Finding the Gems

You can find heart-warming stories in the most unexpected of places.

With over thirty years of misadventures on the Birmingham gay scene, socialising and cruising bars, pubs, clubs, saunas and secluded midnight nooks, I have tales to tell of the places, predicaments and people I have been in… but most importantly the humour and humanity I have encountered… on the gayside of the UK’s much maligned second city.

Shining a light on the scene unseen.

I was in a private members men-only club situated at the shadowy end of Lower Essex Street, which confidently describes itself as ‘The Midland’s horniest club’. While anything and everything can and does go on in this salacious bar, it was a particularly quiet mid-week. Only a modest early evening crowd had come in for a post-work drink and the chance of a hook-up.

I was occupying myself by casually exchanging taps and pleasantries with local guys on… well I’ll say a ‘popular gay dating app’… but I mean Grindr, when a friendly ‘Hello’ popped up in my messages from someone 10 meters way.

I looked up to see a petite, South Asian lad beaming a wide grin at me from the other side of the central bar that dominated the core of the club. The lad turned his doe eyes bashfully to the floor. I waited the few self-conscious moments that it required for him to gather the confidence to look back up, returned his smile, picked up my pint and walked over.

We introduced ourselves. His name was Nishant and it turned out that he was from a small town outside of Calcutta and in the UK on a three-year student visa.

Soon any hint of shyness had disappeared, and this guy showed that he loved to talk, chatting enthusiastically about his studies, future ambitions and friends, both in Birmingham and back home in India. One subject rapidly tumbling into the next in an engaging monologue, all delivered in his lyrical Indian accent. Most endearing, was the head wiggle, often referred to as the ‘Indian Nod’, that punctuated Nishant’s soliloquy, adding emphasis to key moments and marking changes of emotion, pace and tone, like a human metronome.

Sadly, his narrative took a downturn when he started to talk about a secret affair that he had been involved in with a man in his hometown. Things had turned sour after they had split and the bitter ex-lover had maliciously outed Nishant to his community, bringing shame and resulting in a temporary breakdown in his relationship with his parents. Feeling he had no choice, but to get away, his studies in Birmingham not only presented new opportunities, but also respite from the scandal.

When it came time to leave for the UK, Nishant’s mother and father refused to accompany him to the airport or even say goodbye.

He had one older brother with whom he was understandably nervous of broaching the subject of his sexuality for fear of further rejection.

When he finally mustered the courage to talk to the brother, he asked, “Are you also ashamed of me?”

The brother replied, “I am neither ashamed nor surprised… and have been deleting your browser history since you were twelve years old.” He had discovered his sibling’s taste in internet porn sites years before and had been keeping the secret safe ever since.

“I think I love your brother,” I gushed, once the story was over… and I could finally get a word in edgewise, “but hang on… TWELVE?!! Dirty boy!!!”

“What can I say,” Nishant replied, with broad grin and that characteristic wiggle of the head, “I was an early developer.”

Even in a bar notorious for anonymous cruising, casual bunk-ups and no-strings-attached fun, if you take a moment to look beyond the window dressing of slings and bars, rubber and leather you will find something else.

Within the shadows… you can find gems in the darkroom.

High N Horny Hell

Getting high and having extended sex sessions is a common part of the gay party scene. Apparently, It makes the whole experience phenomenal… but can be a very different matter if you find yourself the participant who isn’t lit like the Rockefeller Christmas tree.

In my experience, the Grindr tag HNH is best avoided.

There is a guy in my neighbourhood, who could have been the perfect regular fuck buddy. He is sweet; handsome; has a cute shy smile; beautiful, thick lashed eyes; and, best of all, his own place literally just around the corner. I should be popping to his gaff more regularly than I visit my local store, but disappointingly our liaisons have been marred by High N Horny Hell.

Our first chaste meeting occurred whilst taking my dog around the block on her evening walk.

I was waiting as she relieved herself in the shadows of a wheelie-bin, when two guys approached along the pavement. One was a gangly lad with fabulously flamboyant gestures, who was so busy chatting to his friend he failed to notice my dog, until she finished her business and gleefully popped her head out from behind the bin… just as they passed by. The unexpected appearance of my dog’s grinning snout and lolloping tongue sent this willowy youth into a panicked pirouette and he let out a shrill shriek like a boiling kettle.

I apologised, through my laughter, but the damage was done. The poor lad clutched his breast like a swooning debutante and collapsed onto his companion’s shoulder.

“He’s fine,” the friend assured me, as he led the limp lad away.

It was only then I registered just how handsome this friend was.

I turned to check him out one more time, before continuing the dog walk… just as he cast a glance back in my direction and offered a coy smile.

Weeks later, I received a message from an anonymous profile on Grindr.

Opening with, I THINK WE MET WHEN YOU WERE WALKING YOUR DOG, I quickly establishing that it was the friend from that evening encounter. We exchanged messages and he invited me over to his conveniently located home.

Things started well. He was very welcoming, pleasant company, and affectionate.

Out of the blue, he asked, “Do you mind if I get high?”

While not my thing, I have no qualms about what other people do, so told him I was fine with that. I expected him to roll a joint, but a line of coke was promptly drawn and snorted.

That moment everything changed.

What had been sensitive and sensuous… immediately became tense and passionless. He became rigid and stiff-limbed. Trying to assume any position was like attempting to erect a seafront deckchair. I cut things short.

With the meet initially so promising, we decided to meet again and give things another go. Again, he snorted. Although better this time, there was still a frustrating contrast between his pre and post drugs prowess.

Our third meeting proved to be our last. In his heightened state, he just lay in the centre of the bed, anxiously scanning the room, as though imagined horrors crawled the walls.

We occasionally bump into each other around the neighbourhood. He is always sweet and friendly. We smile, exchange pleasantries, and sometimes stop to chat, but we won’t be hooking up again.

I do occasionally look wistfully at his flat as I pass, lamenting the convenient shag buddy that wasn’t to be.

Another afternoon, I was in Birmingham’s gay village, when I received a Grindr message asking if I wanted to join two guys in their nearby apartment.

I downed my drink and made my way over, cussing their inability to give clear and precise directions. Why do some guys fail to automatically give important details, such as flat number, access codes, pre-warning of any potential obstacles or barriers, which could help a first-time visitor find their location? Sometimes, I feel like Indiana Jones trying to raid a long-sealed tomb: Find the hidden entrance behind the dumpster; go through a series of unmarked doors; negotiate the poorly signed inner courtyard; stumble through a labyrinth of ill-lit hallways; decipher the hieroglyphs; avoid the pit of snakes; and dodge a rolling boulder.

Eventually finding their flat, I was confronted with a floor strewn with food packaging, beer bottles and drugs detritus.

This does not bode well, I thought… and I suspected they weren’t getting their deposit back.

I did consider leaving, but both guys were fit (in a Brit chav/grey sweatpants kind of way).

The three of use began to play around on the bed.

After a while, one of the lads broke off to attend to some business amongst the trash filled floor.

His mate handed me condoms and lube and presented himself on all fours.

No sooner had I penetrated, than he plucked up his phone and began scrolling through apps. Next thing he was sending messages on Grindr. I could read his conversation. He was talking to another guy about joining him and his mate once I was done.

I was balls deep in him and he was setting up the next shag!

That is just bad manners.

I am a firm believer in each to their own, and support anyone’s choice to do whatever they want, but high and horny hook-ups just aren’t for me. I know there are countless people who regularly have satisfying drug fuelled sex sessions, but in my experience lit lovers are like drunk drivers, they think it makes them better, but in reality… it is all a bit of a car crash.

Brief Encounter

Swiping through social media, one Facebook post read:

‘So, someone asks to own a pair of my briefs. I asked him how much he was willing to pay and he replied, “Get a job,” and blocked me!’

Well, that’s a bit pants, I smirked.

Opening Grindr, I found a similar request.

YOU SEEM VERY MANLY, he flattered. A FEW GUYS HAVE SOLD ME THEIR PANTS WOULD YOU BE WILLING?

My thumb hovered over block, then I thought, No, let’s see where this leads.

OLD OR ON THE VERGE OF BEING THROWN ARE IDEAL, he informed me.

A lot of my underwear was starting to look a bit ropey. I am a typical bloke when it comes to holding onto worn clothes: Best T-shirts become casual T-shirts, which in turn become lounging on the sofa T-shirts, then gardening wear and finally go into ragbag, for dusters, and are rarely seen again.

I enquired, WHAT IS THE GOING RATE FOR UNDERWEAR?

The cash could buy quality undies for best… and a whole new drawer of Primark pants for every day.

TYPICALLY PAY £20. YOU ARE WELCOME TO SUGGEST A COMPETITIVE FEE.

I proposed a deal of the recommended £20 per pair, plus postage & packing, and told him optional extras were available, for an additional fee.

He asked, DO YOUR SKIVIES EVER HAVE SKIDS OR PISS STAINS?

OF COURSE, I admitted, DOESN’T EVERYONES?

THEN WHY ARE YOU CHARGING ME EXTRA FOR THEM?!!

He was the one who asked me to name my price, now he was taking umbrage.

TELL YOU WHAT, YOU CAN HAVE MY STAINS AND SKIDMARKS ON THE HOUSE, I generously offered.

Several years ago, I had an unfortunate incident where I monstrously soiled myself in the basement of Premier Inn. This fella would have loved the results… and probably paid premier rates.

On that accursed day, I woke with a delicate stomach, but decided all would be well, so headed to work.

Only as I passed through city centre, did I realise this wasn’t going to be a comfortable commute, suddenly doubling over with waves of cramp, the shit-sweats beaded my brow. I was in trouble.

The closest port was Premier Inn on the ramp, so lurched in that direction, clutching walls and railings when ‘contractions’ overwhelmed me.

Made it to the hotel without incident and frantically pressed the call button for the lift, which I rode to reception.

Spotting a sign pointing to toilets, I dashed through a set of double doors leading to stairs. Down I descended, until carpets and wallpaper were left behind and I found myself in a featureless concrete basement.

I realised something had gone amiss. It was toooooooo late, the head was showing, there was no stopping this poo-nami. I was about to drop off the kids! Oh Crap!!!!

There and then… I shat myself in the lower stairwell of Premier Inn, Birmingham. It wasn’t even diarrhoea, I just did a huge jobbie in my pants. I basically laid a baguette.

Lenny Henry would never ‘Rest easy’ again.

I waddled back to the lift and returned to reception. With as much dignity as one could muster, I approached the desk, walking like John Wayne, after three days in the saddle, feeling I could feature in his 1934 movie The Star Packer, or 1932’s Two Fisted Law.

“Excuse me,” I asked, “could you possibly direct me to the toilets.”

“Certainly, Sir,” replied the chirpy receptionist. “They are just over there,” she said, indicating the doors I had passed through only minutes earlier, “and down the first flight of stairs.”

In my panic, I had rushed past the clearly marked conveniences.

I cleaned myself up in the disabled loo and chucked my pooped pants in the sanitary bin.

My potential customer was still negotiating for my used underwear, U TALKING BRIEFS OR BOXERS?

TRUNKS AND BOXERS, I clarified, I FIND BRIEFS TOO SNUG.

The conversation then took a random turn.

CURIOUS… DO YOU HAVE ANY MUSIC INDUSTRY FRIENDS? I HAVE LOTS OF SONGS. I WOULD LIKE A GOOD PERCENTAGE OF ANY DEAL.

I was initially at a loss as how to respond, but then simply explained that I wasn’t in the music industry and didn’t know anyone who was, adding… ACTUALLY, I NEVER LISTEN TO MUSIC, WHICH PEOPLE TEND TO FIND ODD… ALTHOUGH, NOT AS ODD AS THIS CONVERSATION. LOL

His tone changed.

HERE WE GO WITH THE JUDGEMENT, he ranted, IF I WAS LOOKING FOR ANAL SEX, THAT WOULD BE FINE, BUT BECAUSE I HAVE A FETISH, THAT’S ‘ODD’!

I DON’T CARE HOW YOU GET YOUR KICKS, I assured him, firmly believing what anyone does is their own business, as long as all is consensual, and nobody gets hurt (unless they want to be), besides, I was willing to sell, so what right did I have to judge. IT WAS THE SUDDEN AND UNEXPECTED SWITCH TO MUSIC MOGUL THAT SURPRISED ME, I continued, then couldn’t resist… NO NEED TO GET YOUR KNICKERS IN A TWIST!

A deal was never reached.

It looks like my old pants are destined for the ragbag… after going through the washing machine a couple more times.

Eat Out to Help Out

No need to merely window shop when you find yourself horny on the high street… as there are a surprising number of places to go down in downtown.

I know at least one obliging shop assistant in city centre Birmingham who will pop into your changing cubical and gladly lend a hand should you require one. He makes a show of nipping in and out to fetch various items for the benefit of CCTV.

One way to get ahead in retail.

In one department store, I visited the restrooms and found myself distracted at the urinals by a fellow shopper.

Our furtive fumblings were interrupted by the arrival of store security. We quickly rearranged ourselves and tried not to look too flustered.

It became apparent the security guy was interested in the same thing we were when he flashed more than his ID.

He motioned me to join him in an empty toilet stall.

“I’m not sure,” I hesitated, “I don’t want to be caught in there.”

“Who’s going to catch you? I’m security… I’ll be in there with you.”

Unconvinced, I pointed to the bodycam at his chest and asked, “What about that?”

“It’s only turned on when needed.”

Which was more than could be said about him, I thought.

There are spoilsports who scupper instore shenanigans.

I bumped into an acquaintance out shopping one afternoon. At a loose end, I joined him as he searched for a new T-shirt for that evening’s planned misadventures on the gay scene.

Having found a selection of shirts he liked, we headed to the changing rooms. I moved to follow him into a curtained cubical, only to be stopped, by a member of staff.

“Sorry, but only one person allowed in a cubical at a time,” she informed us.

Our intentions had been vanilla innocent. I was only going to offer my opinion as he tried on each item… whilst admittedly admiring his smooth buff bod’ as he changed.

I ended up waiting outside with the bags.

When he emerged, he had made, what I thought, the dubious choice of a floral print of leaves and flowers, which put me in mind of the wallpaper at Equator (but without the monkeys), a style that looks funky on the walls of a bar, but I wasn’t convinced worked on clothing.

I bumped into him later that night, wearing the T-shirt… and had to admit it did suit, although he would probably be best avoiding Equator for risk of fading, chameleon-like, into the decor. No one wants to be a wallflower.

I’d heard rumour of a Pakistani lad at a family run furniture business who was grateful for any distraction from the tedium of manning the store.

I called in to see if I could provide relief.

After several minutes of me feigning interest in flatpack furniture, the guy asked, “Are you on Grindr?”

The next thing, he popped a ‘Back in 5 Minutes’ on the door, manhandled a mattress into position to block the view through the shopwindow and led me to the rear of the store.

We were getting down to business (at the family business) when he suddenly cocked his head and anxiously listened for sounds.

“Is everything Ok?”

“Yes, I think so,” he replied. “I thought for a moment my uncle was back from the warehouse.”

I had unexpectedly found myself in that scene from My Beautiful Laundrette, where Daniel Day-Lewis and his mate nearly get caught in the act at the back of the laundromat.

It was a false alarm.

One evening, I received Grindr messages, inviting me to meet a guy at some location in Birmingham’s Southside District.

When I arrived, it turned out to be a fast-food outlet. I could see the guy stood at his post through the shop’s floor to ceiling glass frontage.

I walked in and joined him behind the counter, where he unzipped and invited me to play in plain sight of the wide window and unlocked door.

I dropped below counter height.

For anyone passing it would look like the guy was on his own, but I did wonder, What would I do if a customer came in?

I decided, if they had only called in for takeaway, I would remain hidden. If they were dinning in, I would have to reveal my presence. I couldn’t remain crouched behind a counter for the entirety of their meal… my knees wouldn’t take it!

I would just pop up and declare something along the lines of, “Well, your wiring seems in working order. I’ll send you my invoice,” and stroll out.

“Let’s go upstairs,” the guy suggested.

He locked the entrance and led me to a door at the back of the shop.

“I can’t turn on the lights,” he explained, “and we will have to be quiet as there is someone in the office.”

I was led down a dark corridor. Passing a frosted office window, I could make out the shape of a man sat behind a desk, talking on his phone. We crept silently up the stairs, flattening ourselves against the wall and keeping to the shadows.

The upper floor was a spacious area strewn with old business papers and office furniture. I was led to the rear most room and basked in illumination from a streetlight outside the window.

As we descended the stairs, the guy from the office was stood in his doorway.

Quick as a flash, I announced, “Well, I’ll certainly consider renting the space. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” my new acquaintance played along, “I look forward to hearing from you.”

I engaged the perplexed colleague in an awkwardly sticky handshake and quickly left.

So, next time you walk by a shop displaying a sign stating ‘BACK IN 5 MINUTES’, wonder what is happening behind closed doors… and hope they have rinsed their hands before reopening for business.

Bedroom Farce

Cash cascaded across the pavement… and they didn’t even bother to stop and pick it up!

I was heading to an impromptu post-work Grindr meet. My evening walk to Wolverhampton train station had been diverted to a mews of town centre flats by a tap, flurry of messages, cock shot and location. A case of commutus interruptus.

I wasn’t entirely convinced by this guy’s goofy face pic, but hoped it was just an unflattering photo and suspected he would look better in person. It is acceptable to backout of a hook-up in these situations, although an excruciating manoeuvre to tactfully execute… and hard not to take to heart when it happens to you.

I once arrived on a stranger’s house as arranged but was unable to get a response to my knocks.

I’M AT THE DOOR, I messaged.

I KNOW, they replied.

Their profile suddenly vanished. I’d been blocked. I was stood on their doorstep knowing I now had to walk away fully aware that they would be watching me depart.

It can be brutal out there, but you can’t be everyone’s type.

Heading to the location of my Wolverhampton detour, I cut along one busy street where a homeless guy sat on the pavement with a plastic pot of coins in front of him.

A passing pedestrian accidently kicked the container, scattering its contents… then kept on walking! Just because this guy’s life was in the gutter (well, a few meters from it) didn’t mean that passer-by had the right to totally ignore the mishap they themselves had just caused.

I stooped to gather coins… then added a few more to his collection.

When I arrived at Grindr guy’s flat, I was relieved to meet an attractive lad, with cute smile, dark floppy hair and softly almond shaped eyes. He really needed to update his profile picture.

This was my reward for picking up scattered pennies. My Karma Sutra.

I slipped off my shoes and followed him up several flights to the top floor of three-storey accommodation at the rear of Victorian shops and into a compact bedroom, where he drew the curtains…

“Are you studying history?” I asked during pillow talk, having clocked the subject dominating his bookshelves.

“They belong to my flatmate,” he told me.

“Is this his room? We haven’t just done the deed on his bed have we?!”

“No. I haven’t lived here long, he still hasn’t moved all his things out of my room,” he said. “He’s at the gym.”

At that moment, there was the sound, from three floors down, of the front door closing.

“I don’t think he’s at the gym anymore,” I noted. The guy looked concerned. “Is that a problem? You are out to him, right?”

“Well, yes. He’s gay too, but…” He didn’t need to say anymore. I got it. He didn’t want to be caught in the act. “I’m sorry, but would you mind staying in here while I go down and find out what’s going on?”

I promised to stay as quiet as Anne Frank (quieter in fact… as she got rumbled).

He slipped guiltily from the room.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been someone’s dirty secret and I’d endured worse hiding places.

Half a lifetime ago, I was vaguely seeing some guy I had picked up on the scene. We were in that honeymoon period of one-night-stand, followed by a few successive meets… while we both figured out how to politely say we really weren’t interested in each other.

We were under the covers in his bedsit when a key rattled in the lock.

I found myself un-ceremonially shoved from the bed and bundled into the room’s fitted wardrobe.

As he closed the sliding doors he hissed, “It’s my landlord… stay quiet!”

I sat in that cramped space on a pile of crumpled clothes and random shoes, with shirttails dangling in my face, living the classic sitcom scenario, as they waffled on about some mundane matter… for an eternity.

Finally, I heard the landlord leave and the wardrobe doors slid back open.

“Sorry about that,” he apologised. “I hate the way he just lets himself in.”

“Yes… I’m not that keen on it either!!! Now help me up, my legs gone to sleep.”

Back in Wolverhampton, my Grindr acquaintance returned from checking on his flatmate’s unexpected return and told me, “I am going to have to sneak you out.”

“My shoes are by your front door. Please don’t throw me out in my socks!”

He nipped back down to discreetly retrieve my footwear then returned and beckoned me to follow. We tiptoed across the landing and down the stairs, matching footfalls to make it sound as though there was only one person, like a couple of tribal warriors.

I wasn’t sure how he planned to smuggle me out unobserved, until we reached the middle landing, where they had a lounge with kitchenette leading off to the left. While the other man about the house was making himself a hot drink, my accomplice stood in front of the lounge door to help conceal my escape as I slipped away.

Moments after leaving, I received a text apologising for the way the encounter had ended.

I assured him it was all good… and besides, it had given me material should I ever wish to write a bedroom farce.

London’s glittering West End theatres wait in breathless anticipation for the opening night of ‘Confessions of a Middle-Aged Sex Addict’.

Relieving the Grind of Grindr

Grindr is a popular gay men’s dating app… where dating is the last thing on anyone’s mind (In fact, as I was writing that opening sentence a combination of a mistype and predictive text corrected it to the far more accurate ‘the arse thing on anyone’s mind’. Maybe I have ‘prophetic text’ installed?).

Most conversations on Grindr go from ‘Hi’, or sometimes the awkwardly accurate typo of ‘Ho’, to an exchange of cock shots in under a dozen messages. Not that I’m complaining. I wholeheartedly believe that this is what Grindr is there for. I get a little irritated with pithy profiles that whine, ‘All anyone wants is sex on here!’ or ‘If you are only after hook-ups, don’t message me.’. If you ain’t after a shag, then don’t go on Grindr! It is like boiling a kettle then moaning that the water is too hot. That’s what it’s there for.

Despite the bracingly direct approach Grindr encourages, I do like it when someone manages to show a glimpse of their personality. My favourite profile I ever read admitted on behalf of us all, ‘These are our best photos guys… it’s all downhill from here’.

My own profile reads something like: ‘I like guys that are darker than me, but as I am ginger that isn’t hard to do.’ If you spot me out there, say ‘hello’… and send pics.

I have one gambit that tends to wean the men from the boys. When asked for that ubiquitous cock shot, I sometimes send a photo of me stood next to a friend’s chicken coup proudly holding a feathery bundle of poultry (it is actually a hen and not a cock, but let’s not quibble). This can sometimes result in an instant block from the nonplussed recipient, but if they can’t take a joke, then it’s no great loss, but more times than not it results in a good bit of banter.

By the way, while on the subject of ‘cock shots’, I know a woman whose surname tragically is Cockshott. To make matters worse her first name is Gaynor. Gay Cockshott! GAY COCKSHOTT!!! The poor woman is named after those images that we bander about like bonbons. She must dread registering for anything, but on the plus side she has a readymade drag name. I know of another unfortunate whom, through marriage, is now Gaynor Hooker. Let that one sink in.

I really enjoy misappropriating Grindr on occasion. I have a gay neighbour with whom I would chat to on the app, long before we ever spoke in person. I would delight in sending him random neighbourly messages asking to borrow a cup of sugar or reminding him about recycling collections. The more banal the better. Thankfully, he found this nonsense mildly amusing too and played along, otherwise it could have resulted in an instant block, which could have made things awkward next time we were putting the bins out.

On one occasion, I managed to utilise his talents as a math teacher, when a ridiculously beautiful guy appeared on Grindr, showing up as only 20 meters from my house.

I sent his picture to the neighbour, IS HE AT YOURS?

NO, he replied. I WISH HE WAS!

I HAVE JUST STOOD ON MY BENCH, I confessed, BUT I CAN’T SEE HIM IN NEXT DOOR’S GARDEN.

WE CAN TRIANGULATE HIM, he suggested.

It would have been like a scene from Ridley Scott’s Alien movies, where the militia track down the creatures with thermal heat sensors.

“I’ve got a fix on one, Ripley! 20 meters… 18 meters… 10 meters… 1 meter! Bugger me backwards, he’s in the ducting!”

We never found him.

On one occasion, I was having a drink in a particularly quiet bar when I noticed the bored bar manager scrolling through Grindr on his phone, so I sent him a message.

CAN I HAVE ANOTHER PINT OF SAN MIGUEL… AND A BAG OF NUTS, PLEASE?

Moments later, I heard a bang on the counter as the barman slapped down his palms. I looked up with a start to see him glowering at me with his typical sassiness.

“What?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“Seriously?! You couldn’t just ask for a drink like a normal person?”

“I could,” I admitted, “but where would be the fun in that?”

He shook his head with a smirk, “Un-be-lievable!”

Well, it made a change from, DO YOU HAVE A COCK PIC?

Next time someone asks me for one of those, I may forgo the photo of me beside the chicken coup and instead send a picture of the lovely Gaynor.

A Babe in the Woods

My sleep patterns go haywire when I am off work for long periods. I find myself waking in the early hours and going downstairs to read or watch TV, even sometimes cooking a pre-dawn breakfast, only to then crash on the sofa and sleep until late morning.

During these bouts of insomnia, I often distract myself by scrolling through Grindr and chatting to anyone else that is up. These interactions never lead to night-time hook-ups, as I am unwashed, crusty eyed and have midnight dog breath (Yes, quite the catch!) and besides, my partner is upstairs mumbling to himself in his sleep.

On one occasion though, I received a set of pictures that were irresistible. He had darkly handsome face pics staring with bad boy attitude into the camera, toned body shots of a guy who knew his way around a gym and the other shots were… well, average to be honest, but meticulously well groomed.

We exchanged messages for a while then he said he could accommodate and sent his location. Only a couple of roads away! I was understandably cautious about heading out to meet a stranger at 2am. Although the guy was hot, he exuded an air of brooding danger.

YOU COMING? he messaged.

I hesitated. Was this a good idea? Probably not. I should be sensible and stay safe… but those pecs, … that tough-guy scowl, … that fastidiously shaved scrotum.

YES. GIVE ME 15 MIN

I quickly washed, brushed my teeth and threw on some clothes. I paused to write a note for my partner should he wake up and find me gone, which I left in a prominent spot in the lounge. ‘Gone to meet a Grindr shag. Back soon. Don’t wait up… well, just go back to bed! X’

I really shouldn’t be doing this, I thought as I walked up the silent street. I have heard of incidents of men being lured into an attack or mugging on Grindr!

Moments later, I was back home. I decided to leave my wallet behind, just in case this was a set up and to take my phone instead, so I could call for help if necessary.

By the time I arrived at the guy’s flat, I was a jitter of nerves, having considered numerous unpleasant scenarios that could await me.

This is ridiculous. Anything could happen. Why am I not under a blanket on the sofa, watching Sharknado 3 on the Horror Channel or, even better, asleep in bed… like everyone else? I should turn around and just go back home.

He was stood in the illuminated entrance of the flats beckoning me in.

Shit, too late now, I thought.

Alarm bells really started to ring when he explained that we couldn’t use the flat after all, as he was staying with a friend.

He motioned me towards a doorway under the communal stairs.

Oh my God, I panicked, I am going to end up like one of those missing schoolgirls that spend fifteen years locked in a basement and eventually emerge, blinking into the light, with a litter of children/siblings!

It turned out that my imagination was getting away with me and the door didn’t lead into basement dungeon. It was just a dusty store cupboard containing the gas meter, fuse box and a long-irrelevant copy of the Yellow Pages.

“We can’t have sex in here,” I told him. “There’s no lock… and besides, it has a glass door!”

“My car is outside. We could drive somewhere.”

This could have been my opportunity to backout, but he was menacingly good looking with a rugged beard and… seriously, those biceps.

I suggested a local park.

As we drove there, I introduced myself and made a point of repeating my name several times, as I had heard somewhere that assailants are less inclined to attack if they can relate to you as a person rather than just a victim. I think I had picked that up from watching Silence of the Lambs. He listened to me in ominous silence (just like those lambs) and didn’t smile.

It took little time to navigate the empty roads and we were soon stood at the threshold of the ominously pitch-black park.

If he intended me harm, then I had enabled it to happen. I had agreed to meet this risky looking stranger and even suggested we go to this deserted spot in the dead of night. ‘He only had himself to blame,’ my epitaph would read… but those abs were too good to resist.

As I led the way into the darkness, I was suddenly aware of a quick movement behind me. Had he got a knife?!

The guy abruptly called out my name.

I turned to see him stood there with his arm extended towards me, his eyes wide with fear. He was scared of the dark and wanted me to hold his hand and lead him down the uneven path.

Suddenly, there was a flutter above us.

He jumped and whimpered, “What was that?!”

“Just a bird,” I reassured him.

I took his hand.

We walked through the foreboding canopy of trees, like Hansel and Gretel… well, Hansel and Hansel.

“There’s something over there,” he whispered nervously, at the sound of rustling in the foliage.

“It’s fine, you are safe,” I told him, pulling him close. “It’s just nocturnal animals. We are disturbing them. It is probably just a fox.”

“A FOX!!!” He practically screamed. He looked terrified, “I’m too nervous! I don’t think I can do this.”

I now saw it from his perspective. I was the stranger who had turned up on his doorstep in the dead of night and tempted him to an isolated spot full of eery shadows and wild creatures.

I cupped his face with my free hand, stroked that beard and we kissed.