Watching me watching you

Do you remember that song in the 80s? The one that goes "I always feel like, somebody's watching meeeee...".

I think some group called BeatFreakz did a cover of it a few years ago.

Well there's a guy who lives down the road from me - about three doors down. And everytime I walk past his flat that song starts playing in my head.

This guy clearly doesn't care because he lies on his bed with the curtains open as the whole world walks strolls by. Tonight he's lying on his bed watching the rugby.

I stood for a while as he lay there - all of the lights in his bedroom on Maximum Power Output.

Walking up close to his window I took out the phone. He carried on watching the rugby, completely oblivious to what was going on outside.

I don't know which is more bizarre?

Me standing in the street taking photos or him lying on his bed for the whole world to see and share?

Edit: Check on the right - his bedroom door is shut. Why would you go to your room for a bit of piece and quiet to watch the rugby but then leave the curtains open for all the world to see. (If I keep justifying this picture it'll make it better...surely?)

One more time with feeling

Writing about Conrad got me thinking about other guys I've loved.

It was in my second year at boarding school that I met Paul.

My parents thought boarding school was an excellent idea because it's what all upper-middle class parents with too much money did with their sons. They thought it would be character-building.

Paul's father had died and his mother had remarried but his step-father also died, of cancer I believe. It seemed his mother couldn't handle the grief and did what so many other widows did.

She moved to another town and plonked her beautiful young son in a private all-boys boarding school, to get someone else to look after him.

Paul was my first crush at school. Because he was the first I fell for him like I've never done for anyone since.

I remember setting eyes on him in about the first week of school.

I was 14 years old, struggling with my sexuality in a difficult environment and along he came.

Of course we were totally different people.

I was the academic who played music and swam competitively. Paul was the sportsman who was more suited to a rugby pitch than the choir room. He was also a year below me.

In the diningroom we were each given a place to sit. I remember asking to be moved to a spot on the other side of the table.

"Because Sir, I have to squint to see my food when the afternoon sun shines through the window".

Of course, I only wanted to be moved so that I could see Paul. So that I could watch what he did. Perhaps so that he would look in my direction. Or at least glance at me.

During evening prep* when we'd be sat near each other, I wouldn't be able to do my homework but would instead just imagine him and I running away from the boarding house.

Me taking care of him. Living together for the rest of our lives away from the bells and the matrons.

Usually after school had ended for the day until the evening meal, we weren't allowed into our dormitories. Sometimes I would sneak up to Paul's dorm, just to sit on his bed or to lie on it very quickly.

He had a cute button nose, baby smooth skin and thanks to rugby, the most amazing physique.

We lived, slept and ate no more than 10 metres from each other. In my thoughts however, we were always million miles away together.

I wasn't long before I plucked up the courage to say something to him.

After that I made every effort to be at the right place at the right time, so that we could share a word about school. Or the weather. Or anything.

Whatever we spoke about, and for however brief, Paul would send my heart somersaulting for hours.

It wouldn't be long before Paul and I were together, alone, in our underwear. That's a story for another time...

I don't know where he is now. If you Google his name, nothing is returned. He isn't on Facebook. For all I know he's probably happily married to a woman with a child on the way.

He probably has a few recollections of "us". I have an ocean of feelings and emotions, tears and smiles that have pooled because of him.

The story of Paul is a very long and difficult one to tell but maybe I should.

Perhaps I need to relive it once more, so that I can say good-bye to it and him for ever.

* = prep is time in the evening set aside for the whole house to complete their homework, usually done at desks in a large room known as the prep room.

Sweet dreams are made of this

Last night I dreamt of my very first boyfriend.

We broke up after he cheated on me. In the last throws of the relationship a mutual loathing built up and we haven't really spoken since.

It was difficult though. He was fresh out of school and in his first year at Med School, still in the closet. I was a second year lay-about Arts student with loads of gay friends.

However, in my dream we were back together after a chance meeting and it was him who was so happy to see me. We kissed, hugged and made out, laughed, chatted and kissed some more.

Would I like to be back together? Not really, the fucker really broke my heart.

Still though, I went to look and see if he had a profile on Facebook. The last time he wasn't on but now he is.

I considered poking him or sending a message but I would be irritated (I mean upset) if he didn't reply.

I loved Conrad so much. I remember our first meeting and holding hands together, I was 18 and he 17.

We used to go for walks on a promenade near his house. We spent our first night together after I sneaked into his bedroom.

On two occasions he came around to my flat to spend the night. Walking up to Uni the next morning was the best time in the world.

He would always get a girlfriend (friend who was a girl) to tell his mum that Conrad was spending the night at her house.

Breaking up with him was part of the reason my life began to skid so spectacularly out of control.

The last time I spoke to him was on the mobile phone - a tear-filled screaming match about how "I still love you - I can forgive you" and him insisting "I want to move on...".

I think in the end he did apologies for what he did, I don't really remember.

Sobbing into a cellphone while driving isn't always best practise and I ended up smashing into the car in front of me. That was the last time I spoke to him.

I think perhaps I could send Conrad a message on Facebook.

Or maybe I'm just being a dog, returning to its own vomit. Like a fool returning to a past folly.

The Uni plaza where Conrad and I would sit and have our lunch together in the first few months of his first year.

Do as I say

Oh fuck. Oh my god. Seriously - do as I say, don't ever try to do as I did.

So this morning I'm in the gym and Jack, the man I'm going to marry, is there. I leave the shower and a few minutes later he's with me in the changeroom having just got out the shower too.

He's unpacking his clothes, naked and wrapped in a white towel, his olive skin looking even better set against the pale cloth.

This man is seriously hot and makes me weak at the knees.

He's not hugely muscular but is beautifully defined. He has big arms, a sixpack like a radiator grille and the perkiest ass in the world.

So there he's standing, now in his briefs and using the hairdryer to blow-dry the flip-flops he uses in the shower.

If I could wrap you up in my gym bag I would do it, to take you along so that you can see how fit this guy is. Instead I think the next best thing is to try and snap a photo.

I sit on the bench and start to put on my shoes, he's sitting on a stool, looking in the mirror with his back towards me.

Pulling my togbag onto the floor I take out the mobile phone from the side pocket and pull the slide back.

Leaning over, pretending to tie my laces I angle the phone up and push the button. Snap!

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The phone's on silent so there is no sound effect but I'd forgotten to turn the flash off.

This massive burst of light ricochets around the changeroom and he starts in the mirror, glancing at me.

It is quite obvious what I've just done. Fuck.

He turns around, gets up and the world quite literally stands deadly still.

Trying not to panic I sat up and just glared at the phone. I pulled a puzzled face and muttered "stupid thing" and tried to throw it nonchalently into my gym bag.

He didn't say anything and carried on.

Very sheepishly I continue getting dressed but he leaves first. I sit down on the bench and wait a bit.

I imagine him at the front desk speaking to the manager going "this guy in the changeroom is taking photos of people".

Fuck, fuck. My gym membership flashes before my eyes.

Taking photos of people in the gym changeroom is pretty-much illegal and you can be reported to police.

Imagine the embarrassment of being caught. Fuck.

About two minutes later I leave, walking slowly out the front door.

There is no-one at reception. I stand and open my protein shake to drink it, to hang around for a while but realise the place is deserted. He obviously hasn't said anything. I have gotten away with it.

It's been years since I had the voice in my head scream "BUSTED!" The last time was getting caught smoking behind the squash court by my Maths teacher.

Getting six of the best from the headmaster is one thing, getting taken down to the police station for outraging public decency is quite another.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. From now I am living the life of a nun!

EDIT: 15.30-ish
I was so stressed at being frog-marched to the local cop-shop that I didn't even bother to check the phone. Gabriel, chabang, Oliver and Mr Anon thank you for pointing out the fucken obvious.

And do you know what!?

Check it out. Here's the moment my respectable criminal record-free life nearly came to an end.

Yeah, I know it's blurred!

If you think you can do any better, come and 'av a go if you think you're tough enough. I'll lend you my gym card and kitbag*.

How hot is he though? If you recognise him, bring him to me. Preferably wrapped in cellophane.

* = this is of course a joke. Bring your own fucken kitbag if you wanna go.

Shooting stars

I've been sitting at home in front of the TV watching the news and sundry other shit.

Here in Britain there's a guy on trial who's accused of sending eight letter bombs in what some are calling a (cliche alert!) "campaign of terror".

The court in Oxford heard that apparently he had a bomb factory in his bedroom.

This guy who mailed the bombs is alleged to have caused injury, harm and distress to dozens of people. Mailing letter bombs to people is a seriously nasty thing to do.

The case has echoes of the Unabomber in the United States although over here, no-one's died.

But everytime the story appears on the news I can't stop myself from laughing.

This is the guy who's accused of being a manical letter-bombing madman:

Should have gone to Specsavers, dude!

Anyway - serious point about the Madonna story from the other day...

You were right to say that I should not have made the effort to ask Madonna for her autograph and that meeting famous people is always a let-down.

I have to say though, it isn't always true.

When I first started in my job I had to spend endless days looking after people.

That means making them tea, shuffling them from their car to the studio, running around to find them newspapers to read etc.

Generally all people in the spotlight seem indifferent and bored. They all spend far too much time looking at themselves in the dressing room mirror.

However, there have been two men who seemed genuinely nice guys. Maybe there are no coincidence that they're both industry "veterans".

The first was someone who had me shaking because I was so nervous and intimidated to meet him.

Of course I'd been a huge fan and what do you say to a guy who had a direct hand in making this album?

It was Dave Gilmour of course and he was seriously nice. He started talking and asked who I was and was just really easy. I offered him tea or coffee and thank fuck he passed on both.

It was still intimidating and I didn't say anything more than I should have. What the fuck do you say to him? "Er, hi - so what's it like being a legend?"

The second guy was even nicer.

When he arrived he got out and shook my hand. He asked my name and when I offered tea or coffee he said please and thank you.

He asked what I did and didn't mind when I told him I'd always been a huge fan. I told him I grew up watching his movies and thought that he was the best in the role.

He seemed quite happy to sit and listen while I rabbited on about my favourite instalment and which gadget I liked the best.

When we were finished I sheepishly handed him a piece of paper and a pen and he was more than happy to sign - despite it not really being protocol. He was as cool as he used to be on film. Here's his scribble...

Can you guess who it is? I'll send you a pair of my (used but clean) underpants if you get it right.

It's me! Me! Me!

This is dinkum fucken true, I swear...

It was my first year at University in Cape Town and I was out of school and about to spiral out of control.

Actually, the out of control part generally started to happen in the second year - during the first I somehow remained on track.

Of course you know about this - being at Uni means freedom, booze, parties and crushes on boys.

But there was one boy in particular. He was in English with me and, from the moment I saw him, I wanted him.

For the next six months I was obssessed with him. I would try and sit near him in lectures. I would try to see what his handwriting looked like.

If he'd have asked I would have written all his assignments and offered him a wank at the end of each one of them.

I made friends with people who I knew were in the same tutorial as him just so that I could mention him in passing and get them to talk about him.

Late one evening, I noticed his car (it was a BMW - his parents were loaded) in the University car park, sitting near mine. My heart skipped a beat and I grabbed the opportunity.

I tore out a page from my notebook and scribbled something like "you're the hottest guy I have ever seen" or words to that effect and left the note under his windscreen wiper.

It was such a thrill that he might read it and then think about the person who sent it. I don't think he'd have been too impressed if he knew it was from a bloke.

When I found out - about two months into my stalking that he was very definitely straight - I wasn't as upset as I thought I'd be.

I guess I thought "if I can't have him at least no other guy will".

I then found out that his parents lived in Johannesburg and apparently he wanted to study there rather than in Cape Town and I think he left after the first year.

Times move on, things happen and of course memories fade.

I probably would never have thought about him again had it not been for a quick trip to the shops... at lunchtime today.

I went into the office this morning to do some paperwork and left after lunch.

On my way home I was about to stop in the Tesco to get some milk but my eye catches a very fit blonde guy walking down the road with his girlfriend.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

It's him! It's Niell!

The man who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with!

I can't believe it. He walked past me and I looked at him and it was definitely him. Blonde hair, tanned skin and piercing blue eyes.

I glanced at him but he was engrossed in conversation with the girl whose hand he was holding.

I wanted, there and then, to leap up and down and shout "I was the one who left that note on your car!"

"I used to have such a crush on you!" "It was me! Me! Me! Me!" But instead I walked on.

Ten years ago, this guy was the only thing I ever used to think about. I used to write poems for him in my diary during English lectures.

I used to fantasize about us bunking out to hold hands and go on walks.

I cannot believe all this time later, nearly ten years and 10,000 miles away from where I first saw him, he casually strolled past me none the wiser.

Good-bye Gaydar

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting at home bored.

Yes, the clue to what happens next is in the title. So before I know it I'm in Marble Arch, outside the front door of a guy who's name I forget.

He answers it in a white vest and tracksuit pants. He is seriously fit.

In my fat days I would have to go onto Gaydar and look for other guys. Nowadays it's much easier.

I log on, wait and it's not long before that stupid "boing" effect goes.

You can't intellectualise what happens because it's obvious. Good pics and okay body on Gaydar means you find what you want much easier. It's that shallow and that vacuous.

Anyway, this guy seems loaded because his flat is beautiful. He tells me he's a property developer.

We sit around in his lounge and the uncomfortable conversation ensues; "so...", "er...", "yeah...".

Thankfully he makes a move and hey presto we're naked in his bedroom.

He has a very nice, hairy but clipped chest, massive shoulders, an amazing tan and a really good sixpack. Kiss, kiss, etc. etc.

Next, we're lying top and tail (a number between 68 and 70) and I suddenly become completely disengaged.

"This is all nice and exciting but what happens afterwards? We make out, I lie there for a while, he makes small talk, I look for an excuse to leave. He says 'maybe see you again sometime' which he doesn't really mean but he says it anyway. I say 'that would be nice' even though I probably don't mean it either."

Suddenly I just think that this is all such a waste of time so I stop.

I sit up and say to him "mate, I'm sorry - I'm not into this..." He looks really crest-fallen.

"It's not you, it's me" I say, which is the truth but he won't believe me.

I'm back at home and log back into Gaydar.

I have two more messages from guys who're interested in meeting. The one guy, according to his pics is hotter then the property developer I've just deserted.

Instead of hitting reply I push "delete profile".

On Gaydar you can quite literally line up a new shag for every day of the week. But where does it leave you in the end?

Feeling soulless and empty in a jacuzzi in a gay sauna is one thing, feeling it in your lounge at home in front of a PC is quite another.

So it's good-bye Gaydar.

Good-bye to "you up for chem session?" Good-bye to "you into groups?" And good-bye to "nice body, ever thought about making some money from it?"

Chucking Gaydar in the bin makes me feel slightly less trashy, less slaggy. For a Sunday night it's a good feeling.

I'll probably sign back onto it in a few weeks when I'm sick of being pious and wholesome.

When I do that I might even try and find Property Developer again, to carry on from where we left off.

I'm pretty sure that in the meantime he'll have worked his way through a few other gays. I bet none of them will stop halfway with an attack of conscience.

Like A Shit

Last weekend I posted a vote and asked you what what story you wanted to read the most - because I had a few up my sleeve.

After seven solid hours of voting the tale about a depressing episode at a gay sauna triumphed and thus it was.

The second most-wanted post was "the story of why I loathe Madonna after she was rude to me..."

Now read on...

So, I think I've mentioned that I work in a building that's pretty well-known for what gets made in it.

Due to the industry, there's always a celebrity on the premises and chauffeured limos parked out the front.

Do you remember the tsunami in Asia that struck on Boxing Day 2004? Well, at the beginning of 2005 the US network NBC held a "Tsunami Aid" concert to raise money for those affected.

Because Esther insists on pretending that somehow she's English (complete with ridiculous Bronx-meets-English countryside accent) she performed 'Imagine' live on the concert via satellite from London - from the building where I work.

I had heard she was in there because if you speak to the right people, word gets around. It was a Saturday night and I was working late.

I went to the viewing booth of the studio she was in and watched her attempting to murder the John Lennon song. Everytime she sang the words "and the world will be as one", she stuck her finger up in the air. Geddit?

Anyway, because of the time differences it meant that she was performing the song "live" in the States at around 1am London time.

Up until then I had always been such a huge fan of Esther.

I'd bought all her albums, I used to think she was the best. Seriously - in my room at the time I had a 6ft poster of the cover of American Life.

In my bedroom back in South Africa I have a massive poster of Ray of Light too. I was an impressionable young gay growing up in deepest-darkest Africa, how could I not have been attracted / in awe of her?

So it's 1am and I'm in the viewing booth at work when I could have been at home but I'm watching Madonna sing.

I was the only person there, sat there for nearly four hours watching her.

When the song and her link ended I suddenly had a brainwave. I ran back to the office - got a notebook and pen and made my way to the car park out the front.

At 1am in an office building in West London there's not much going on so it's pretty obvious who belongs to the big black tinted-windowed BMW.

The driver was waiting outside the car, spotted me and noticed my notebook & pen.

"She won't sign anything I promise you. You're wasting your time."

"But, I'm the only one stood here, it's 1am...? Surely she would just scribble her name, I've been such a fan of hers - since I can remember."

"I've been working for her for years, mate. She's not interested you lot anymore."

"Hmmm...". I figure the driver's only saying this because there must always be autograph hunters, and using the "I'm on your side" angle is a great way to get rid of pesky fans.

"Well, I have nothing to do so I'll just wait. I work here so I'm not trespassing or anything."

And we wait. And wait. It's about 1.30am, just me and Esther's driver, waiting.

Suddenly his phone rings once. He walks to the back of the car, opens the boot then back around to get in and start the engine.

And there she is, with what seems to be an assistant walking towards me. Fuck me.

I move back a bit but she is now about 4 feet from me. The woman, who I have idolised since I was about 11 years old is moving past me, so close I could have reaced out and touched her.

It's late - just me there, with my paper and Madonna. No bodyguards, no-one to move me away. I figure, just this once, despite what her driver said, maybe she'll do it.

Shaking, I reach out my paper and desperately found the words to say "Madonna - hullo - would you mind?"

She looked at me, now about to get into the car and saw the piece of paper and the pen. I can't describe the look she gave me.

It said "you worthless fucking piece of goddam shit - if you really think that I am going to stoop to your shit-stinking arse-wipe life and sign a fucken piece of paper for you - you must be joking, you motley cunt...".

She got into the BMW herself and slammed the door herself, as hard as she could. The car sped off, out of the parking lot.

And there I stood, alone on a cold January evening in a parking lot with my unmarked paper and pen.

The woman who I'd spent my all pocket money on as a child, whose songs I knew all the lyrics too had just completely, in one simple gesture, shat on my entire world.

The look she gave me stills sticks in my head.

I got home unable to speak. I ripped down the American Life poster, took all her albums and threw them into a shoebox.

All the enjoyment I'd ever found in her evaporated. Fuck you too.

If she had any decency she would have said "No, I'm sorry". Or even just "sorry." Had she smiled and shook her head I would have been cool.

She chose to be as rude as possible. Who sets out to be intentionally rude to someone who's done absolutely nothing in return?

The experience has taught me two things.

Firstly to never wait for an autograph again.

Secondly that no matter who you are, no matter from what standing in life, it is always right to treat people with respect. No matter what.

Esther can prance around Israel bleating as much as she likes about Kabbalah. She can adopt as many black babies as she wants. The fact is that people aren't going to like her more. And it's not going to make her a better person at all.

Growing up in South Africa and having worked in the media there, I have been privileged to have met Nelson Mandela in Cape Town on a number of occasions.

The high-point was being chosen as one of a handful of young journalists to be invited to Parliament to watch his last address as President of South Africa.

Everytime I've met him he's always been friendly, warm and has smiled. The funny thing about Mandela is that, ironically, he's so friendly that it always seems like he's pretending to know who you are.

Contrast that with the way Esther behaved on that Saturday night in January 2005.

And do you know what? What goes around, comes around.

From the Daily Mail, 23rd April 2007: "Madonna was supposed to see Nelson Mandela in South Africa after her visit to Malawi, but Mandela's people told her last week that Mandela was too busy to see her."

A problem shared

Posting my experience at the sauna was a very surreal experience because I haven't told anyone about it before. It's odd to share something so personal with the whole world.

It's always strangely addictive - and, as always, thank you again for listening.

It was shortly after I turned 21 until I left South Africa at 25 years old that my life spun completely out of control.

Looking back on it now I can laugh at some of the things I did like, one night I was at a party and got bored, was absolutely shit-faced so of course decided to drive home.

I didn't recall what I'd done until the next morning when I realised that I'd driven all the way back to my parents house and parked on the front lawn.

The worst of it was that all the way down the side of the car, from the driver's window towards the boot, was a trail of vomit.

Obviously while driving fast down the motorway I'd stuck my head out of the window to be sick and hadn't quite made it clear of the car.

Looking back too I also have to look up to heaven and thank God that I'm still alive.

I had a horrific car accident, again partly because I was drunk, thankfully the South African police were too thick to breathalyse me. The car that I was in was so badly damaged you couldn't tell what make of car it was.

I smashed it so hard that it had to be put on the back of a truck and moved because it couldn't be towed. I had to climb out of the boot because none of the doors would open.

When I was back in South Africa in March this year, nearly five years after it happened, I visited the spot where it occurred and there are still gouges in the tarmac.

I remember using someone's mobile, a passer-by, to call my dad who came and had his camera in the car at the time.

There are photos of the scene which I still have difficulty looking at but I'll get over it to share them.

When I get round to telling this story I'll show you the injuries too.

But listen, I'm not going to be some pious cunt about the whole thing - how I was bad but learnt so now I am good. Sometimes my life still derails spectacularly - albeit momentarily.

At a family wedding earlier this year my dad took this photo after my sister and I had been out on the lash. I'd passed out drunk on a couch in the hotel foyer.

It's not really how you should be treating a hired car.

So I'm going to lie back on the recliner and begin to let it all come out.

At least this way I know that I'm going to save a packet on therapists' bills when I skid into my midlife crisis at 40!

Bathhouse Bobby II

A follow-up to yesterday's post.

September 13, 2006

The manager at the popular gay sauna, the _______ in Green Point, Cape Town, was found dead at the club last Thursday.

Johan ___ ___ ____, 41, was found, tied up with ropes on the staircase, by a day manager.

One of the owners of the venue in Jarvis Road, who asked not to be named, confirmed that ___ ___ ____'s body was found at 6am on Thursday.

Police spokesperson Bernadine Steyn said police did not suspect a crime and that preliminary reports showed that he died from suffocation.

"No foul play is suspected."

According to the owner, business hadn't been adversely affected by the death.

What a sad, horrible and pathetic way to end your own life.

I've deleted the guy's name to protect his dignity and the name of the sauna so that it's not searchable on Google.

The picture is taken from the venue's website and thanks Charl for reminding me of this story. It is true.

Bathhouse Bobby

In a jacuzzi at a bathhouse on a Friday night in Cape Town, during the winter of 2001 is probably where you'd have found me.

The venue's website has pictures of the facility during the glorious summer at the end of the year.

Now, imagine the scene on a cold winter's evening. Rain beating down on the windows and washing out the city lights visible through the sliding doors.

It was definitely a Friday night because in those days all my Fridays would be the exactly the same.

I'd finish work at around 5pm, make my way to our regular bar to meet friends, sink far too many Martinis then stuff my way through dinner finally ending up in the bathhouse nearby.

I'd walk around a bit in my towel, cruise a bit, realise that I wasn't going to find anything so I'd go and lie down in one of the cabins.

Usually at around 4am I'd wake up, cold, still wet and a bit drunk. Thankfully every time the door was still locked.

In the background I'd hear other cabin doors closing and on busy Friday nights, the sound of anonymous thighs slapping against other anonymous thighs.

On the scale of the depressing times in my life - those moments of coming to while lying on a plastic mattress in a place that stank of poppers and sweat must rate at the bottom. Or close to it.

So there I was sat on this typical Friday night, in the jacuzzi (because at the time I weighed 242lbs / 110 kgs and the water could hide the size of your stomach - that's why you never see fit guys in a jacuzzi at saunas) watching the rain beat against the glass.

In the foam with me was an even larger middle-aged man with steamed-up glasses and hairy shoulders.

A few minutes later we were joined by a third guy - as the following tune came on...



In my opinion, not only was the boy very obviously under 18 but he was almost probably rent too because a very stilted conversation ensued. This had definitely been set up.

The man complimented the young lad - who must have been about 17 or 18 - as only leering old men do and the boy smiled back.

Then the man moved along to the boy and they started kissing. The boy didn't close his eyes or touch the man back.

The man kissed the boy all over and soon, under the water, his hand moved onto my leg. And then it moved to my crotch.

For I while I just sat motionless while the man jerked me off as the rest of him attended to the boy. I was drunk so I just sat still.

Had I an ounce of self-esteem I'd have moved his hand or at best got out. I had none so I didn't.

The lad then pulled himself out of the water to sit on the edge, while the man's mouth remain clamped between his legs.

The old guy having to move, pulled his hand away from me.

So there I sat, sweating, drunk and disgusted at myself, in a jacuzzi staring out of a window with rain on the one side and condensation on the other as this old man set about degrading this young boy.

I could see the city lights and imagined my friends having dinner without me, after I'd made some pathetic excuse to leave because I couldn't help my behaviour.

I saw my parents sitting at home - they had loved and cared me for me - and here I was, sat in a cesspool with some lecherous old man who was having his way with a boy who was clearly as unhappy as I was.

In that moment it felt like my soul had left my body. I felt cheap, ugly, fat and worthless.

I decided to get out but my towel had fallen onto the floor and was wet. I stumbled to the shower, back to the lockeroom and put my clothes on wet, then to the car.

My memories are still so vivid because I so upset that I can recall it as if it was yesterday.

I haven't been back in that jacuzzi since that horrible night. I felt degenerate and worthless in those days. I would look into the mirror and loathe what I saw.

Nowadays though, when I look into the mirror I'm okay with what I see. I took this in the gym this morning.

I don't go to saunas anymore. All I'd see is a crowd of people who're as empty as I felt.

At least now if I did decide to go to a sauna, at least I know that I wouldn't have to hide my stomach under the water.

I'm okay now, thank God.

Edit
On Friday, March 7 2008 I was back in Cape Town and returned to the Hot House. You can read about it here if you like.

What comes next? You decide...

Did you ever used to read those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books as a child?

The ones where you read one chapter and then get a choice at the end of it about what you want to do next? I've decided to extend it to this blog.

Because polls seem to be the current vogue I've given you four options on the left, and you can choose the story you most want to read about.

Boys, this is blog by democracy!

So get voting - the poll closes at 11pm BST (British Summer Time) which is around 5pm-ish on the American East Coast.

23:00 EDIT

Thanks to the 17 people who made their mark. Given the poll was only up for a few hours, I reckon this is a good response rate.

So the results are that 60% of you want to read a rather disheartening tale of me in the throws of some sordid activity. Um, thanks.

I'm glad to see that my trip to the shop only got a paltry three votes. It was kinda lame anyway.

So standby for the bathhouse story. And maybe later this week (aka tomorrow), despite the threat of a chinese burn, I'll tell you of "Esther"'s story.

Thanks again for voting - the story appears shortly.

17 September Edit: Click here to go and read the story.

Barely functioning

I woke up naked in bed this morning, late for work with the worse hang-over in the world. I am never drinking again.

And my ass really really hurts.

Yeah - I'll explain it in excrutiating detail in a bit. For now though, I'm going back to my box. To hide.

18.00 Edit

The reason my ass hurts is because on Wednesday I decided to use a personal trainer at gym, to get back into doing legs.

He worked me good and proper and on Thursday morning I could barely stand. It's now Friday afternoon and I'm still aching. The pain runs all the way up my legs to my bum.

The worst is when I walk down stairs or sit on the loo. I am in agony but it's muscle ache from work-out so that's good agony.

Yesterday we had to go out to do some location recces - that means visiting the place where you're going to film to make sure that there's a good restaurant, a pub and a sauna good light, access and space.

We were finished at around 3pm so decided to have a drink - to celebrate an excellent day's work.

The people who I work with are all, like me, slightly unhinged which means the plan to have one drink was never going to be a success.

There were six of us but three of them bailed because they could see where the evening was headed.

I woke up this morning, naked and still a little pissed in bed with The Fear. If you like a good boozer then you'll know what The Fear is.

The Fear is when you wake up and go "oh-fuck... I really hope I didn't do - ohmygod I think I did. Fuck."

This is why I had The Fear this morning.

1. We went into a bar where there was music playing except there was no-one on the dancefloor because the music was crap. Trying to dance we ended up shouting at the DJ to play good music. After a while we were asked to leave.

2. Moving to another pub there was a woman standing on a stage singing Madonna. I thought she was rubbish so began singing (screaming) twice as loud.

A Tina Turner tune was next, singing as she walked over to me - still screaming the words. She held the microphone in my face but I grabbed it and sang to the end of Simply The Best.

It wasn't a karaoke evening. She was the singer the pub had hired for the night.

At the end of the song the punters cheered and wanted more but the singer was obviously pissed so we were asked to leave. Again.

3. At the station waiting for the last train home, we were making so much noise (singing Simply The Best), the station manager had to come over and threaten to kick us out if we didn't shut up.

There was also me flirting with straight waitor (a girl), my colleague Laura dry-humping a Bentley parked in the road and Lisa, other colleague, stumbling into someone's table in the Italian restaurant where we had dinner and more wine.

Now, not only do my legs ache from gym but now also from too much booze too.

So I'm going to crawl back to my box and mark my words...

I am never ever drinking another drink in the world ever again. Ever.

Another bloody Edit

I'd forgotten that I'd taken this video at the train station just before we got told off by the station superviser because we were making too much noise.

(And look closely - when the train passes you'll see Lisa lying on the bench sleeping.)

Disgusting behaviour. Outrageous. Big-it!


I'm sorry you had to see that! But finally...

Look at what I spotted in one of the shop windows. Is this not the gayest thing you've ever seen in your entire life?

Don't you love how the guy's jacket is undone to reveal a heaving great chest.

Because of course all gays are muscular and all they really want to do is just get naked and have sex with each other.

This is the kind of gift a straight person would buy a gay. And where on earth would you put this er, object d'art?

(I make that joke at the risk of someone saying "up your bum", again because obviously all gays put things up their bums.)

Just did it

Czech said that someone had found his site because they Google'd "who is the real Bobby Vanquish?"

Someone else I've come to know said that they were bored with their life and wanted to make a change.

This is for both of them...

Up until 2003 I was living in Cape Town. I like to think that it was marvellous but had it really been, I wouldn't have wanted the change.

I had a good job, a pretty swish car, a great circle of friends... yadda yadda - by other people's standards - which they constantly reminded me about - it was brilliant.

However, all the time I had a niggling feeling that there was something better for me somewhere else in the world.

I like to think that London found me but it was probably the other way around.

In no time I found myself on a South African Airways plane to Heathrow on 17 January 2003. I had £1,200 and a suitcase full of CVs.

I can remember the flight like it was yesterday. I remember arriving at Heathrow as an adult - without my parents.

From having my own flat in Cape Town at 26 years old with a parking space and good lighting, I went to sleeping on friends' couches.

I got my first job at a call-centre in Finsbury Park to earn some money. I had to sell shite jewellery to old women.

For the next two months, by day I had to endure pissed-out old birds on the phone while at night I wrote and mailed CVs. I cried in the toilet at work a lot.

The volume of CVs and letters I sent out is contained in files that are difficult to hold because they're so thick.

Finally I got an interview with a company I wanted to work for. They offered me a job with a £17,000 salary.

I took it, worked it, grabbed it and after about a year left - with the experience for something better.

Four years later I am earning triple that, working for a firm that is credited around the world as being the greatest at what it does.

I had never worked in TV and film before but it's what I always wanted to do. I didn't give up and until I got what I wanted.

Yeah, at times it was shit. Yeah, I wanted to go back to Cape Town but I look back now and can't imagine it any differently.

I now look forward to going back to Cape Town on holiday and spending three weeks on the beach. That would never have happened if I'd stayed.

Yep, the piles of paperwork, letters and applications I saved from the time I was pursuing my dream all have one thing in common...

...they're all filed under 'rejected'.

There are only three letters in the whole pile that start with the words "congratulations, we have pleasure in offering you..."

So that's a little of who I am. Take it or leave it. But whatever you want to do - if you want to change your life - start changing it now.

And by the way - phoning old grannys is the worst job I've ever had to do. Can it get any worse? I don't think I got off lightly. I know there's someone out there who's had a worse job than that.

At the time, one of the guys I was sharing a house with had a job in Acton where he had to pack CDs into the cardboard sleeves for the free newspaper giveaways. Now that's shit.

Time to work it

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Rescue me

It's nearly 3.40am and I've just got in.

I had to go into the office to do some admin, I got tangled up in it, didn't realise the time and suddenly it was midnight.

About to leave, my phone buzzes with a text from Colleague.

"With some mates - you up for some fun?"

Fifteen minutes and a few texts later, I'm standing naked in a large bedroom somewhere in St John's Wood. There are seven of us including me.

Two guys are top-n-tail on the bed, porn is playing and someone is tapping away in the corner with their credit card. I am offered and of course it would be rude to say no.

Though I decline to stick the small brown bottle near my nose too.

I do not kiss anyone because I can see where their mouths have been.

In fact, I decide to keep my mouth away from everything which prompts one of the guys to wonder if I'm actually straight. I assure him that I'm not.

There are three guys lying in a row (Colleague at one end), two on the floor and me standing in front of another lad at the end of the bed.

Guys move around and I'm now kneeling with one leg out on the bed, two down the front and one at the back.

I only give "it" up on special occasions (i.e. when there's just me and another) and this is not one of them but I am happy for his face to be down there.

There are now two down the front, one down the back and another is hugging me from behind and kissing the back of my neck.

And do you know what? I'm thinking that I need to find the receipt I misplaced so that I can claim back Thursday's lunch.

I move away as the others carry on. I sit watching porn and wonder how they filmed it. And whether the actors are on a set or in a real house. I make another trip to the mirror.

Nearly 3am and I decide to pack it in. Two of the guys have asked that, if I'm needing to, could I finish off in their faces.

Right then I am more than happy to do so. I try really hard to get it into their eyes.

I get dressed to leave while Colleague and two others continue on the bed. I don't get a chance to say good-bye or "wanna meet for lunch on Tuesday?"

Back in the car I smell my hands and they stink. I'm pretty sure I stink generally. I stink of cheap and trashy. And maybe even a whiff of regret.

Of the seven guys, two were a couple, one had a boyfriend who was on holiday the other had a boyfriend who was at work. Three of us were single.

There were some sexy moments, of course there were. I would have left earlier had their not been but despite them I feel empty.

It was obvious that I was the only one who attends gym on a regular basis. It was evident from seeing myself in the mirror and it was evident too by the reaction from the other guys.

Of course it's not going to happen in a room full of naked men in NW8 but right now I wish that I could have someone say to me "I like you because you are really funny - or smart".

Not "I like you because you have a really great _ _ _ _*, may I _ _ _ _ it?"

I need to go and shower and try and get some sleep because I'm drained in every sense of the word. I am drained because inside I feel hollow and empty too.

Sometimes you can be the centre of attention but all the compliments and gestures count for nothing when there's no-one to give it back to.

Tonight I've learnt (again) that sex without love is just smelly. There were six guys lined up to prove it.

So I take a deep gulp and admit that sometimes it is shite being single. Especially at 4.40am, sitting alone on my couch and stinking of other people's sex. Stinking of their enjoyment, not mine.

I guess I'm going to have to resort to giving my pillow a nice big meaningful hug. For the moment I'll pass on smooching it.

* = pair of arms / dick / butt / chest etc.

Juggle my balls

See, it does work!

I went out for lunch with Helen in Maida Vale to meet others and watch the rugby. Getting out of the car I put the keys into my pocket and found a five pound note.

Walking to the restaurant a black cat ran across my path. Of course I immediately went into the Tesco Express nearby and bought a lottery ticket with the fiver.

Kerching! My licky dip ticket has matched three balls and I've won £10.

The winning numbers were 4, 10, 20, 24, 39, 49, B: 31
The circled 21 was my overexcited cock-up while watching the draw.

In South Africa in March I won R500 on a slot machine at Grandwest Casino putting me in the black by R300.

The only other time I've gambled, at Sun City in South Africa, I won R60,000 on the first pull of a slot machine.

Therefore, my new resolution is to gamble more.

Of course I've probably used up all my luck now and will end up in massive financial difficulties in 6 months having pissed all my money away on the horses, lottery, dogs etc.

So if you see me with a moth-eaten dog on a blanket on Shaftesbury Avenue, please give generously.

Thanks and God bless you kindly. (Just in case...)

Sliver me timbers

We know each other quite well enough so I'm not too embarrassed to tell you that I shag three guys on regular occasions. That's separately, not together!

Regular shag 1 is Calvin
I call him Calvin because he always seems to have Calvin Klein underwear on. Of the three boys Calvin has the best body - he has a sixpack, big arms and is a good kisser. What more could one want?
Calvin and I met at the library. He was looking for a book on Abnormal Psychology which I was reading at one of the tables. We got talking, eyes met, smiles exchanged and the conversation turned to "so you got anything planned for this afternoon?" etc.
Libraries are very sexy places y'know.

Regular shag 2 is Swimmerboy
He's so-called because he has a 'thing' for Speedos and whenever he pays a visit, or I to him, he always insists I wear one. He rubs it, licks it and pulls the Speedo with his teeth. Swimmerboy is the best shag because he's really into me for some reason. He is also one of these really honest Californians who finds it necessary to er, debrief after good sex. Lying naked in an exhausted heap he always says something like "I really enjoy sucking you off tonight" or er, ... you get the point. Swimmerboy and I met after he cruised me on the Tube about a year ago. Bakerloo line, northbound. I was drunk and so was he.

Regular shag 3 is a colleague.
I know. I shit in the er... whatever the phrase is. I shit in my own nest? We met at work and at one stage we went out. It ended but after a while we both realised that the sex was pretty good. So we've decided to keep it going. Relations with colleague are the most open because we'll talk about shagging others etc. We've shagged in three and then somes and even at work too.

Why do I mention this? Because these three guys are just that. They're just regular casual sex buddies. I know it, they know it.

Although none of them have ever met, Swimmerboy and colleague are happy about the situation though sometimes I think Calvin would like something more.

Unfortunately nothing more is going to happen because we're very different. Sure, he turns me on but I am not emotionally attracted to him.

As fun as casual sex is - and thank god for it - sometimes it doesn't hit the right spot. So I've decided to put a / the spark back.

I've decided to date.

I want to meet guys and go for dinner. I want to be taken out, treated and I want to flirt. I want to meet up with a guy and think "ohmygod, I hope I end up ripping your clothes off..."

I want to do that Sharon Stone-thing in Sliver where she says "I ain't wearing any panties..." or whatever. (Substitute underwear for panties, please.)

"I think I want the sticky pudding. But enough about later..."

I'm trying to write a profile to send to a reputable agency or post on a website that doesn't boast about getting you "what you want, when you want it".

At the moment I am very definitely not looking for a relationship. The day I start referring to myself as the "we" is the day I claim my pension.

I guess it's all just game for a little excitement.

I'm just thinking though - is it bad to put cock-size and "no PNP" in a profile on a dating website?

Maybe this idea may take slightly longer than planned to get off the ground.

La la la....

I'm sorry that this is the best I have to offer right now. Apologies if you're a fan. Actually, apologies generally. Sorry, yeah?

Pavarotti knocks on the Pearly Gates.
St Peter opens up and says "oh it's you Luciano, come on in - squeeze through."
Pavarotti says; "hold on, I've got an envelope for you, from the Pope." St Peter opens the envelope and reads it.
"Here's that Tenor I owe you."
etc. etc.

Kilburn cool

So lazy London Underground workers decide to strike for a few days but then realise that after a day or so they're only wasting our time and theirs so they go back to work.

Fine by me I couldn't be bothered. Infact it gives me an excuse to use the car.

The car has air-conditioning and a shuttle which means you can listen to a range of songs as loudy as you like while still keeping cool (in all senses of the word).

Just to be really spiteful I make sure that whenever I'm stopped, I rev the car a few times just to emit extra noxious gases into the atmosphere.

This will simply hasten the demise of the polar bears which I will then casually blame striking Tube workers for. Fuck 'em.

Moving on...(or not)

My route home in the car takes me past a shop I have passed for nearly four years. I have always gone by and wondered who would ever shop at such a bizarre store in such an unusual spot in London?

It's nestled at the bottom of a run-down 1920s office block and because the products it sells are so peculiar, I imagine that it's actually been shut-down some time ago.

Nearly eight years ago all the land-line numbers in London changed, so Inner London dialling codes went from being 0171 to 0207.

As if still living in years past this shop's sign still has a 0171 number displayed.

Every Sunday I get a stack of newspapers to read and it's usually on Tuesday or Wednesday that I actually get around to paging through them.

Last night I'm having a flick through the Sunday Times Style magazine and see a piece about the "iconic" interior designer David Collins.

Paragrah two: "Collins is simply great company. He was one of just a handful of people who helped Madonna celebrate her 49th birthday recently. And what present did he give the Material Girl?
'An accordion from a little shop in Kilburn.'"

Today, on my way home I stopped, got out and took a picture of what is now my favourite shop in London.

To think that one of Britain's most-renowned designers traipsed down a filthy side-street in Kilburn to this shop to buy Madonna her birthday present.

I was tempted to go in and have a look but decided to press on home.

Inside I suspect there's a short, balding, grey old man, hunched over a desk madly tuning his accordions.

This is why I love London.

Pinch me

So I get up this morning and head for the gym.

Firstly I see Jack which immediately means I'm going to have a good day. "Who's Jack", you ask? I mentioned him here.

In short, Jack is the man I am going to marry but he doesn't know this yet. Well, he would be the man I'm going to marry if he's a bender. Right now I am 74% sure he is.

We cross paths while I'm at the watercooler and he says "hi". Fuck-me the week goes from good to fucken-amazing-ohmygod.

He's doing biceps so I decide to stalk him and do biceps too.

There is some close "ooh - sorry - just er, let me walk around you to get weights" moments which gets me all excited. Thank god I have shorts and underpants on and not the usual gym shorts with flimsy padding.

A while later he packs up his weights and leaves.

I look at the clock; 8.30am. My stalker-logic tells me that he obviously spends an hour in the gym so he gets there at about 7.30am. Tomorrow I'm setting the alarm for 7am.

I skip to work and spend most of the day writing my name with his imaginery surname.

I draw up the wedding plans, organise our guest-list and choose the song for our first dance.

There is one niggling problem though and that problem is aussieBum.

With the help of my accurate technical drawing I hope to illustrate just what happens.

Yes, I know they're cheap and nasty knickers and that they don't last long BUT! there's nothing worse than a pair that are on their way out.

Basically the elastic on the undercarriage, on either side of the crotch (indicated in the area in the purple circle) becomes loose which means that a small space develops between the knickers, your inner leg and your balls.

This results in it pinching every time you move whilst sitting down because the underpants shift with the movement, they pull in and then pinch you.

Does anyone else have this problem where you have to keep standing up to jiggle and try to unpinch yourself? It's really annoying.

With a looming Tube strike and clasping underpants I'm dreading the journey home.

Carriages packed to the rafters with people trying to get home while your underpants snap at your crown jewels.

I therefore decide to leave work early to avoid the chaos. I get home at about 3pm and realise that the mayhem's only due to start at around 6-ish.

The trip home is made all the better because the Tube is empty but mainly because in front of me is stood a cute guy with a lovely, perky ass.

It's the most pinchable butt I've seen in a long time.

And I bet his knickers aren't writhing all over the place.

So Monday's been a really good start. If things go this well hopefully by Wednesday I'll be waking up in Jack's bed and by Saturday he'll have moved in.

Of course then I can wear his underwear to test if they pinch too. I bet they don't.

Save me from myself

My mate Simon has been going out with Paul for nearly six years but they've known each other for much longer.

Simon is quite fit, he used to be on TV and of course in the early stages of our friendship I fancied him. However, over time my feelings for him "in that way" have disappeared.

Simon and Paul are both in their middle 30s, they live together, they have his & his 4x4s and even a dog. It's par for the course that in the next 12 months they're going to get "married".

So last night my mobile phone rings and it's Simon.

"Guess what?"

"Ohmygod! Paul's asked you to marry him"

"No. He's left me."

The next two-hour phone-call has Simon in tears for the most of it.

Apparently for the last few days they've been having row after row and Paul finally walked out leaving him a note which said his sister would be in touch about getting his things.

He admits that him and Paul haven't had sex for nearly two years. He says that one many occasions Paul would sleep in the spare room.

He says Paul admitted to visiting a sauna and loving it. He says this really upset him.

After a while admits that he too had strayed on more than one occasion, thanks to Gaydar.

They only got the dog last year to try and make the relationship work but both knew it wouldn't.

Simon admits that there's not much chance of it being rekindled because he's pretty sure that Paul is already in someone else's arms and has been for some time.

I am seriously upset for him. Hearing a guy sob is always really awful. They were a great couple together and it's a pity that it's disintegrated.

However, what depresses me more than anything is that, throughout the conversation I repeatedly have to stop myself thinking "great! maybe I'll get that shag out of Simon afterall."

The call comes to an end and I don't invite him to come around or to make him dinner as any good friend would. I don't even suggest dinner out.

I am scared things will get uncomfortable and I hate myself for it.

This morning, to keep him at bay or perhaps out of guilt I send him a text that says "hope you're feeling better having slept - phone if you want to talk".

Seconds later I get a text back; "thanks for listening to me last night and for being there. it means a lot. maybe speak later."

Secretly I hope he doesn't call. And I don't know why I am running away from this.

Bring it on!

Yeah, we've done the turn-offs... so now let's get to the turn-ons! So roll 'em up baby!

First is guys who are naturally muscular. There's nothing hotter than dudes who've developed muscle because they shovel shit endlessly or throw bricks around.

There's a huge house down the road being renovated and the some of the young guys climbing around the scaffolding are... all I will say is this: have you ever see the size of scaffolders' arms?

This guy looks pumped from driving the tractor or moving car engines. Rev me, bitch.
The next is one a little odd, though I think I have a pretty simple explanation: Camel cigarette advertising.

Yes, we used to sneak into cinemas to watch the grown-up movies which meant the film was preceded by endless ads for fags.

The Camel-man would push his Land Rover through the mud, kill a lion with his bare hands and emerge from the river in a speedo, water dripping off his hairy chest and then sit down and er, light up a Camel.

This would leave a big impression on little 11-year-old me. So yes, I really like it when I see fit guys 'avin a cigarette.

Maybe things would have been a little different if I'd been bombarded with adverts for Vogue Super-slim ciggies. Who knows?

Next is "young" guys (aged about 22 - 30) who have hairy chests. Hullo, it's hot, hot, hot. The guy in this picture is James Caan's son Scott.

Don't get me wrong, if a guy took his shirt off to reveal a totally smooth chest I wouldn't kick him out of bed either. But admit it, on the right guy - a hairy chest is fucken hot.

Finally - the biggest turn-on? Guys who are effortlessly sexy.

This guy looks like he isn't a slave to the gym. He obviously doesn't wax and he doesn't have the face of a supermodel.

I don't have a clue who he is, I found him on a "hot guy" picture search on MSN but I wanna marry him and all the others like him.

And on that note I'm going to gym and then a self-tan. Just to make sure that I am able to look effortlessly sexy too.

Queasy does it

Saturday morning and I wake up with Samantha Fox playing in my head. This amuses and pisses me off in equal measure. I decide to haul out some Marilyn Manson to try and dislodge her but she will not budge.

I have to do some shopping so trundle off to the nearest conflagration which happens to be Oxford Street.

I go into that mega-Boots opposite Mexx but the vapid masses dressed up in their mediocrity, stinking of Jade Goody perfume frighten me so I run back home.

Enough of this bollocks.

Anyway - so the legs competition is still running (geddit!) because I've received another entry. Yey! Please, if you have a happy-snap of your legs (or otherwise) please mail it to me: bobby.vanquish@gmail.com

These legs are fit too with some nice bulk to them. The quads look pretty big too which is great. What I like most about the picture is what's in the top right hand corner.

Which leads me nicely onto another photo I receive.

There's no explanation necessary suffice to say that I've saved all of your and his blushes with the large white box. (Even though he has nothing to blush about, trust me...)

There's no beating around the bush with this entry. Loving it.

The contest was supposed to be about the legs you walk on, not your middle leg! However, I think this picture is totally eligible. I love chutzpah and sending this takes a massive dose of it. Respek!

(Please, no jokes about "stiff competition" etc. However, further photos of a similar nature will be very gratefully received. E-mail as above...)

So since we're into all this superficial rubbish about who-looks-like-what, I thought that we should have more pictures.

Four things I'm not keen on. I don't know why I need to do this but here goes...

Yes, I know it's obvious but I don't dig hairy backs. If I met the man of my dreams and he took off his shirt to reveal a hairy back, I would get over it? Maybe. Probably.

Next on the "not" list is over-worked-out guys. I know steroids don't shrink the size of your willy but there's something about - hmmm... Not nice. I'm not turned on.

Bad tattoos are next. Tattoos of football stadiums. Tattoos of Jesus' "face". Ancient tahiti script arm tattoos. Tattoos in the small of your back. Nah, not keen.

What if the man of my dreams dropped his shirt to reveal a tattoo? I'd get over it easily. Unless it was all over his whole back. And it was a picture of SuperMarioLand. Or this...

Finally, on our "bad" list, it's piercings. This is where I draw the line. All of the above I can live with, body piercings I can't. Ears are fine, nose studs and eyebrows maybe.

Belly-button rings? Nope. Nipples? Absolutely not. Is it purely for pleasure? I've had a go at navel piercings before and my position isn't changed.

If I met the man of my dreams and he dropped his drawers to reveal a pierced knob I would have to stop. I'd go cold.

Aesthetically I think it looks awful. Apparently guys with rings through their willys can't pee in a straight line (is this true?) and I have a pathetic threshold for pain so even just looking at pictures of a pierced knob makes me wince.

People with studs in the napes of their neck also make me feel slightly queasy.

This picture is about as much as turn-on for me as a bowl of cat food.

Now listen, while trying to write this - the following has been happening...


The reason the video ends so abruptly is because the bedroom door opened and I was faced with the question that everyone has battled to answer at some point; "what on earth are you doing?"