Archive for the ‘LGBT’ Category

saucy4I knew I’d gone too far when I could feel my heart beat no more.

It doesn’t feel the way you think it will you know, this life malarkey! In my experience there is a distinct lack of soundtrack and sympathetic groan, also the bad stuff feels like it goes on for fucking e v e r, seriously – is it only me, or is grief endlesss?


Now that I am clean and soberish, there really isn’t anything left to hide behind, I’m not even in a serial-fucking phase – more’s the pity – suddenly there is cock everywhere. A man approached me in Tesco today, he wasn’t bad either; I had walked past him three times, wiggling my arse slightly, but still – the cheek of it!

After a brief laugh about beef, he asked me if I wanted to fuck in the toilets. I said no, thanks, but the truth is I would have loved to. I hate being a real person sometimes, free of self-loathing, it stops all the fucking fun!

I have been thinking I may adorn a new kind of habit and live chased, sorry – I mean chaste, like a nun or some kind of pope. I was going to say priest but I instinctively gagged. The problem is that I am a horny bastard and have more love to give than Mother Theresa (she was filth..), but that can lead to serious errors of judgement; it often has. I just don’t want to put it out so indiscriminately anymore; to be clear – I’m no whore, I just want to treat my flower with the dignity and honour it deserves.

Maybe I’ll dress it up like a palm tree or something.

I met this one guy some time back, he lived over the wall, he was “straight” but couldn’t find a single (or attached) women who would indulge his particular brand of perversion. He caught me with an open mind and gaping hole – in my love/sex-life. He begged me to call him baby, or doggy but I simply wouldn’t, because neither should be sexual beings, to an adult human, ever. You’d think I’d run, but you have to understand I’d walked all the way up that hill, so…

It was more chain and whip based than any previous convergence, by 100%. I’d always wanted to try some control work; I made for a surprisingly stoic master.

“What now Master?”

He’d thoroughly enjoyed the cat-whipping followed by foot-worship. I felt distinctly Grey.

“Call me Brown Sauce..”

I don’t know why. I was being sexy and in the moment. It was the first thing that came to mind; I guess I was hungry for forbidden meats. Pause.

“..You serious? Brown Sauce?”

He was looking up at me, his deep-blue eyes piercing vaguely through his gimpish-mask, I had to imagine the rest of his face. I decided to stand by my Freudian-condiment.

“Why the hell not? Are you a racist or something?”

“You what? I’m actually questioning it because it makes me feel racist having to say it, so I wanted to check that it was really OK with you! Typical of you lot to turn it around on me and make me look bad..I don’t know, come to our country, take our jobs..shag our birds..”

He pulls off the mask and smiles cheekily, he’s fucking adorable; lucky. I don’t have many triggers, or weapons for that matter; he knew me. It was time for Brown Sauce to come in to his own, so to speak (or stifle). There’s nothing better than non-penetrativeish insult-sex when truly raged.

We lasted for a good few sessions, we’d take tea, smoke a joint then act out various fantasies; he encouraged me to find any bad, stuck memories then sexualise them with him, in the hope of sexarthis. It really works!

You only need so much fantasy though, before reality calls. We never really got that close, all the leather I guess.

Recently there was this other guy, he was “a” bisexual. I love bisexuals. Fuck all that “greedy” bullshit, they are the most giving! By the way, I am pretty convinced that 70% of the world is actually some kind of bisexual, so go love each other folks, it’s really, really fun!

Anyway, so – “Bi Si”, the builder.

We’d swapped cock-shots before we’d seen each other’s faces; his penis was just what I was after at the time, a nice practice model – beautifully average and obedient. His legs were nice and thick, a man of the world; I could tell he wasn’t a driver – its all in the thighs and arse.

He wasn’t all that much to look at, or to listen to – he sounded a little like Tim Lovejoy, but there was definitely something, a pull, a permission; he felt good on my lips and tasted like cinnamon. Must have been his gum, or paste, although I liked to imagine it was natural somehow.

Man, he could kiss, really kiss; I preferred it to the surprisingly enthusiastic H, B & R-J’s. Like a desert lion, he seemed starved, and parched. He didn’t often meet blokes, or so he said, just when the urge overtook, and then I was always his first call (so he said..).

Once, while we were playing a little, I noticed he had a tattoo of a hamburger on the inside of his left arm and a slice of watermelon on the right. It was so confusing, how had I never seen them before? What could they possibly mean? I couldn’t help but laugh as he shook my palm-tree.

“Am I doin’ something wrong, fella?”

A snort, followed by far more laughter. He looks a little hurt, it breaks my heart instantly, so I stop.

“No,’s great, I just never noticed your tattoos before..”

He smiles, stands-up on the bed then flexes, kissing both foods, he then pounces on me and makes me do the same, it quickly turns in to food-themed love-play. He knows I can’t resist fun. I stop, mid-hot-dog, to ask the inevitable.

“So why do you have a hamburger and watermelon tattooed on your arms?”

I imagined there would be some significance, assumed that deciding to have something imprinted on your body eternally would mean it truly meant something.

“Well.. just ’cause they’re tasty, aren’t they?”

I look at him waiting for more, he looks at me in the very same way.

“Yes, they are..but is that really the reason?”

He seems slightly annoyed, but I make the cutest face I can (one can only imagine..), he instantly softens and kneels by me, putting his watermelon round my shoulders.

“So. I was on holiday..”

“Don’t say in fucking Magaluf, for fuck’s sake..”

“No, not in Magaluf, you fucking snob, it was in Turkey..”

“Dalaman I bet..”

He scowls at me, I relent.

“Anyway, you twat, I went to Turkey with some mates, we went to this tattoo place, I didn’t know what to have done, so they just told me to pick something I liked. Well, I was really hungry like, we’d been paragliding, I couldn’t choose between the hamburger and the watermelon, so I just went with both..”

I laughed so hard milk shot out my nose. I loved his answer. Completely him.

As in life, so in sex it seems.

ruuuThe fear of loss can drive a man to lose even himself.

A deep blue curtain falls on the first act of my life, taking all performers and stage-hands with it. Had I not waited for fate to intervene I may have saved a soul or two..

Alone on this makeshift life-craft, I muse; the world burns behind me, I daren’t look lest it stare right back. Not one other soul did I save, despite the sacrifice. I had to be smoked-out in the end.

Not one other saved! A cruel joke or perhaps just the inevitable; we are ultimately formulaic in our own time it seems.

As I write, tear tracks stain my winter-bleached face, rather more caramel than milk-chocolate these days. I lament the loss of Summer with it’s shades of heat and endless nights that spill-on. I yearn for Spring with it’s green and yellow optimism, it’s buzz, it’s alluring fragrance that draws you from your tracks.

Autumn has morphed in to winter, and I am alone – not physically – there is “family”, just emotionally, intellectually. A lonely mind and soul; I wonder, what went wrong with me?

“If you have to do that filth, Peter, can you please do it in the bathroom and dispose of the evidence so your Mother doesn’t have to clean-up after you? It really is disgusting!”

Does one “do” masturbation?

It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. My Mother had found an old t-shirt with a purple koala on it, hidden quite well behind my drawers, that was exclusively used to clean-up after self-love. In those days I might love myself (then despise myself) up to six times a day. I was quite the passenger of the sex-drive.

“I don’t know what we did wrong with you kids, you insist on being shameful, can’t you just control yourselves like the rest of us?”

I tried, honest I did, but it was no use. All I could think about was the unthinkable, the untouchable, the unsuckable. I wanted it so bad it literally hurt, yet what I craved so desperately I was told was evil, immoral, an abomination even. It was a very hard situation to navigate as a horny, teen-aged, born-again-Christian, especially as my Dad was employed by the Church. His views on homosexuality like every other issue were black and white.

Thinking about it, Dad might be gay. It’s possible right? All that homo-hate? The way he reacted when I used to steal all the spinsters’ handbags then walk around like a tart, right in the middle of the church. It was hilarious. My Dad would go an obscene shade of shit.

“I’m the laaaaady!

I’d scream, as camply as I could, in a high-pitched-Brummie accent. My Dad would desperately try to chase me as I jumped over the pews in Elaine’s specially adapted high-heels; he’d have to make it past the hoards of lost souls and faithful awaiting healing, exorcism or prayer in tongues, you know – the usual.

“Why are you embarrassing me in front of everyone? Why must you always embarrass yourself?”

I can’t honestly remember why I did it, I think it was just fun and clearly got the attention of a man who was permanently otherwise occupied. It’s the same today to be honest, not with the handbags so much, I’m a bit too bloke, but definitely with attention. He’d pull me aside eventually and growl with such visceral intensity that I will never forget it; he despised me in that moment, or what I represented at least. He did not approve.

I don’t think our Parents ever truly stop affecting us, emotionally. I know their influence dwindles with time and maturity, but try as I might, there is little that eases my pain like a true smile from my Mother; little that raises my esteem like interest, actual non-Christ based attention from my Father. I’d give anything to really know him, to feel loved by him, to be understood and to share.

There is hope still, there’s always hope. Guard that shit with your life.

The world has a personality disorder, it’s from parents not loving their children because they themselves were not loved correctly. It’s from people insisting their offspring be facsimile fuck-ups. It’s from a lack of education, fear and desperation. Don’t expect anything from your child except to love them unconditionally, always and forever.

Stop having children, and love the one inside yourself who was abandoned. Give yourself everything you were denied. You get that education, that dream job, that future. Have children, but love yourself as a priority, as a mater of course, because as the almighty RuPaul says:

“If you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?”

Can I get an Amen up in here?


“Who’s Blennis?”


“Blennis, who is Blennis??!”

“Wha?? No one, never mind! Why are you always listening to me?”

Such a crazy Mother thing to say with complete conviction; I was in the same room as her, short of earplugs or disability there was nothing to be done. I was foolishly helping her complete an online registration form for e-payslips from Boots. She’s scowling and repeating herself now, as means of deflection, nice try.

“Mum. Who or what is Blennis? I have heard you say it a few times now..”

“Peter, it’s nothing OK? Just leave it, OK?”

She scowls again then smiles a little. Here it comes..

Ya rah’ beatic!”

I know exactly what blennis is, I just want to see her squirm a little. Blennis is a made-up word. From what I can work out it’s the love-child of Bloody and Penis. Ya rah’ beatic – now, this one is not made-up, it’s Arabic, literally translated it means may your house fall in on you! Never take an Arab Arabic at least. Often English. I breezily ignore the wish of filicide.

“It’s your new swear word isn’t it Mum? How about bashoon?”

The etymology of bashoon eludes me.

My Mother is crazy. I’ve spent much of my life trying to appease her wildly fluctuating moods and opinions, her complete lack of memory and overpowering emotions. Yes, some people call it Arab, but I now call it Borderline. If only I had known as a child, I could have saved all that time trying to fix her.

She used to scare the shit out of me.

I would know what kind of a day it was going to be as soon as I woke up. I developed a heightened level of emotional perception at a very young age, I could literally feel the emotions of others I was close to, a necessary survival mechanism in a passive-aggressive family. There would never be happiness, just slightly less bitterness, less indiscriminate rage, perhaps eventually a hug though if I was lucky, or very naughty.

Very naughty it was, luck was in short supply.

Now, it’s important to point out that very naughty is a relative term. I was actually, by secular standards, a model child, but unfairly marked against the unobtainable purity of Christ – I was Satan himself.

“I don’t want any, I don’t like it..”

I hated Baclava and always had, even if her’s was the best in the World, I wish she’d remember just one of my preferences. I knew I shouldn’t have added that last bit, I don’t like it, as tame as it seems; it didn’t take much to set her off. She looks up with fire in her eyes instantly, a black, seething fire.

“You ungrateful boy, you don’t know what it’s like to have nothing, do you? Do you..?”

I did. The rant would then start, an endless tirade of emotions and thoughts all becoming one and the same, spurring each other on into the storm. It’s terrifying, it’s disgusting. I’d start running before the real threat of violence but not by much. Sometimes she’d catch me on the stairs and whack the shit out of me with the leather stick she used to stir the laundry in the twin-tub washing machine, sometimes I’d make it to the crawl space.

“They made me come here, to this stupid country, do you think I wanted to? Do you think I wanted to come..I had to!”

She wasn’t seeing me when in that fury, she was seeing all the men that had abused her, but as a male, present, I was the only target – if my Brother or Sister were not currently under-fire that is. Poor bastards, they had it worse than me, they just didn’t feel as much.

A war of attrition. She’d plant herself by the entrance to the hole and I’d remain hidden, eventually one of us would concede. I’d usually start crying, and for a brief moment she would soften.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, come here, I didn’t mean it..”

Finally I got what I wanted. I’d sob in her arms, not because of what I had done, no, I’d cling-on because this would be the only time I would have her full attention, some actual love. A child will opt for negative attention if positive is not an option. I just wanted my Mum, they stole her away from me. I just wanted to be loved, I wanted to have fun, but she knew neither by default, only pain and suffering. It wasn’t my fault.

I learnt as a teenager that if I pleased her in almost every way possible, life would be less emotionally abusive, a tactic that worked but took almost all of my energy and baffled my siblings, eventually ending in deep resentment. I spent much of my adult life searching for reasons why she is the way she is, trying to save her – then, failing that, any damaged female that came my way. Soft abuse is still abuse.

I’m back at home briefly while I search for a new place to live; collapsing towers can leave One disenfranchised. I love my family, I hate them too. I’m glad that I can’t let go of them, for some reason, or they would be long-gone. But what to do with anger from the deep? Ghosts feel no pain and learn nothing.

I strive to be the fool, in the best possible way, letting go, trusting, loving – defying experience that would tell me to stay foetal, in bed, forever. It ends here, they won’t steal my life too.

rainbpwA soft yellow light is flowing through the French doors then in to my makeshift bedroom, it hits the right-hand side of my face; I close my eyes. I’m reminded of the promise I made to myself 6 months earlier, on the coldest of nights. Shudder. I tilt my head to the left as my eyes clench shut. I feel the nurturing warmth of the Sun, return to the present, then smile; Soft, deep breaths.

“Thank You..”

I’m not sure who I am thanking, only that I feel truly grateful. I feel now in a way that was not possible before; I can barely explain it without sounding like the sort of book we used to burn at Church in the early 90’s.

It’s hilarious to think how scared I was as a Christian. Such a small life. Brighton was a very big place for such narrow minds; “The Lord” had called my Dad to the City for that very reason. Brighton was the Sodom and Gomorrah of the UK, the heart of a rising movement that was on the verge of destroying society. Utterly terrifying, it promoted freedom, love and pleasure – for shame (shame, shame..).

It’s fair to say Dad was against the ‘New Age’, with it’s promise of peace and it’s clearly gay agenda. He formed a task-force within the Evangelical Alliance to tackle the problem, outrage being the best motivation for any action, of course.

“You see this symbol, Peter?”


I could feel his glare through the comic book but wasn’t in the mood for yet another lesson in puritanism, Buster was preferential by far. I was 11 years old.

“Peter James John Duke! Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”

I know, it’s quite a name, I would be named after all the Saints but for the grace of God. I look up, slowly, I knew he hated me, so who cared? Best avoid another spank-chase however. How things change.

“This, Peter, is the symbol of the New Age..”

He points to a page of a flimsy pamphlet; I had no idea what I was looking at – a black and white swirl with spots covered with a rainbow?

“It’s called Y..Yi..Y..”


“Shut up please Peter! It’s something Chinese, OK?”

I may not have liked my Father, but back then I did still respect him, I took all his words as Gospel truth, unfortunately. Thus spake the Father. I want to get back to Ricky Rainbow so I humour him.


He looks at me as if I am supposed to say something else, I have no idea what the new rules are.

“ it bad, Daddy?”

Actually by that point I’m pretty sure it would have been Dad, I just liked the sound of Daddy. Call me a pervert (or a slut..).

“Yes it’s bad, Peter, it is the Devil’s new calling card and so is that other symbol, the one that looks like a an upside-down ‘Y'”.

“So what should I do, Papa?”

“If you see any of those symbols anywhere, take note of where and report it to me instantly so I can feed-back to the Evangelical Alliance, OK?”

The E.A. is nowhere near as cool as it sounds. It is not, unfortunately, a rugged troop of well packaged preachers who fight evil, no, it’s just a group of grey, scared, deluded old men, most of whom are closeted yet fiercely homophobic – who fight “evil”.

“OK Baba.”

The look of pride on his face. Such a good boy I was, such a good, dirty boy.

“Good lad. Now run along and play with your stick and ball.”

It wasn’t a stick, but it was closer to that than Play Station, no doubt.

I was raised in a very black-and-white world – I have recently been strongly encouraged to live life in the grey, but why gotta be grey? Isn’t the Rainbow in-between black and white?

escapeIt’s been a long time, I hope you’re well.

Whilst sat on the bus the other day, trying my hardest to stifle yet another panic attack, a young Arab man placed himself ambiguously close to me. To be honest his ethnicity was just an educated guess, based on the truly black nature of his body hair, some of which was showing from various oases. This particular shade of black belonged to Bahrain or Saudi. Too soft for Saudi actually, too open. I know my Arab men. His eyes were framed beautifully, gleaming greeny-brown in the mid-morning sun as he gazed out the window, towards the sea.

I fall in love instantly.

We’re sat at the back of the bus on the top-deck, no one else is around so I take the opportunity to study him as he is looking away. He’s so beautiful, I want to touch him and lick his face.

As I softly abuse him with all four of my eyes (unconsciously consensual, of course) I realise it is probably the first time I have been turned-on by anything real in a very long time. Relatively, I think. It’s hard to be sure. I slant my head slightly then seductively shuffle a little closer, breathing-in as deeply as I can. He smells of pine and lemongrass, not the expected deep pungency of the East, surprising, rising. Shudder, tingles all-over, my senses are all suddenly engaged with an unimaginable ferocity. I feel like I’m high.

I want him so bad now it feels like I’m being tasered. Shit. What’s happening? I go blank.

Before I know what I’m doing my hand is reaching out towards that which should not be touched as my lips are launching-in like it’s the last mission to Mars. For a moment he doesn’t resist.

Let’s pause for a second. I am fully aware that this is unusual, even slightly alarming behaviour, even for me, but it’s been quite the year. I’ve not really known where to begin. It seems I’m slightly disordered, I’ve been slightly addicted, I saw it coming. It didn’t help.

I lost everything that was not indisputably integral. Be ready to eat every fucking word you have ever said in the pursuit of truth and freedom. Mine tasted like shit.

I’m not sure it’s possible to come back from Hell unsinged; my scars remind me of where I’ve come from, my libido that I am alive now, in this moment; I fuck therefore I am. Sex stops the racing thoughts you see, the endless doubts, the demons, it keeps me in the present. It stops the pain in the absence of benzos. I used to look but not touch, chastened by religious dogma, self-loathing and fear. No more.

“No, no..erm..I..sorry..”

He whispers as he pushes me away surprisingly softly. I guess it’s obvious to him that I was overcome..or something. What the fuck did I just do?

“No..I am sorry..I..erm..”

I’m lost for words and everything else. He stares at me for a second as I turn a brownish-purple, he just looks confused, which is fair enough. Lucky actually..some other bloke might have been aggressive..although I could have had him in a fight I’m sure. Yeah, I’m pretty tough, me. Hang on do I want to fight him now? Does he want a fucking fight? I’d proper ‘ave him..

Thankfully he had already left the bus.

Awakenings are not easy, they are not pretty, they are not formulaic. The lights are back on, let’s take a look.


Truly inspirational. Watch this space.

hammerIt’s hammer time people and I can’t explain it. No I haven’t adorned pantaloons of yore, nor has my overall funk increased, not even by a beat.

I literally picked up a hammer and fixed the fucking washing machine once and for all.The bastard had been goading me for months, years perhaps if I’m honest.

I felt better than if I had written my best piece, ever! There’s a wealth of joy to be gained from the common task, tasks that once scared me, challenged my masculinity, allowed me to feel inferior. No more.

“Who’s laughing now you slaaaag?”

I had recently been reacquainted with EastEnders The BBC’s gift to the Great British; one nation forced together by bad weather, worse ‘democratic’ decisions, cynicism and misogyny. Stupid England, you’ve only got yourself to blame for voting back-in your slave-masters for another 5. I hope you all like blue cock.

We need a Dragon Queen.

As a side note, the good people of my constituency, Brighton Pavilion, voted Green. A lone green spec in an apathetic sea of red and blue. I hereby declare the Green Republic of Brighton and Hove, by name and nature. Praise be to Caroline, my Khaleesi, I’ll follow you to the goddamn grave!

Anyway, back to the show; It’s a misery-fest of epic proportions with acting styles varying from the Olivier to the Muppet. Regardless, and most importantly it now has a spattering of LGB characters and some shit-hot writers. If it didn’t then I wouldn’t watch it, would I? Exactly (you slaaaag..).

Why the fuck was I talking about all that? It’s time for an admission: I have been very unwell for some time now, but I’m clawing my way back; I can’t talk about it yet, not fully, it will be a book someday perhaps, or another blog. Or maybe I’ll just forget, maybe I’ll have that option for once, to just fucking forget.

I’m coming back, I can feel it, the cold grip of addiction and mental illness is finally loosening. Alex is gone. Not dead like I expected, but gone, to Singapore. He didn’t say goodbye.

“Alex is leaving for Singapore in six weeks, I thought you’d like to know mate!”

“What? How come? What?!”

“Promotion…he’s ditching his girlfriend, flat, Dunc’s Wedding, yeah just leaving..”

“In six weeks?”

“Yes, like I said, SIX weeks”

I sat there stunned; I force a celebratory mask over my grimaced, grief-stricken heart. It had been at least a year since I had been in touch with Alex, we had ended it civilly; brutal civility. We knew time must pass before we could even think of seeing each other again. If ever.

“ least he won’t be able to get hold of any coke out soon..but those Asian girls will love him, he’ll have a different one every fucking night..”

“Why’d ya think he’s going there? That and the pay-rise..”

I’d taught him everything he knew about business, communications; reading the dynamic of each situation and reacting accordingly. He was supposed to be my protege; perhaps he was, no he definitely was! This is very hard for my EGO, ahem, sorry I mean ego.

Over the next little while, I daren’t say how long, I’ll endeavour to tell the story of Alex and I. It has to come out sometime, somewhere so why not here? My very first posts on this blog were about him; God, that seems a personality, or two ago!

I wanted him from the first moment I laid my damaged eyes on him; He had what first appeared to be an arrogant air about him, it was actually pure shyness and deep insecurity, my staple diet at the time. How could I resist?

I cry a lot these days. I hadn’t for about 10 years, prior to my, hmm, recent difficulties.

I cry now for me though, not him, finally, just me and my fractured heart, pierced with tainted needles, patched-up with bloodied bank notes.

Ah self pity! I guess I just like the imagery; the reality is just such a dull meaningless, endless pain, containing nothing of merit. Only in writing can it possibly turn in to something of use, perhaps even of beauty.

He was just so beautiful.He was the most beautiful young man I had ever seen. I’m a sucker for beauty, as you know.

“Arrogant though, right?”

I whispered to myself

“Yeah, dangerous this one..but so beautiful..”

That’s all it took.