Sunday, 21 March 2010


This is something I wrote about 2 years ago in St Petersburg. I can't tell you what inspired me because I honestly don't know. This is not my usual type of fiction but I feel it works rather well.


The bathroom looks like the aftermath of a murder scene. Reddened fingerprints are tattooed on the sink and the mirror; the stains of her attempts to recapture a lost youth. The light, not harsh, shines down upon her age-ravaged face, illuminating the hollows that her eyes have become, emphasising each wrinkle, each crease.

She was desirable once. At one time, makeup had been simply a way to increase her evident beauty. Soldiers who visited the theatre at which she had worked as an actress had always whistled when she walked onstage to play her role; some had even said distasteful words – words of appreciation, but distasteful nonetheless – but even these she had been able to shake off, smiling in the direction of the wolf-whistles and gasps and cheers. The Great War, could one call any war such, had been a great time for her in terms of her career.
She was unhappy, though she did not show it. Her husband was called up to fight for his country. His parents had been so proud of him, as had she, but she knew what the war effort meant for men like him. He was a strong man, but she alone knew that the war would weaken him. Everyone had praised him highly for going off so bravely to fight, to win. And no one expected any harm to come to any of their brave boys in the Great War. After all, it was all supposed to be over by Christmas.

Christmas came and Christmas went. In March of the next year, the Great War no longer seeming so great, she had heard that he had been taken to a special camp. Her work meant that she only saw the soldiers who were on leave, and even then only in the dim light of the small theatre: she never really understood what was going on. Her husband was stationed overseas; he was probably doing the same things as the soldiers whom she entertained with plays; having fun, laughing, drinking, smoking and waiting anxiously for the day when everything would be over and he could come home, and back to her waiting arms.

In April, a car pulled up across the road from her house. Two uniformed men got out and crossed the street, and one of them took his hat off and knocked loudly on her front door. When she opened it, the younger of the two men, who was still wearing his hat, asked whether or not she was the wife of a particular soldier in the war effort. When she replied that she was indeed that woman, the elder man exhaled and requested that they be invited inside.

The bathroom looks like the aftermath of a murder scene. Reddened fingerprints are tattooed on the sink and the mirror; the stains of her attempts to recapture a lost youth. The light, not harsh, shines down upon her age-ravaged face, illuminating the hollows that her eyes have become, emphasising each wrinkle, each crease. Even after the two men had explained all that had happened, even after they had put her in contact with her husband’s poor parents, even after the funeral itself, she still does not believe that what they told her was true. So every day, even now in her seventy-fifth lonely year of life, she stands in front of the bathroom mirror with a little pot of rouge, a lipstick and an eye pencil to recreate the beauty that was hers in her youth. Then she waits anxiously for the day when everything will be over and he can come home, and back to her waiting arms.

Wednesday, 27 January 2010


It's one in the morning. All I've done today is go to work, hate myself for working where I do, come home and chat to (or argue with) friends. It's been pretty uneventful.
With that in mind (and mostly because I want to go to sleep) it's time for me to post a fiction here again.

The piece I'm posting today is called Truth. It is about a breakdown in a relationship after the husband admits he is having an affair. Its part of a quartet of stories I wrote while living in Russia and I'll be concentrating on posting these over the next few days.


The wine bottle lies smashed on the wooden floor of their living room; there’s claret everywhere. He lies unconscious next to the full-length mirror at the far end of the room, his hair dyed red from a mixture of wine and his blood. The truth hurts.

The wine is the fuel for the fire. They’ve already argued tonight; he doesn’t like that her job requires such long hours. He suspects that she’s having an affair. She suspects nothing.

It’s seven in the evening when they sit down to a meal she slaved over all afternoon. He does nothing to help; but then, he does nothing at all. Since he was made redundant, he sits in front of the television, dead-eyed, his face expressionless. Sometimes he goes for hours, sometimes days, without saying anything to her, and he never turns off the television either. He goes out at night about twice a week, and on these nights, he leaves his mobile at home. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want her to be able to contact him.
They haven’t had sex for three months now, but occasionally, using the TV as inspiration, he masturbates when he thinks she’s not looking, his hands down his trousers or in his pockets, fingers fumbling more and more frantically until he comes and they rest.

The meal is a lasagne, home-made chips and a salad, during which they say barely a word to each other. Afterward, still not really having made up from the previous argument, they retire to the living room. He opens a bottle of wine and pours the first glass. The stage is set.

By nine-thirty, he’s drunk. She sips a glass of wine, her second, and watches his poor attempt to pour his fifth. Some of the alcohol spills from the bottle to the wood of the floor. She sighs as he collapses into his chair and drains a third of the glass. No words are spoken for a while, which gives her time to think. If she wanted to, she could leave him. There’s nothing to stop her – he’s not given to acts of violence or anything. The truth is she’s just tired of him. She’s fed up of his drinking, their lack of any kind of communication or sex. She’s had enough, but she loves him too much to leave him. Once he gets another job, she’s sure everything will return to the way it was before, when they were young and reckless. She misses those days.

He tells her about the affair after breaking into the third bottle for his sixth glass of wine. He laughs in her face and giggles to himself as he sips from the glass, taking unstable steps backward to register her reaction. A certain injustice strikes her then. Wasn’t it she who was going to leave him? Wasn’t it she who realised that she loved him too much to break his heart like that? And now he tells her this. She’s in her twenties, apparently, and they’ve been seeing each other for four months. He tells his wife that the reason he stopped having sex with her was for fear of calling out the wrong name in bed – this young girl is just so much better than her.

As he giggles again and turns away from her, she slowly and silently picks up the three-quarters-full wine bottle from the coffee table. He’s admiring himself in the full-length mirror, smirking and sipping his wine. She holds the bottle by the neck, says his name and swings in the direction of his head. By the time he registers what she is doing, the glass of the bottle connects with his head and he goes down hard on his knees. The bottle smashes and she drops the part of it that she is holding. His blood leaks from the wound she made with the bottle, as if his head were a dripping tap. Her eyes flash dangerously in the mirror in front of her as she smoothes out her dress; tidies her hair slightly. She knows she should phone for an ambulance, but instead she picks up her own glass of wine and takes a sip, smiling.

The truth hurts.

Monday, 25 January 2010

Russells and Muscles

Well I DID say I was going to alternate posts, didn't I? And I know I also said that this wasn't a gay blog... By that I simply meant that I'm going to be writing about stuff that I do or like, and while some of that stuff is not gay, some of it certainly is.
Enough from me... I'm posting this now because I'm going on a dinner-and-a-movie date tomorrow night (cliche, much? Whatever, it was my idea) and I don't know if I'll get time to do it then.
The guy I'm seeing asked me to go round to his place tonight. Fortunately the last train had already left so I couldn't get there. I hate that I'm only a week into even knowing this bloke and already I'm trying to fix it so that we can't see each other - what is wrong with me?

Perhaps it's because he doesn't look like this:

or even this:

or EVEN this:

Say what you want about his ears, his clean-shaven, innocent persona or the fact that he looks about 17 - there is something about Russell Tovey that is undeniably gorgeous. I've yet to find a person, male or female, who can tell me WHY they like him - the fact is he is absolutely adorable. And you know it. Give in to it, seriously.

Oh - did I mention that he is probably the only person to be featured on this blog who actually IS gay?

Back to what I was saying before I got distracted by the handsome specimens you see before you... I do this EVERY TIME. Whenever someone likes me I instantly try and find a way to sabotage it for myself. And the crazy part is, I am totally and utterly fed up to the back teeth of being single!
What can I say? I'm a perfectionist even in matters of this nature. I want what I want and I'm going to get it.

I guess the real reason for my reluctance in the face of this absolutely gorgeous individual that I'm meeting tomorrow night is simply this: We both perform the same function. Sexually. I mean it's like bringing two magnets together and trying to get them to connect without forcing them screaming through airspace. We are both, essentially, takers. Receivers. Bottoms. However you want to colour getting fucked. And I no longer know what to do about that. I know sex isn't everything but it is an important factor in a functioning relationship. But I suppose we'll see what happens, right? I mean it's early days yet, we've only known each other a week (you may, in fact, be wondering why I'm even thinking about this so soon) and there is every chance one of us will have totally gone off the other by the end of the week but I don't want to take the risk of committing to a loveless relationship which I will regret. This is what's known as becoming my mother.
It wouldn't be entirely LOVELESS I don't suppose, it's just that... I don't know. This is so so hard to explain, to put into words anyone reading this (even me) can understand. I don't wish sex to become a perfunctory act, a requirement of rather than an enjoyment of my relationship.

This is becoming too self-involved, too weird. I'm building this up too much in my head (and of course, my self-hatred when it comes to my body isn't helping - I'm almost positive he'll take one look and run screaming into the night) but he did say to me the other day that he wasn't a massive fan of body hair and well, you know... I have some. I am pretty hairy I guess. But I never envisaged that that could break a relationship.
Perhaps I'll have to find another way to break this off - if I even want to. At times I feel like I'm just going through the motions because I'm sick of sleeping alone in a double bed. Part of me feels that I'd rather do that than sleep in one WITH someone if I don't love them or am not attracted to them. In fact, its not even that I'm not attracted to him, I'm just... There's something there, some palpable thing between us, but I just don't know if its enough.

I guess the question is whether or not I've got the balls to find out. And if its not enough, can I handle being alone again?
The answer's probably no.


Yesterday I posted three different things. I was bored. Two of these posts had pictures of celebrities in them, and in some cases those people were less than clothed. I guess I was trying to make a point, perhaps shock myself a little by posting them. I wanted to hide behind this semi-anonymous medium and say to the world "Look! These are the kind of men I like, but you can't judge because you don't know me".
But why should I hide? Am I ashamed of my feelings, my taste in men? Granted, some of the men I find attractive are less than conventionally hot. This doesn't mean I should apologise for finding them attractive and as I said in a previous post, as much as I may wish it, I'm not inferring anything about their sexualities at all. They're just nice to look at.
Writing this thing is like coming out all over again. Except this time I'm doing it differently.
I remember the first person I came out to was a friend of mine from school. I told her I was gay and we spent the rest of the afternoon walking through a shopping centre, my friend stopping every now and then (basically, every time a bloke under 30 went past) and hissing "What do you think of him?" in my ear.
Eventually I just started saying I found people attractive even if I didn't because it was so obviously what she wanted to hear. Picture the scene if you will - I'm fifteen at this point and my friend has never experienced someone craving the sexual attentions of a person of the same sex before. I mean, sure, we joked about it in school - who didn't? When you're fifteen, EVERYTHING is gay. "Gay" is just another word to stick in your teen vocabulary, like "cool" and "shit" and all the other words you'd hear out in the playground. You're discovering who you are. So how am I supposed to explain to my friend that the sixteen-year-old skinny blonde kid she just pointed out to me in a Virgin Megastore was not as hot as his dad, aged about 40, who trailed along behind him looking bored and carrying four shopping bags, bulging with stuff?
Of course, the whole things smacks of some nightmarish, Freudian father fetish, right? You're reading this even now, holding your breath til your eyes light on the words "never got on with my father" or "felt unloved and rejected by a male authority figure" or "lacked a strong male role model when I was growing up".
All of that is bullshit. I have a great relationship with my father, always have done, always will do. He's not a huge fan of me being gay but we just don't discuss it. The fact is that I don't know why I feel this affinity for older men, I just do. I always have - I have never yet dated anyone younger than me, I've always got on better with people older than myself (men AND women)... I guess I just perhaps feel older than I am.
Right now I'm seeing someone. He's a couple years older than me. He's got dark hair, a tattoo... But I don't know that it'll go anywhere. It doesn't thrill me when I see him, I don't get really excited every time he sends me a message. The kisses I send back are routine. They perform a function. He is gorgeous, his eyes sparkle.
It is a conventional attractiveness; he is very beautiful, very pretty. He's got a beard but only just - it's just a thin line of hair framing his jawline. His chest is home to sparse hair, recently grown, just pushing through the follicles of his chest. He does wax it quite often but he says he's trying to grow it out. As much as I do like him I can't help but think, every time we kiss, "If you grew your chest hair and grew a proper beard I would love you".
My problem with this thing is that I want what I don't have. Everyone does. It's this century's Human Condition. I'm pretty sure that even if he DID grow a full beard (not that he ever would) or have more chest hair than hair on his head, there would still be something about him that I would want to "improve". He'd be too camp, or I'd want him to lose his piercings (which I kind of do) and ultimately I've got to ask: "What do I want? What am I trying to get by physically "improving" him in this way? Why isn't he good enough, and will he ever be?"
I know the answer as well as any self-respecting gay man - I want a straight boyfriend. We all do, secretly. The straight man is the gay dream.
He is lovely though, and I feel so horrible for saying all of that stuff. I don't think I'm allowing myself to just be happy, you know? I think no matter which bloke I'm with, there'll always be a reason why that one over there, the one I'm not holding hands with, the one getting off with that other bloke, is better.
So perhaps I should throw in my lot and go single and celibate. For some reason I can't bring myself to like the blokes that like me. Maybe I think I don't deserve them. Maybe I still hate myself for being who I am and this is my grown-up version of self-harm that doesn't involve scissors and pins and blood.

Sunday, 24 January 2010

Outside My Type

So, I've decided I'm gonna alternate posts - one post will be merely text (whether fiction or random musings) and one will contain something that is not text - whether this be audio, visual, audio-visual... you get the gist, right?

First of all I'd just like to point out that this is NOT (though appearances may fool you) a gay blog. It's just a blog written by a gay man and that is it. Any photos I put up of people are not representative of their sexuality, lifestyle, religion, political leanings and all that stuff. Glad we got that straightened out - pardon the pun. Yeah, occasionally I'll write something about being gay, or gay stuff, or whatever but I'm not gonna bombard people with "Look how gay I am with my gayness" or any of that. In fact most of the blokes I like are straight. This is a problem.

See, I'm what is known in the gay world as a "twink". For those of you not in the know, that means I'm thin, pretty young-looking, I put hair products on my hair etc etc. I may be gay but I'm no queen and I like manly stuff just as much (well alright, perhaps not quite as much) as the next guy. I mean I like rugby players (you may appreciate this already) but the only place I'm liable to be rolling around with them is a bedroom rather than a muddy field with 50,000 spectators. This is what's known as "liking outside my type". People seem to be under this ridiculous impression that because I dress how I dress (that is, fashionably) and am thin/skinny and have no facial hair etc that this is what I'm looking for in a bloke.

This is so far from the truth it's unbelievable.

I mean yeah, someone who dresses well would be nice but aside from that I represent the antithesis of what I'm looking for in a partner. Ultimately I like rugby players, bears (you know, guys with beards, chest hair, the lot), strongmen, stocky blokes...
MEN, in other words. I mean basically, if you religiously wax your eyebrows and shave your chest before cracking open a WKD on a Friday night and then running up and down your city's gay district with your top off, only to reveal what is essentially the body of an overdeveloped twelve-year-old as you mince down the street with an overexaggerated lisp, then I don't wanna know. Not to put too fine a point on it.

Look, perhaps a visual explanation will help you out. Avert your eyes if offended by actual masculinity.

I think you probably get what I'm trying to say right? The only problem is that because I'm small, skinny and look about 17 I have a VERY hard time getting blokes who aren't small, skinny and looking about 17.

So what to do? I mean I guess I could just put a load of weight on (tried it), join a gym (er, no way - I hate my body enough without 60 buff guys in short shorts confirming my worst fears - i mean this is the weird thing with gyms right, everyone expects you to already be ripped when you go in there. But it's like, if you were, why would you need a gym?) or just accept my fate and marry a skinny, hairless boygirl.

Right now I'm aiming firmly at the latter, much to my distaste.


This is something I wrote after the first time I saw Requiem For a Dream. I wanted to begin at the end and backtrack (sort of like Fight Club - hence the Tyler Durden reference) and I think I've done pretty well with it. Check it out, see what you think.


It's what Tyler Durden would call a near-life experience. She collapses, the gun dropping to the floor and blood gushing from the stumps of her severed fingers. The bullet has formed a small hole in her side and burst out the other side of her body, forming a bloody wound in her back the size of a child's fist. As her consciousness subsides, she realises that she is, tragically, still alive.

The dream begins simply enough. She is standing on a beach, a white dress hanging off her shoulders, skimming stones which are swallowed by the sea. Her toes dig into the warm sand, an experience she would normally enjoy, but there is something sinister about it here, alone on this beach. Her feet suddenly feel heavy, flesh becomes like concrete, dragging her down into the sand. The pebbles in her hand weigh her down; she struggles to pull her feet out of the sand and shouts out a man's name, hoping he will help her. Then Roger approaches, dressed in a suit and tie, his shoes pristine, sand-free. He watches her struggling, sees her sinking further, keeping her mouth closed and breathing heavily through her nose as the beach engulfs her.
He watches her, smiles and says calmly, "Die."

She wakes. The first things she sees are her left index and middle finger, ripped off and lying side by side in a small pool of blood about two feet away from her. Opening her eyes further, she sees the dead man on the other side of the room, the one who shot her. Strangely, she feels no pain and is calm, remembering how she got here, how it all began.

Jimmy is a pusher and an addict. He loves her as much as a heroin user can love something that doesn't require a syringe and a vein. She is important to him because she can get drugs. Every now and then he looks at her and wonders what would happen if she died. Would he sell himself for drugs like she does? Are his fixes that important? He tries to picture himself getting fucked. He tries to imagine being on his knees while surrounded by men. He thinks of warm sperm hitting his face. He opens his eyes and takes a drag on his cigarette.
"I'm going out," she says, getting up from the worn chair in the corner of the room. "Shouldn't be too long, okay? Do you want me to get you anything?"
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim stack of twenty-pound notes, holds them up to her. "Go and see Roger for me, would you?"
"Jimmy, for fuck's sake." This is the second time this week. She's pissed off, but he knows she'll do it for him. Her addiction is not as strong as his. She's still able to separate the real from the drug-haze, still able to feel things on an emotional level. Jimmy passed that stage weeks, maybe months, ago. Emotions are for wankers. All he needs to feel is that needle pricking his arm and the pure, unadulterated sense of ecstasy that follows to know that he's still alive.
She sighs, takes the money. "I hope you know what you're asking me to do." She kisses his hands. "I'll be two hours, then."

The taste of his cock still lingers on her tongue; the slippery wetness of his come is still sweet on its tip. She rolls over onto her right hip, tenderly fingering the small hole in her left side but afraid to inspect the real damage, the explosion in her lower back. There is blood everywhere, his and hers converging in the middle of the room. She tries to struggle to a sitting position, but it's difficult - she's losing feeling in her legs, though whether this is because the bullet has gone through her spine (she suddenly wonders if it might have done) or because she has lain inert, in an awkward pose for an hour now at least, she doesn't know. Using her elbows and hands to push herself along, she half-crawls towards Roger's dead body. Upon reaching her severed, torn fingers, just two feet away, she breathes in sharply, a gasp, and vomits.

There's no answer, but that's not unusual. He's sometimes sitting in the living room, quiz shows on television turned up way too loud, but that isn't the case today. Peering through the thin net curtains, shielding her eyes from the glare of the street reflected in the window, she sees that Roger's not even in the room. The television stands black and silent. Making her way round to the back of the house, she calls his name again, then says her own, thinking that this may elicit some response. As she reaches the kitchen, a knuckle taps on the window from inside. Roger stands in there, framed in the glass. He gestures toward the back door, and she waits outside it while he fetches the key. The door opens, and a cold smile slithers across his face.
"Come in."

Finally, an excruciating half hour later, she is just barely able to push herself up onto her knees. She kneels over the body, breathless, her own body sore. Tasting him still in her mouth, she spits violently on his dead face and then uses her sleeve to wipe her lips, to get rid of his stench on her tongue.
Her own gun, still lying in her blood, is empty, and though she knows he is dead, she needs to deliver a parting shot, a final fuck you. Wrestling Roger's cold fingers from his pistol is not easy without two of her own.
She cocks the gun.

This is the degrading part. Roger is old enough to be her father, but it is the only way for her to get the drugs they need. The money alone is not enough and after she gives it to him, he leans forward, his grey lips puckered.
This will only take a minute, perhaps two. She leans forward too, lightly kissing him and closing her eyes. He pulls her into him, and she breathes in his smell, cigar smoke and sweat. He starts to unzip his trousers, and pushes her down to her knees, easing his wrinkled cock out of his underwear. She supposes that it serves her right, really. She's always had a rape fantasy. As she takes him into her mouth, however, she remembers what she is doing, and wishes she were dead.
She feels the butt of her gun, secreted in her knickers for emergencies only. The head of Roger's cock begins to pulsate, to feel bigger, heavier in her mouth and she realises that he is about to come. He grabs her hair, pushes her face into his crotch and cries out. She reaches into her knickers unseen, holds the pistol in her right hand and, just as he comes, brings the gun out of her underwear and presses it into his belly. She fires once, stumbling backward, his sperm still warm in her mouth.
Roger goes to the floor, screaming in pain. The bullet leaves his body somewhere in his upper back, near the shoulder blade. She advances on him and cocks the gun, squeezing the trigger once more. Click.
New strength allows Roger to kick her in the stomach, sending her sprawling back. He quickly draws his own gun (from where? She is sure he didn't have one before) and fires. Two of her fingers, the index and middle fingers of her left hand, are ripped off and the bullet punctures her left side, careering through flesh and muscle, to exit violently through her lower back. She falls to her knees once more, and Roger dies, screaming in pain.
It's what Tyler Durden would call a near-life experience. As her consciousness subsides, she realises that she is, tragically, still alive.

And so it begins...

I've been put off doing this sort of thing before (creating a blog, writing it every day, updating it with all my crappy little activities and then posting it on the Internet for the whole world to see) mainly because I'm just not... that... interesting. But let me give you the skinny anyway and we'll see how it goes. I mean you never know, I could get horrifically bored of doing this (and you could get bored of reading it) so I'll try and make it as good as I can while I'm still into it.

I guess I don't know what to write because I just don't know what you'll even be interested in knowing about me. I mean why did you even click onto this blog in the first place? Were you trying to find something else, maybe stumbled on this blog and got sucked in? Perhaps you're trying to live vicariously through a person you've never met in an attempt to give yourself an abstracted worldview. Whatever. It doesn't matter to me I guess. I'm just glad someone is reading the words on this page.

I want to get my fiction published. I've written so much stuff now I can't even remember the first thing I wrote and called finished. My writing stems partly from experience and partly from the darkest imaginings rattling around in my head. Call it a blend of comedy and death. My style is what I guess you would describe as the love child of Tarantino and Scarlett Thomas, if that love child was born reading a Bret Easton Ellis novel. In my writing I deal with self-hate, death, self-harm, guns, films, drug abuse, homosexuality and mourning. I'm not morbid, I just don't think people should only read happy stories. I guess I just don't want people to use my writing as escapism - I'd like what I write to resonate with people, maybe to disturb them, wake them up a touch. I call it fiction but several of my writings come from something that happened to me.

I'm going to post some fictions up here - read them if you want. I wouldn't say you'll necessarily enjoy them but they might speak to you somehow. I don't know.

The song I'm listening to right now is Right In Two by Tool from their 10,000 Days album. It's a pretty decent record overall - a new one is overdue though. My favourite song right now is Wretched World by Converge. I'd like to get a tattoo. Maybe some music on a stave.

These are some people I find attractive:

Top: Phil Vickery, rugby player and general hottie

Next: Ben Cohen, rugby player and my imaginary lover

Next: Ross Kemp, actor, journalist, all-round good guy and hot as hell

Bottom: Brian O'Driscoll, rugby player and my husband (in my mind...)

So, that's it really. Yeah, I like rugby players. Oh, and I'm a bloke. Get over it. I hope people enjoy what they see here but if you don't that's your call. You can't say you weren't warned.