Creamy Faces, Hand Jobs & A Taste of Ginger

Along with the usual run-of-the-mill stuff - raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, that sort of shit - grooming products, wealthy men and free stuff are right up there on my list of favourite things. So, imagine my delight when I was invited by The Canadian to join him last night at a ‘men-only’ evening at Molton Brown in Chelsea. Spending a couple of hours ostensibly perusing the latest gunk pour homme from the gay Boots, with a glass of Asti and a mince pie, in the elevated environs of SW3, had ‘cruising potential’ written all over it, and given that the last time I popped into a Molton Brown I took home a lot more than Vitamin Lip Saver, I rather fancied my chances.

We met up for coffee beforehand to catch up; despite it only being a week since we had last seen each other, The Canadian’s sex life is so dizzyingly active that I knew there would be tales to tell, and sure enough an hour and a half went by before he’d finished bringing me up to speed. It’s hardly surprising that he gets so much action. TC is an implausibly chiselled, tanned, toned, doe-eyed, deep-voiced hunk of gorgeousness blessed not only with Abercrombie-model good looks but also a razor-sharp mind and deeply kind heart. Since coming out in his twenties, TC had been the poster boy for serial monogamy; his first relationship lasted four years, the next eight, the one after that a ‘mere’ nine months, with nary a pause for breath in between. Finding himself single after the last relationship – an intense, emotional-rollercoaster of a half-year with a fiercely intelligent and terribly pretty Turkish student – abruptly ended, TC has since given himself over to the pleasures of clubbing, networking and online-dating, all of which has resulted in his having a seemingly inexhaustible line of suitors beating down his door.

Satisfied that I had been fully apprised of all current inamorati – one American, one German, one Mexican, one Brazilian, one British, a veritable United Nations of anal – off we trotted to the King’s Road for what I hoped would be an evening of, to steal from the play, Shopping and Fucking. Sadly the latter was not to be, for imagine our surprise and disappointment that we were the only people there! Maybe it was the tornado hitting north London (good aim, God), perhaps the miserable drizzle, or just that Chelsea queers are far too well off to want a free facial, whatever the cause we were all alone with just five shop-girls and a roomful of products for company.

And OH how much fun that turned out to be! Complimentary drinks and nibbles; a full facial with amino eye treatment; a hand and arm massage (I was *amazed* at the difference); laughs with the ladies all of whom fell completely under our spell; and to top it all off a goodie bag packed to the rope handles with handy size oddments, including enough of my favourite shower gel to see me through Christmas, a bar of Green & Blacks Ginger (everyone should have a taste of ginger once in a while as I like to tell the boys) and – bizarrely – a golf ball, which made us both feel terribly rugged and macho. Inasmuch as one can be ‘terribly rugged and macho’ mincing arm-in-arm down the King’s Road swinging a Molton Brown bag and pointing at boys screaming ‘Oooh he’s GAWGEOUS!’

Next week TC is taking me to my first gay wedding which should provide fertile ground for getting some rectal pleasure; if it doesn’t I might as well hang up my lube pump and admit defeat. Watch this space!

Annual Report 2006

Wednesday marked the one year anniversary of my becoming single (thirty followed later, and I’ve always been fabulous) and I invariably got to reflecting on those twelve months of bachelorhood and what being single, after so long of being otherwise, had meant to me. It wasn’t a melancholy kind of reflection – I know now as I did then, with absolute certainty, that the divorce was the right thing – but nor was I celebrating my ‘freedom’ or anything tacky like that; I simply gave myself time and space to take stock and produce a mental ‘annual report’ on my year of singledom, and realised contentedly that it’s been a pretty fun year.

For the first few months after D-I-V-O-R-C-E Day, I might as well have checked into a monastery. I had no sexual urges whatsoever (astonishing considering I’d had them pretty much non-stop for the preceding 29-and-a-half years), I felt unsociable and, ironically given my problems with the demon drink in recent months, I was very wary of drinking lest I slip into the same spiral of self-neglect and self-harm as I had after Divorce #1. Christmas and New Year came and went in a blur, and as 2006 began I settled into a blissful domesticity of sorts, sharing Big Sister’s flat while half-heartedly looking for one of my own. Most evenings not spent with her or one or more of The Inner Circle would be spent in front of the TV with a sofa supper and a bottle of red (or two), which whilst being healing for the heart and soul was hardly conducive to finding cock and bum fun. I contented myself with the odd visit to The American, to whom my newly-single status was the green light he’d been waiting for, his own marital status being for his conscience not mine.

Round about Easter time, Spring having sprung and my libido reborn with it, I got back into the saddle in spectacular style with a threesome that lasted thirty-six hours (including rest-breaks for cigarettes and ice-packs) which was fitting as that had been how I’d got over the last big break up; there must be something about being the guest star that appeals to my raging ego. Then a drunken trip to Pleasuredrome (my pores were looking like they needed a cleansing and I couldn’t afford a facial) led to my meeting a big burly Scotsman who in a moment of madness I exchanged numbers with; while that led to a very pleasurable few days of exchanging frankly filthy video messages, we never made it as far as actually meeting up so he got deleted and purged (though I confess I kept the messages.)

Then followed (in no particular order because to be honest loves I don’t remember) Daniel The Actor, who was absolutely beautiful but with whom I didn’t swap numbers, a fact I kicked myself over for days afterwards; Essex Boy, the very epitome of ‘straight-acting’ with whom I had a very successful date one, a disappointing date two and hence no date three; Mr Fashion, an astonishingly handsome (in fact pretty much Aryan) magazine editor who was great on paper (and between the sheets) but I think in reality I’d have felt in competition with; The Kid From Molton Brown, a 21-year old chunky monkey who I flirted with outrageously over the Warming Eucalyptus Bath & Shower Therapy and thus ended up bedding, certainly the best free gift with purchase I’ve ever had; The Brazilian Munchkin, who picked me up in the street walking home from The Hoist and dropped me home the next morning still in full leather regalia; The Deranged Irishman – about whom the less said the better; The Midget Spanish Hairdresser; and the one with the most longevity, Asda Boy, the closeted son of Sarf London, Irish Catholic gangster parents, youngest of six (one of whom had died of alcoholism) and with a scar on his back from a stab wound, who still makes an appearance from time to time and is very much my protégé.

Then along came Kit.

Until I met Kit I was, inwardly and I think visibly, happily single. But within just a few days of meeting him, a time during which we were all but inseparable, I let down my defences for the first time since the split and, while I wouldn’t say I was planning the wedding, I certainly allowed myself to open up to the possibility that it could turn into something more. When that didn’t happen – Kit suddenly and still, to my mind, inexplicably, got cold feet – I was amazed at how disappointed I felt, the disappointment being totally disproportionate to the length of time we’d known each other. I guess, as the song goes, a taste of honey’s worse than none at all.

BUT – I’m always one to bounce back, and after a couple of months of licking my Kit-inflicted wounds that’s what I have done. One year on and I’m happily thirty, happily single and, happily, fabulous. I’m looking good, feeling great, The Ex is high up on the ‘best friends’ list, the drinking’s under control and frankly, this boy is back in business.

Gentlemen and ladies this is my annual report and I commend it to the house!