support the fight against cancer—sponsor evijhserf’s mumsy in the chicago walk & roll. thank you please.
in tokyo, i take atif-san and greg-san to shibuya-ku, where we walking from harajuku station down to crazy shops near aoyama…
down one cramp street we hear muffled giggles and seen herds of meekish japanese schoolgirls rushing to and there. they were doing supercool stickerfun!
how to do supercool stickerfun is easy and cheap for all supercool boys and girls. for only ¥300 or ¥400, you pose and dance in a stickerfun box, with cameras whirling, backdrops dropping and instructions barking to you from the computer screens in easy-to-understand japanese.
after your photoshoot is shooted, you get to do supercool stickerfun picking, where you use magic wand and computer screen to click your supercool stickers! it takes two minutes to print the stickers, but two minutes is worth it for the supercool stickerfun!
oh, will you two knock it off already! shh shh shh shh come here. it’s okay. come here, it’s okay, shhh shh shhh….
my libido and my ego are huddled in the corner crying. i keep telling them that it’s okay, that it’s just a fluke, but they won’t listen to me… they just keep sobbing and sobbing and feeling sorry for themselves.
the past few weeks my mojo has been on overload… partially because of sydney and partially just because it’s my time.
tonight was a swing batter batter swing night of strikeouts.
met up with the loverly .gregiño and atif and andrew and mitch and eventually .heaven paul and qboy marcos at .heaven for a naughty monday night of debauchery.
strike one: i do a double take, a triple take, a quadruple take. it’s that cute waiter boy from the slug and lettuce right next to my office in waterloo. i’ve had lunch there a handful of times, with atif and with marky, and every time this lovely eastern european lad gets pleasantly nervous around me. he’s tall, youthful, lanky, and looks straight [aherm] outta a bel ami flick. last time he served me for lunch i stared him down, he dropped his whole tray, and i left him a big tip.
so, yeah, i see him at .heaven tonight, he smiles seductively, lets me buy him a drink, tells me his name is vivian, and then slowly but deliberately tells me that he’s not interested. not so much as a peck on the cheek. and, to think, i tipped him like £4 for lously service [no jiggy jiggy]. i’m going back on friday for some lunch lovin’, i tell thee!
strike two: i run into david, the tall, stylish, dark and handsome friend of mitch’s who was at my fabulous birfday party last weekend. he’s a sweet sexy lad, even if he works as a perfume sprayer at selfridges. how do i know him? well, i had a bit of a foursome with him the previous weekend, in celebration of my birthday. he was in my bed, and i’m a very [very] polite person.
of course, this time around, i run into him, he tells me, oh, hey, nick, good to see you again! i go in for the kiss, he turns his head and i get a big taste of his over-perfumed cheek. again an hour later. and, one more time an hour later for good measure. great, glad to know that i made a good impression.
strike three: long lost [innocent] ben, and old friend who, over the course of our friendship has blossomed into quite the handsome scene queen. sure he’s only 18, but this boy in about a thousand times less innocent than me. i met him when he had just tiptoed off the boat [as it were], and i helped to educate him about the ways of soho and tawdry gay london.
of course he brought his delicious boyfriend to .heaven. and of course the boyfriend was all over me as soon as ben went to the toilets. i’m not that kinda boy, generally [bro's before ho's, naturally!], but my advances upon ben and his boyfriend and both at the same time were met with very polite oh me oh my well we’re not that kind of couple. even if i’d already had a threesome with ben and even if this boy molested me 6 seconds after ben tiptoed to the bar.
there were more, of course. adrian the innocent/sleazy bartender, random brazillians lining my runway, and exes like invisible landmines trying to sink my monday night. can i please get a nice, firm, all-encompasing ctrl-alt-delete, please?
we can only receive
lots of gay homosexualists complain about the gay scene. they complain about the clubs [too expensive, too empty, too busy, too boring, too crazy], complain about the boys [same tired queens, everyone's ugly, everyone's too pretty], they internalize it as a reflection on their very being [i'm too young, i'm too old], complain about the flagrant brazen sexual nature of it all [i'm tired of one night stands, i'm not a piece of meat, how come i never pull], and, to top it all off they complain about the music [overplayed anthems, sick of this new music, sick of the same old stuff, how can i dance to this?!]
i’m sick of it all. cry me a fucking river. you make the best of it, you enjoy it for what it’s worth. you socialize with your friends or long-lost acquaintences or you meet new people or you enjoy some time by yourself. you dance like a madman or poke fun at the music or discuss the latest faux genre [robo electro pop clash, h.i.t.h. tribal booty house]
the best moment for me is 1147pm. the coat’s in the cloakroom, we’re negotiating first round of drinks, grouped together glancing around for familiar faces [and new targets and old landmines]. the music echoes over from two neighboring dancefloors, everyone looks sober fresh and ready for some magic.
another great moment happens around 114am, when my friends find me [doing my hands-in-pockets eric dance] hiding out in the middle of some dancefloor. earlier i had ditched my friends on the dancefloor, running laps around the club, bouncing around like a pinball, identifying and tagging each cute boy, each long-lost-i-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-week mate, getting printouts of each deejay’s playlist so i can time my breakdancing routines appropriately.
amusing and awkward is 357am, when i find myself outside the club, grey rain misting down on me, silhouetted by an orange streetlamp. chatting with the drunken club owner about his new hairstyle and making honest-to-goodness-i’m-not-sucking-up-to-you-for-guestlist smalltalk. the minicab drivers are so gently and politely and repeatedly and annoying shouting minicab? minicab? minicab? while my new kappa slapper east end bboy explains to his boyfriend why he’s taking me home instead. what’s your name again?
my friday gift to you is a fat genie in a bottle. enjoy!
tis been a very busy week, getting my affairs in order after my sydney/tokyo trip and after the theft of £4000 by a friend [okay, that's the last mention of it, i swear]. two weeks out of the uk, a little financial crisis, a birthday and i feel like my life’s rebooted itself again. i guess that’s good?
met up on monday with the oh-so-loverly andrew, sporting a new doo… he’s so precious, and always gives me the smartest books as presents. it’s not like we’re academically debating the homosexual eroticism of plato’s later works or anything… it’s more like oprah’s book club. we very happily tiptoed over to .heaven for my grand homecoming. they had a marching band lead me into the club, all of the drag queens bowed as low as their girdles would allow, and the bartenders put an extra coat of shiny chest wax on just for moi.
just like when studio 54 clung to its former glory in the early 80s, i believe the high-falooting days nights of .heaven are officially over. the vip toilets, formerly a safe haven for any types of rock-star-like activities, not only has cctv cameras installed, but crappy times new roman inkjet-printed signage highlighting said cameras. and the formerly swank full-length cubicle doors have had peepholes sawed into the top. how boring. we’re in london, right?
spent most of the evening with alberto, a lovely italian lad who ended up vomiting all over the vip room. i nursed him back to consciousness for a few minutes before running off with some freaky lad named alex. freaky generally in a good way, except for when he startled my flatmate mitch by accidentally crawling into bed with him.
wednesday met up with .gregiño, to continue the analysis of our sydney trip, and to contemplate the merits of a move to new york or even sydney. at the age of 27, having shifted homes too many times, i think it’s time to grow some roots. i’m expecting to have some sort of new york/london jetset lifestyle in a few years, but in the meantime i’ll be letting my weeds fester in this flowerbox.
had a very spicy thai lunch with felix, where we spent the whole 90 minutes excitedly chatting and smiling and patting each other on the back affectionately and taking the piss and just having a post-birthday love-in. that boy has a heart of gold, and insists on listening to, and advising me on, every single one of my [many] problems/issues/dramas. i’m going with him to martinique at the end of the year to ring in his 30th. i love hanging out with people older than me.
i also love hanging out with people that are naughtier than me, as i did last night with pornstar darian. he oh-so-sweetly took me out for my birthday, starting with drinks at friendly [of course], dinner at balans [of course] and clubbing at .discotec. i love how dynamic some of my friends [and some of my friendships] are, and it’s really groovy to see his career taking off. had a slumber party, and we debated the qualities of the different porn companies whilst trying to buy madonna tickets via ticketbastard [where darian used to work] i told him his gay mafia membership has been put on hold, since he was unable to obtain tickets for said concert.
my birthday was just a week ago—for those of you who haven’t managed to find a gift for me yet, i’ll take the one on the right. it totally suits me, i think i could take it out clubbing with me, make the other boys jealous… and i think it would fit like a glove.
three gay boys, travelling wham-bam-thank-you-glam style to mardi gras in sydney for a thuper-duper gay holiday. boys, booze, drama, drugs, sunshine, sassyness, clubbing, cockteasing. only one thing can make it any gayer… a three-disc in-the-mix compilation of the gayest dance music of all time. i present…
we’re talking cheesy dance, we’re talking gay anthems, we’re talking songs that defined the post-gen-x pre-gen-a’n'f generation. thunderpuss remixes, black divas, hands-in-the-air overprocessed dance chunes. my alterego jonny moirée has done it again! three discs, each available for download as a hefty 80mb mp3 file.
Continue reading ‘queer as fuck’
i am turning over a new leaf but the page is stuck.
diane arbus
it takes only one drink to get me drunk. the trouble is, i can’t remember if it’s the thirteenth or the fourteenth.
george burns
i don’t feel old—i don’t feel anything until noon. then it’s time for my nap.
bob hope
