I’m not straight..”

My heart almost stopped. Gulp.

“I mean, I don’t think anyone is like, 100% straight, we all did ‘stuff’ when we were kids..”

I didn’t do anything with him, who did he do this ‘stuff’ with? So jealous. So many questions, maybe this could be my chance..

“You fucking gaylord!”

I don’t know why I said it, actually, I do now, but not then. Then I wanted to die. Looking back I was the most homophobic person I have ever known. Not outwardly, no, others could be gay that was fine, but me? Never! I’m not sure I have words enough to explain how much I didn’t want to be gay.

It was becoming harder to deny my urges. I simply  couldn’t keep my eyes from straying to his crotch, like, all the time. I look him in the eyes, he blushes, then punches me quite hard on my right arm.

“Nah, fuck off! As if! Of course I’m not a gaylord, you know I only like girls, yeah? Just saying that people do stuff, ya know, when they’re kids..”

It’s true, some ridiculous percentage of kids will have played some kind of naked game with those of the same gender, before society steps in to threaten them in to boxes with pink armbands.

“Ah yeah I remember when you tried to get me to mess around with you when we were younger! You little queer! Only kidding, I know what you mean. Who did you ‘play’ with anyway?”

My voice was all trembled and weak, my legs were shaking and my heart was now pounding so hard i could barely hear myself speak. He turns as red as a stop sign then clears his throat a little.

“Remember Johnny?”

“Fat John?”

“Nah, not fats! Ozzy John..”

“Ah yeah, him? You could have done better mate..”

He seems relieved as he tells me what he had done as a child, what almost every child does yet grows to be ashamed of and sometimes despise.

I feel it’s time to own-up myself, maybe this could bring us closer together?

“You know, I did a similar thing too mate..before I came to Brighton..with a friend..”

“I knew it! You fucker! I knew you did, you told me something..once..”

We compared notes then vowed silence on the matter. We were now bound by our mutual secret, but that would be the last time he would ever acknowledge being anything other than completely straight. We were about to turn 17.

We both picked up the sports equipment, packed up the hall then left the Church, as we did twice a week, every Sunday. We were being trained/groomed to be youth leaders. Church is a hotbed of fraternisation.

In the spring of 1997 disaster struck. Tim met his first girlfriend – Emily. She was a cute little thing with all the right bits, apparently. In retaliation I also acquired a female, a superior model, then began my first charade. Her name was Becca. She was beautiful, sexy even. I was a willing face for a beard, and she had Daddy issues. I regret how I treated her, but I won’t feel guilty anymore.

I hated Emily for taking Tim from me, that she had unlimited access to his body. She hated me for having unlimited access to his heart, we should have swapped places but that didn’t suit Tim, unfortunately. I didn’t stop for one second to think about Becca’s fragile heart, or body for that matter, only my facade. A facade does not have a conscience, it functions like a corporation.

Becca loved me, she used to stare at me, adoringly, for no reason at all. I hated it.

“What are you looking at?”

“You..”

She would giggle seductively like the Cadbury’s Caramel bunny. I wanted to smash her face-in. She was so beautiful.

“Stop looking at me like that, it makes me feel weird..”

I didn’t have the words when I was 17.

“But I love you! Don’t you love me? Look how cute I am!”

She would fake-cry then wrap her arms around me, I could  barely conceal my repulsion, the dread as her hand slid down my shorts, my daily exam, it was only a matter of time before I failed.

“No..we have to get ready, got to meet the others soon..”

Suspicion, raised eyebrows, disapproval.

“Which others?”

“You know which others..”

Stern voice, frustration, anger.

“Tim?”

“Yeah, and the others..”

“Tim, Tim, Tim! Can’t you go without him for one day?”

Pause.

“I love you too you know..”

Chemical warfare should always be a last resort. It generally works.

Misery gets passed down endlessly unless we are mindful and honest. I hope she is blogging now. I hope she is happy.

I had sex with Becca before Tim had sex with Emily, just so I could brag about it and hopefully undermine him. I used to tell him mine was much bigger, because I was brown, which was complete nonsense of course.

“Mate, will you get me some condoms?”

“Get them yourself!”

“Please mate, please!”

“Get them yourself, pussy!”

“Come on, I’ll let you watch if you do..”

That’s all he had to say. I went in and got the worst condoms I could find, pleasure wise, then handed them over reluctantly.

“It better be a good show!”

“You’re not allowed to wank though, not when looking at me, OK?”

“Up yours! As if I’d be looking at you anyway!”

I ran home, connected up to Tim’s webcam and watched the whole thing. I wanked more that day than any other in my life, and of course it was all for him, on him, in him.

I had never seen him completely until this time, I was not disappointed, only I became more desperate for him than ever, the power-balance had changed, he was now firmly in control.

Tim Part 1.

Posted: September 19, 2013 in Bi, childhood, Coming out, Gay, LGBT, love, Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

It’s been just under two years since I last saw Tim, in person; he’s often present in my mind. My addiction to him is as strong as that of any drug, but giving up has been far harder, with never-ending withdrawal. I crave him every single day.

We met at church Tim and I. He was always small, slight, but determined. He had a strange, cute face, like some kind of baby animal, maybe a seal. His eyes were so green, they’d put spring leaves to shame. I could lose myself in those eyes, I did lose myself. I never found anyone big enough to fill his tiny shoes.

I’m not sure how to write this one.

In another world we probably would have been together. What a cliche, but it feels true. I know lots of people say things like this, but I’m certain that he loved me, or at least he wanted to, either way – I loved him more deeply than anyone had ever loved. I hated him so fiercely he could feel it from the other side of the world, I know he could, did, I mean, I wanted him to, it felt that strong.

It’s possible he didn’t feel a thing.

It’s so fucked that I will never know what he really felt or thought, whether the years of dedication meant any more to him than servitude or life-support. I’m not alone am I? Did someone ever steal your heart so completely that you lost your mind? I still feel lost sometimes, and insane.

I used to stay over at his house when we first moved to Brighton in 1990, we were 10 back then. It was the first time I had experienced houses that had more than just functional rooms. They were so tidy, such overwhelming order. It was bright, the colours all matched and complimented; it smelt like peaches and potpourri. The only thing my family did better was food, by a light-year.

His family did stuff together, activities, fun things and none of it seemed ironic at all. I remember scanning all the photos hung fondly on the dining-room walls. Such enviably sickening montages of happy holidays to Norway or Australia, all smiles and contentment. They just seemed like the perfect family, but more than that – they were interested in me. I was so attention starved that I couldn’t help but get swept along by them.

Did I want to be white as well as straight when I was younger? I guess the white/straight/male world is a little easier than the brown/gay/sometimes ambiguous one. Either way, it’s noted.

I loved Tim’s Mum, so soft and kind, almost ethereal, I thought she was the nicest, kindest woman in the world. She would make me toasted cheese sandwiches with mayonnaise and we’d chat about things, all kinds of topics, she engaged me in a way that no one else had. Often as we chatted, the Carpenters would be playing softly in the background, or perhaps the Moody Blues. The truth is that I wanted her to be my Mum, I felt so safe there, like a child probably should but I rarely had.

It was like they had a glow in their home and their hearts that we simply didn’t have. I didn’t understand it; it all seemed normal yet completely alien. I was standing outside in the cold, pressed against their warm window whilst they waved at me from the open fire.

It’s only now I have remembered and made sense of the masses of pharmaceuticals in the bathroom, the bedroom, kitchen and even in the secret space under the stairs. Even I can manage an ethereal glow, given the right medication.

When we were about 11, I remember Tim suggesting we get naked together and mess around, as kids do, it was probably phrased as some game at the time. Having been caught-out a year or so before by my Dad I reluctantly declined. There would be more offers in the future, but spread over some years, the complexities becoming deeper as age and society raped us of our innocence.

We didn’t see each other much outside church between the ages of 12 and 15, different friends and interests. I’d been tied to James for a while at this point, but as things soured with him I found myself drawn back to my oldest friend, Tim; he had grown up nicely, in the areas that mattered.We became inseparable once more.

One night we both admitted to each other that we regularly wanked, up to three times a day in winter and up to six in the summer, then divulged our preferred stimulus. The best he could do was a porno mag he found in the park, hidden like an elephant under the bed.

“Have you not seen the Internet yet?”

“What the fuck’s an internets?”

I kid you not, that was the reply, it was the earlyish Nineties though and most people had not heard of the Internets, to be fair.

“Mate! It’s got all the porn in the world on it!”

“Do what?! No Way! What on the computer like?”

“Yeah, look!”

It would now seem like a piss-take; the cock-filled woman took an age to appear in her full VGA glory. It was the most erotic ten minutes of my life, line by line we became more and more excited. I looked across, it appeared Tim now had a one-man festival going on in his shorts. Mine was pretty much the same. We looked and giggled.

It was at that point that the obsession with his body began, that exact image has etched itself in my memory as my first consciously sexual thought followed by a definite impulse. This was the only time, other than when he was drunk years later, that we both looked at each other equally.

He looked at me, I looked at him, anything was possible.

He looked like some kind of filthy angel, piercing blue eyes, legs spread – jeans on, for now.

I’d met him on top of a mountain in Arizona, we had both turned up to film the same family living in the Navajo/Hopi reservation on Big Mountain. He instantly admitted that he had never filmed a thing in his life, I immediately offered all future footage, my total love and devotion and perhaps a hand job in the outhouse; he accepted the footage, I could work on the rest.

It was strange to bond over a genocide, especially one the ‘Free World’ has barely even acknowledged. As the Grandmother, 91, showed us how far she has to travel to get clean water, reenacting a syphoning method that would shame even the most advanced of scallywags, I couldn’t help but notice how boy-like he was. Very chatty, tall, rugged, God..I could fall for this one.

As the once meth-addicted daughter interpreted slowly for her Mother, I noticed him staring at me. I was almost certain he blushed, my reaction was somewhat more subterranean. It was a very strange situation, was it wrong to be hard in a Grandmother’s hogan?

About a month before this I had been asked to accompany some friends on the trip, they own a Native American (themed) shop here in Brighton, I was to be the designated camera guy. It’s strange because I had actually sold all my camera equipment in a fit of change some months before, certain that I would never come back to it. My Native-American-British friends stepped-in and bought my kit, perhaps with some foresight. When asked to go I felt slightly conflicted, after all I had opted out of that career, should I be so easily swayed back in to a role that had taken me so long to shed?

I don’t think I really made a conscious decision to go, rather I went with the alleged flow, which was surprisingly Zen of me. On the lead-up to the trip I began to question my sanity, I was still dealing with the remnants of an anxiety disorder and had no idea what I would be doing, or where – for three weeks in the baking-hot sun.

Either passivity or determination led me there, I’m not sure which. By the time I found myself crying on an airplane it was of course too late. I had been here before. As I popped my second traquiliser of the flight, tears reluctantly streaming down my face then in to my ‘beef bourguignon’, I hoped for the best but feared the worst, the reality would be somewhere in-between.

Once the filming had been completed for the day, and by completed I mean staged (the term ‘documentary’ is relative after all), we sat down for lunch in the Grandmother’s small house. We all ‘ummmmed’ with audible delight at the first meal of the day, served at 2 pm. It turns out that meal times and portions are not universal.

After the meal we parted. Before leaving, he told me that he lived near Gallop where we would be the following week to purchase jewelry for the Brighton shop, and asked if we could meet up to transfer the footage. Realising that the transfer would need to take place in our hotel room I gladly agreed. It was at this point that the fantasies started.

I wanted him. I thought it might be a safe and opportune moment to exercise my powers of attraction, it was time to ‘Secret’ me up some cock. I set my intention, tested it out in the shower each morning, then again in the evening, until the day finally came. As my companions set out for their daily jewelry acquisition I toyed with the various seating options in the hotel room, settling with me perched on the bed and him on the massive wooden chair that looked like a wagon.

He arrives with six beers and a motorbike helmet, I sit him down and we begin to chat, he’s incredibly chatty, which makes a nice change. We start talking about relationships, he tells me about his girlfriend and I tell him I’m gay.

“What? No. Really? Cool, man. I have lots of gay friends actually..”

It doesn’t surprise me one bit, although I had no idea gay people actually existed in Arizona. I smile.

“Well that’s because you’re a very attractive, masculine man who likes to chat..you never been tempted to try then?”

I laugh, he looks at me then smiles slyly.

“Well..sometimes I have felt like I should try? like I owe it to them or something? But I have never really wanted to..”

“I never do anything I don’t want to, well rarely..but let me be completely honest – I have been wanking about you day and night since I last met you and rather than hide that from you, and the fact that I am trying to seduce you right now, I thought I’d just let you know..”

“Well that’s very honest of you Pete..I don’t know what to say..”

He blushes and downs his current beer, I feel free.

“All you have to say now are all the things you have never told anyone, I mean your darkest secrets, We will probably never see each other again so why not just be completely, unashamedly honest?”

He giggles like a boy briefly then scratches his chin, I light a cigarette and smoke it out the hotel window. I decide that I should start the honesty.

“Last week I nearly strangled a woman with a solar-light recharging cable..I mean, I didn’t , and I don’t think I would have but the woman hadn’t stopped talking for three fucking days, we were at 9,000 ft altitude and I was very dehydrated..she demanded that I help her set up the light for her and for one murderous moment it nearly went round her neck..”

“Shit man, what happened?”

“I hugged her instead, but it was a hateful hug..”

He laughs then clears his throat.

“Last year I got so crazy, and I mean fuckin’ loony tunes man, that I had to throw my laptop in the bath and fill it up with coke..”

“How come?”

“Just because I lost it..much better now though, and no one ever knew, I was just so sick of the emails and Facebook, you know?”

“Yeah mate, I know..”

We chatted for hours, we traveled the world, I told him all my filthiest secrets and he did the same, we laughed more than either of us had for a very long time. Eventually we did some work, once completed we returned to the confessional.

“So man, do you feel nothing for girls now, like if there was some hot fuckin’ chick offerin’ it to you right now, nothing?!

“I can appreciate beauty, and if I rub my cock up against most things it will get hard, but I reckon the best I could manage with a girl now is the equivalent, pleasure-wise, of a mediocre wank..”

He laughs so much he cries.

“You make me fuckin piss myself..let me try and say that in your cool British accent….’a medicore wank’”

The laughing ends and there is a brief, rare moment of silence. I look him in the eyes then smile.

“Can I see you naked? I don’t need to have sex with you, although that would be amazing, but I want to get the fantasy right at least..”

He looks back at me frowning slightly at first, slowly fading bright red, his blue eyes glinting like a ‘manga’ character from some fucked-up Japanese cartoon. Looking down he slowly undoes his jean buttons, slides them off, shuffles out then sits there in his underwear. His legs were even more impressive than I had imagined, he was rugby personified.

Next his top comes off revealing the perfect amount of chest hair, he then jumps up and puts his hands on his hips.

“Ready?” He asks cheekily, I nod enthusiastically; within a flash he is standing naked in the middle of the hotel room, it’s a beautiful sight. He turns round wiggling his hips, I can barely contain myself, in fact I am not containing myself at all.

It was like all my birthdays, Christmases, Hanukkahs and Ramadans come at once. Fade to black as I move down slowly.

novaSat at my desk I looked out of the window as the Suntory sign reluctantly flickered to life, I knew the next lesson would begin in two minutes; sigh, grunt, kick. All the others had a free period, I hated being penalised for being the best English instructor on the 13th floor, the only reward the Japanese could offer me was more work. A blimp passes the Nova tower, advertising what appears to be pedophilia, it carries my attention with it until it disappears in to the dusk.

Gazing across the polluted Osaka skyline I found it hard to remember life back home; so easy to forget what you were running away from, too easy perhaps. As Big Ben signals the start of the next lesson I see the French guy sat opposite me. Thick tree-trunk legs, separated enough to display a very pleasing bulge. I always started with the bulge – crotch, eyes, arse was the standard assessment. His shirt was black, tight-fitting, open more than usual at the neck - verging on chest, I could see Christ dangling freely in his hair.

Some people are disgustingly good-looking, Fabien was vomit-inducingly handsome. At the time I was reluctantly bisexual, but this man had momentarily gayed me, I would have let him do anything to me, just about. I catch his blue eyes and questioning smile just as my lesson begins, I nearly piss myself with embarrassment.  A Japanese student appears on my screen, I adjust my hair and tent, smile broadly then turn on the camera.

“Good evening! My name is Pete, what is your name?”

I offer my hands to the camera, which are now appearing on the student’s TV screen somewhere outside Toyko, this was cutting-edge multimedia teaching a la 2003.

“Erm my name is Izumi..nice to meet you Pete!”

“Nice to meet you too Izumi..”

Smiles and laughter, I look over to the sexy amphibian and notice that he has his hand near his crotch and is looking directly at me smiling coyly, it’s almost too much to handle and I freeze. The student notices.

“Pete, hello? Is there some problem? You aren’t moving..”

I pretend that there is a technical hitch then carry on with the lesson, today it’s about shopping. It was an easy job, a maximum of eight forty-minute lessons per day, although often it would only be six or less. The free periods would be spent in the ‘refresh room’ with the other purple tags, we were the bottom rung of the brothel, the language whores. Our immediate overlords were the green tags, westerners that had been in Japan a little too long, they bridged the gap between purple and blue. The blue tags were Japanese.

“OooooKaaaaay…”

We were taught to use Japlish, a combination of English words with Japanese gesture. Saying “OoooooKaaaaay” whilst making the OK hand gesture always signaled the start of a new exercise. I hated doing it, it made me feel like dying, but the fat Irish bitch had insisted, we called her Cammy due to her chronic camel-toe. It goes without saying that she was a green tag.

“Please look at this video and remember which items each person buys..”

I look up as the video plays, hoping to continue the flirtation but his head is down, immersed in his job, how tedious. Sat behind him is a girl called Natalie, American, she is playing with her hair and looking directly at me, smiling like a face-fucked porn star. It’s very confusing. Perhaps she thought the earlier glances were for her? I smile back, she makes a bored face and pretends to hang herself, I pretend to find it amusing, we both ‘laugh’. Time passes.

“So Izumi, today we learnt about shopping in the supermarket, the shopping mall and..?”

“Erm, in the record shops?”

“That’s right! Well done, great lesson, have a good night and I hope to see you again soon!”

Waving and laughing, I turn the camera off as Big Ben drones in the background. I look up, Natalie is standing above me, I can hardly see her face over her hijacked breasts.

“Heeeey you, how’s it going? I’d love to have you as a teacher, you sound so kind, and your accent…”

She seductively/moronically plays with her hair. I put on my best ‘Hugh Grant’ and reply.

“Why, thank you m’lady!”

“You’re welcome!”

Awkward silence, strange smell. We both look at each other suspiciously then look down in synchronicity.

“OH MY GOD! Is that shit??”

She screams, she’s not wrong.

“I think it is..what the fuck? That smells awful..”

“But..how? Why? Who did it?”

She looks accusingly at me.

“It wasn’t me, look it’s coming from that booth..”

We hear a scream from the other side of the room of similar sentiment. We follow a trail of turd that runs from the empty booth next to me to the security door at the far end of the room; in total there were fifteen solid pieces of shit. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever experienced.  A member of the Japanese technical team runs past, slipping on a turdicle then crashes in to a wall. He looks down in shock then straight in to my eyes, I had never seen anyone so horrified, disgusted and confused in all my life.

“Nani? NANI? Dog?”

“No..I don’t think a dog could get in here without a security pass, and a forefinger..”

“Who? Who??”

“I don’t know..look it comes from here..”

Natalie screams again then grabs hold of me, she starts to slide her hand up my thigh and breathe on my neck, I look at her sternly then remove the hand, she concedes. The blue tag calls for others who also come running then recoil in disgust. Second by second more instructors catch sight of the poo trail, there are gags and screams, slides and falls. Nothing in life can prepare you for shit on the teaching floor. Big Ben sounds amidst the chaos, we are all urged back to our seats to begin the final lesson of the day. We bewilderingly obey, such is the Japanese work ethic.

As we struggle to block out the madness and pungent aroma whilst teaching our lessons, the Japanese staff cover each blob of evidence with paper towels, it looked like some kind of fecal genocide. We all leave the teaching floor as quickly as we can when the lesson ends. We recount the tale to those on other floors, within a couple of months the story has become Nova mythology.

I never did find out who the culprit was, although I had my suspicions. I organised a poo tour for those who were not present, it was a little like the London Dungeon tour but far more macabre.

God, I miss Japan.