Camp - Part 2

(Read Part 1 here)

The following evening Camp knocked on my door. "Come for a walk with me", he said.

We ended up walking to the local park, and then through the cemetary. Not much had been said about what had happened the night before. I was nervous and didn't know which way the conversation would turn. Instead, no sooner than we were in a quiet corner of the cemetary than Camp suddenly put his arms around me and pulled me into him. He pushed his crotch against me and I could feel him stiffening through his trousers. So was I. Things progressed, and that Ladies and Gentlemen is how I lost my virginity. In a cemetary, with a man who sneered if I suggested he was gay. I guess I'm not alone in that respect.

Over the course of the next few evenings we met up and had sex in his car, and each time he'd remind me that he wasn't like me. He wasn't a queer.

Then one day he told me the time had come to tell my friends, otherwise he was going to do it. He gave me until the next evening to start telling them, and he even told me which one I should tell first - we'll call him John - so the next day I called round to see John and another mate and I admitted who I was to them both. To their credit they were fine with it. They didn't seem to have a problem. But then John said, "Look, we don't have a problem with you being gay, but you shouldn't try to tell everyone that I am just to camouflage the fact that you are". I didn't know what he meant.

"Camp told us that you'd told him I was gay. I don't think that's on mate, cause I'm not gay and you shouldn't spread rumours just to try to cover up the fact that you're gay yourself"

"But I never said that"

"Well, we're just repeating what Camp said to us".

I left them feeling happy that I'd told them, but also confused about what else had been said. I'd never even mentioned that I knew Camp was gay, and I certainly wouldn't have said it about anyone else. I never have been a gossip like that, so I decided that there had probably been some sort of misunderstanding.

A week later Camp said that a couple of the guys had been calling me names when I wasn't around. He said, "You see, they might tell you it's ok to your face but behind your back they hate you for being a queer".

I asked a friend if things were being said about me, and he admitted that some things might well have been talked about, but that seriously no-one had a problem with who I was. However I started to doubt my friends, and I didn't know who I could trust anymore.

Camp and I were still having sex with each other almost every night, and I'd still not told a single soul. And at some point he'd very quietly split with his girlfriend, although I only found out from a third party.

Celebrity Abuse

Last night I was verbally abused by a celebrity.

It had all started off rather well. The Boyf and I, plus our friend The Drag Queen, went to see George Michael in concert at Earls Court. The Boyf and I aren't exactly huge fans, although we both like certain of his songs and have at least one of his albums each. The Drag Queen on the other hand is a bona fide GM nut. She's actually going to every show that he's doing in London i.e. Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday and then twice in December, and has spent a couple of thousand pounds on tickets in total. Strange girl.

It was actually a very good show. The stage set is amazing, George's voice was on fine form (although we noticed he allowed the audience to sing all the high notes for him - how kind), and we got an ex-Sugababe (Mutya Buena) thrown in for free, eliciting much excitement from your very own OMO. A point to note however; she's looking scarily like Pete Burns these days, which I'm sure you'll agree isn't the best of looks to aspire to.

As for the celebrity abusing me, it was all a case of mistaken identity. After the concert we met OBM#1 and OBM#2 for a divorce party being thrown at the Soho Revue Bar by a celebrity one of us happens to have shared a limo with once. Said celebrity being perky-bottomed slaphead Gail Porter. She'd actually given OBM#1 a lift in her limo when he was on his way to London from Scotland to meet OBM#2 for the very first time, and of course during the journey he'd regaled her with stories of their internet dating and how this would be their first actual meeting. They've kept in touch since then and have become friends, although she'd never met OBM#2 before and was rather excited.

Anyway, Gail runs over to OBM#1 so that she can finally meet OBM#2, who happens to be busy at the bar, so instead OBM#1 introduces her to me. Now, I happen to have the same name as OBM#2 so Gail immediately thinks I'm OBM#1's boyfriend. She grabs me, pulls me to her, gives me a huge kiss, and says "Darling, I feel like I've known you forever. I've heard so much about you."

I (sheepishly) replied with, "Actually I'm not the right (insert name here). He's at the bar."

Gail, "Oh, in that case you can fuck off then", and pushing me aside wanders away to find the correct boyfriend.

So there you have it; shunned by a celebrity.

My Second Birthday

Well, I had a very surreal moment at the weekend. There's a guy we see around who we used to refer to as "Daddy", before we plucked up the courage to actually ask him his name and became friends. Frankly, he's kinda scary to look at. Very well built, hairy, bald with a goatee, he's constantly dressed in leather gear; waistcoat, chaps, cod-piece, arm-bands, cuffs, you name it. The full works. He stomps around like he owns the place, will quite happily grab anyone who takes his fancy (even if they try to resist), and scares the crap out of alot of people. And he's an absolute angel. I love the guy. He's a big softie wrapped in a fetish wet-dream body.

Anyway, there we were, The Boyf, OBM#1, OBM#2, The Drag Queen and Daddy all round OBM's flat whilst having a break from the clubbing extravaganza that was my second birthday weekend of celebrating (I'm 36 you know, dear). Daddy was very restless and had already shown everyone his nether regions by taking off his cod-piece. He then decided he wanted to sit on my lap. Now, I'm 5 ft 8 and weigh 188lbs. He's 6 ft and must weigh a good 230. He also had his arse hanging out of his chaps. So there I was, sitting on a chair with a huge leather daddy sat on my knee and I'm bouncing him up and down, and he's chuckling away quite contentedly. Like I say, totally surreal and not what I ever imagined would happen when I first met him.

As for the clubbing; well we were guest-listed for "Juicy" at Fire on Saturday night for reasons I can't explain in case I get someone in trouble with his boyfriend (but let's just say that it's all about who you blow), and we had a whale of a time. The music was uplifting, at least until 6.30am when it started going bleepy (or that could have been the Class-A's altering my hearing), and there were hotties in abundance (or that could have been the Class-A's altering my eyesight). At around 10am we decided to leave and have a break (we'd been there since 2am), and then after that we returned to Fire for "Later", which again was alot of fun, although we couldn't tell the difference from Juicy as they seemed to be playing the same songs as they were 12 hours before. Oh well, if they're good enough to dance to the first time. At about 4pm (now Sunday of course) we headed over to the RVT to watch the legend that is Edna and then dance to some camp classics. By 10pm I literally couldn't stand up anymore and The Boyf and I headed home to a long overdue cuddle and some sleep.

Oh, and guess what? I never snogged or groped anybody apart from The Boyf. How well-behaved was I???

All birthdays should be like this one, I've decided. I didn't even mind being a year older. Roll on next year.

My New View

I'll tell you a bit about my second birthday weekend celebration in another post (I have two birthday weekends you know, just like a proper Queen), but I thought I'd just mention that we had another bloody office move at the weekend, and guess where I've moved to? Yes, I'm through the little door in reception and I'm staring straight at The Cute Guy. And dribbling. And actually we do keep maintaining eye contact, although I'm not sure whether he likes me or is considering a restraining order. Oh well, he should be pleased; you're nobody until you've had a stalker. I've currently got one of my own who doesn't stop staring at me whenever we end up in the same club, and occassionally messages me on line to tell me how lovely I am. Which is understandable.

Happy Thanksgiving

So, it's a big Happy Thanksgiving today to our friends in the USA.

Now, dear Americans, over here we're not too sure what Thanksgiving actually is. We had a little discussion in the office and everyone agreed with me - they have to otherwise I sulk - that's it's probably something to do with saying thank you to those lovely Indians who let you live on their land and whose food you ate, shortly before you slaughtered them all.

It's a bit like at Christmas where we thank The Lord for giving us his son, Santa, who we could then duly murder (because he married the Easter Bunny, which is just wrong) and eat chocolate eggs in his memory come April, or possibly March, depending on when it happens to tie-in with a Pagan festival.

I did pose my assumptions to a friend of mine in New York, and he very kindly replied thus:

"You are, indeed correct. We Americans enjoy celebrating Massacres: The Indians, Jesus, Martin Luther King and the British (July 4th). What can you expect from a country where every man has a god-given right to a concealed weapon?"

So that's that cleared up then.

iPodlessness

I'm not sure exactly how I've managed to get by without an iPod for so long now. It's going on for 6 months since my car was broken into and my iPod stolen. The ironic thing of course was that for the 9 months that I lived at my old place, where my car stood in the road outside in what was considered a slightly "dodgy" area, it was never touched. In fact the locals rather liked it, what with it's big wheels, dumped suspension and bodykit. My car that is, not my iPod. The local kids would give me the thumbs up, or tell me that my car was "cool, man", and I guess because I lived in the neighbourhood they left it alone.

When I moved to go live with The Boyf my Mum expressed relief that I was moving out of somewhere "rough" and into a "nice part of town". Imagine her surprise when my car was broken into, in a secure garage area, only a short while after I'd moved. The glee I gained from telling her was strangely tempered by the bill for my car being repaired, however.

Anyway, the upshot is that I've been iPodless for a number of months, and my life just isn't the same. I loved having my every movement soundtracked. I loved matching my music to my mood and surroundings. And with a 60gb iPod half-full, and still being added to on a daily basis, I always had the right song for the right moment. And now it's gone.

I did wonder what the thief thought of my taste in music. I imagined him/her flicking through my playlists; Erasure - gay! Depeche Mode - gay! Pet Shop Boys - gay! Barbra Streisand - ubergay! Metallica - er! Meat Beat Manifesto - who? Autechre - wtf! I wonder if they sat down and listened to any of it. I'd like to think that some thieving little shit somewhere now has an appreciation of avant-garde electronica. Or suddenly likes Celine Dion. It would almost make my music-free world worthwhile.

Of course now I get to wander around singing to myself, which is a bonus for everyone I come into contact with, as I'm sure the passengers of today's Tube will attest having been serenaded with "Loving You" on the way to work this morning. Nearly even hit that high note. I'll give it another go on the way home tonight.

It's All About Me!

So, you want to know about my birthday weekend do you? Just agree with me, ok. It's alot easier in the long-run.

Well, on Saturday I was feeling rather perky, and actually capable of eating something, along as it was reasonably sloppy. No jokes please. So, The Boyf and I headed into town on the back of a boat with our friend The Drag Queen, and once there met OBM#1 and OBM#2 for a meal. We spent a rather lovely few hours in an Italian restaurant in Soho, then were spirited away to a local bar where my friends spoilt me with champagne. Afterwards The Boyf and I headed to the theatre to see "Blood Brothers", and very nice it was too. I have this little problem in that I can't suspend disbelief when I'm watching a stage production, hence remained resolutely straight-faced when all around me were sobbing, including The Boyf. Nevertheless I very much enjoyed it.

From there we headed back home where I finished opening my multitude of presents from The Boyf, including a book I wanted called "Bondi Work", where numerous lovelies pretend that they know which end of a spanner to use, or where the oil drains from the sump of a car, all in the name of art. There's one particular guy who has rather taken my fancy. I'd very much like him to come round and change my oil, but I have a feeling he wouldn't really know how to do it. Still, he'd look good fiddling around with my dip-stick.

On Sunday we went to The Natural History Museum. Yeah, I know. We're so very cultural and everything! Apart from that we just went for a walk in town and then went home for a quiet evening. Needless to say, that's quite enough culture for one month and we now need to go out, get drunk and dance on a podium somewhere. That's this coming weekend sorted then.

Camp - Part 1

I was 17, still in school, and had just passed my driving test. As with anyone this suddenly opened a world of opportunity, and I was out every night, driving around, finding my way about, discovering new places. I very quickly discovered that there was a place where everyone hung-out with their cars. Guys would drive there from miles around and park up and talk, or race each other round the one-way system, and I became one of them. Yes, I was a Boy Racer (rolls eyes)! I still have that gene in me now, as The Boyf will attest.

Anyway, I quickly became friends with a group of guys who, it transpired, lived in the same town as me. They were all in their early to mid 20's and had gone to a different school to me, hence our paths had never crossed before, but I quickly became friends with all of them and became part of their gang. As with any gang there are always a certain number of core members, plus a few people who drift in and out. And one of these drifters was a guy we'll refer to as "Camp", largely because he was. He took an instant shine to me, and when it transpired that he lived only 5 minutes walk from my home he suddenly took it upon himself to be my new best friend. I wasn't totally up for this, as I, along with the other guys in the gang, found him to be rather odd. He was fey, cracked the most awful jokes, and was generally the most uncool guy I'd met. And you know how important it is to be cool when you're 17!

It seemed like every evening I was out with Camp and the other guys, and much of the time Camp would pick me up, as he was closest, geographically. Over the course of a month or so the way Camp interracted with me became more outlandish, but only when we were alone, up to the point where he'd lay a hand on my knee and squeeze it when he was telling me something, or run a hand down my arm. Or he'd surreptiously pinch my ass as I walked past in a bar.

I knew he was gay of course. I knew the moment I met him. It was so obvious to all and sundry, and his girlfriend wasn't fooling anyone, not me or the other guys. But I couldn't relate to him. I couldn't relate to his flapping arms and high-pitched giggle. If this was what it was to be gay, then perhaps I wasn't. Maybe I was just something else. But I wanted to talk to him about it. I wanted to know whether he felt the same way about men as me. Strangely I saw him as completely non-sexual, and I guess this is true of many camp men - that's how heterosexual males can laugh at a men like John Inman or Larry Grayson without feeling threatened by their sexuality.

Then one night we were in his car and he suddenly pulled over. We were in the middle of nowhere. He turned to me and said "You're gay, aren't you?". I was stunned. Noone had ever said such a thing to me before. My mind raced. This is what I'd been waiting for, but to admit it to another person! He put a hand on my knee and asked me again. I couldn't look him in the eyes, so I dropped my gaze to my lap.

"It's ok, you can tell me. Come on, just tell me you're gay"

I started to cry. I don't know why I was so frightened, but I knew that once I said it I could never take it back. I didn't want to take it back, I wanted it to be out there, but how hard it was to utter those few words!

"I don't want to say it. We both know"

"No, you must say it. You HAVE to say it"

"I can't", I whispered.

"Of course you can. Come on, just say the words"

Gradually I composed myself somewhat, and looked up at him.

"That's it, go on, tell me you're gay", he said.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and stammered, "I'm gay"

He removed his hand from my knee and said "I knew you were".

I felt the relief wash over me.

"You're gay too", I didn't so much as ask as just state the obvious. Finally I was going to have someone to talk to about how I felt.

His face hardened into a sneer. "No, I'm not. I've got a girlfriend. I'm not a queer like you"

"But you're gay! I know you're gay"

"No, I'm not, and you need to stop saying that. It's time you went home. Oh, and you'd better be prepared to tell your friends otherwise I'm going to have to". And with that he drove me home in silence.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - "Casino Royale"

Went to see the new Bond film at the weekend, and very good it was too. I shudder at the very thought of using a word such as "re-imagining", but that's basically what it is; it's a back-to-basics Bond.

Daniel Craig is superb, as we hoped he would be. With the amount of crap that was thrown his way when he was cast we'd been waiting months to see if he could shut everyone up, and he certainly sticks his fingers up to the naysayers.

It's gritty, the stunts are so much better for their lack of CGI, and the interplay between Craig and Eva (as Vespa Lynd) is brilliantly written.

On the downside it's a good 20 minutes too long. The Boyf had even managed to run out of popcorn - he has a family sized bucket on his own and growls at me should I have the temerity of wanting any. Also, trying to work out who's the bad guy/girl and why made my head hurt, but then I was still getting over an illness. Oh, and try to ignore that bloody awful theme tune. Just sing "Goldfinger" very loudly over the top when it comes on like we did.

Altogether it certainly has the OMO Seal of Approval. Go see it.

What Happened?

Er, hello? What day is this? Where am I? Who the hell are you lot?

(coughs)

So, the last thing I remember was thinking "Oh good, The Boyf's starting to get better and wants to go out for a walk".

On Saturday we wandered along the South Bank and watched the firework display after the Lord Mayor's Show and then wandered around for a while, during which time I started to realise I wasn't feeling very well. The following 3 days were spent in bed with a very high temperature, which finally broke sometime Tuesday night. During this time I also developed an increasingly sore throat, which made any attempt at eating complete agony, and even liquids were a struggle. I ended up living purely on milk and water. Late Wednesday I managed to drag myself to the doctor to be told I had acute tonsillitis. I said "Well, I have a cute everything else, why should my tonsils be any different?". Hahahahahahahahahaha

Hahahahhaha

hahaha

haha

ha

hmmmm

So, today is the first day I've woken up and the world isn't swimming in front of my eyes, and it seems the penicillin has kicked in because it's now just painful to swallow rather than agonising.

And guess what; tomorrow is my birthday. Yup, I get to have a birthday on a Saturday, and already we've had to cancel the meal because I still won't be able to eat solid food, and no doubt I won't feel up to going out much either. Not that all that matters really. It's nice to know I'm obviously on the mend, and I know The Boyf will spoil me, and at the end of the day as long as I spend it with him I couldn't wish for anything more. Sorry, I'm making you ill now aren't I?

The Long View

It's been a quiet ol' week. The Boyf's still ill, although last night he did seem to be more like his old self, so I think over the weekend he should be pretty much back to normal. Looks like we're going to have a very quiet weekend though, and in typical fashion I'm feeling restless at the very thought of having to stay home. We'll see. Maybe I can cajole The Boyf out to a bar on Sunday evening.

So whilst things are quiet I've been thinking that I'd like to start to tell you some little stories about my past. There are three people I would like to tell you something about, and they have helped to shape the man you see before you today, along with my parents and The Boyf of course. Those three are:

1. Camp - my first gay experience, and a man I find it difficult to stop hating to this day.

2. Chippy - my first proper boyfriend, an angel, who I was with for 7 years.

3. The Mechanic - We also spent 7 years together, and I'll let you make your own minds up on this guy, but Lord knows I must have had patience to last that long. Or I was just plain stupid. You can decide in your own time.

So, over the next few weeks/months I'll relate a few little tales concerning these people...

In the meatime, have a good weekend.

A View, For You - From Lloyd's

In the absence of anything to write about (The Boyf's ill at home at the moment - you don't need to know the gory details - meaning we're staying in a watching TV alot), I thought I'd give you something to look at.

This is the view from the 11th (and top) floor of the Lloyd's Building, and looks east across London towards the tower blocks of Canary Wharf (One Canada Square being the tallest building in the distance). In the right-hand foreground you can just see the edge of new Willis building, still under construction. It's going to be quite a bit taller than the Lloyd's building at 29 floors, although still not the tallest in the Square Mile (the financial district within the City of London), that accolade going to Tower 42 (guess how many floors?). There are various planning regulations within the City, one of which is to protect the view of St Paul's Cathedral from various points across London, and these conspire to restrict the height of the buildings in this area. Hence, the tallest buildings are out at Canary Wharf in the old docklands in the east end of London. More about that area another day.

Still Not Flirting. Er...

Now I seem to recall, not so long ago, that I told you I'd made a promise to The Boyf that I would never, EVER flirt with anyone again. So with that in mind I would like to just state for record that I never flirted with those three guys in The Hoist (my knees hurt, as usual), the massive German daddy in Megawoof (my nipples are sore), the German's best mate the following day in the RVT (my reputation preceeds me), or that sexy little guy in Orange (my balls ache). Anyone who tells you I was flirting is utterly mistaken, as the definition of flirting is "attention without intention", and clearly I had certain intentions in mind.

Oh dear. It was one of THOSE weekends. Again.

I blame The Boyf of course. He encourages me. "Oh, you'd look lovely snogging that guy over there", or "Don't you think you should say thanks for the drink by sucking him off". Sometimes I feel like a cheap whore you know. And frankly, I like it.

The Monday Morning BlogBite

Morning everyone. I trust you all had good weekends.

I thought I'd share this little photo with you. It never fails to amuse me. Those of you not from England won't understand it of course. Sorry about that. I'll try to find something more global-friendly next time.

"Rudebox" by Robbie Williams

A quickie review of the new Robbie Williams album, "Rudebox".

It's crap.

The End.

Ok, ok, I'll give you some more details.

There are 2 songs on the album I really like, "She's Madonna" and "We're The Pet Shop Boys", both of which are produced by, well, The Pet Shop Boys of course. Both sound like decent PSB songs (the latter is actually a cover of a PSB B-side), and would benefit from Neil Tennant singing rather than the rather whiney Robbie.

Apart from that, "Kiss Me", a cover of the Stephen "Tin Tin" Duffy song, is as camp as tits. Yeah, we know it was produced by uber-house stalwart Dave Lee (or Joey Negro, if you prefer), but it's not "house", more "pink Barbie caravan". Still, the gays will love it, and it has chart appeal when all other singles fail.

Elsewhere Robbie treats us to the self-absorbed, not-as-clever-as-he-thinks "The 80's" and "The 90's", where he appears to be using his listeners as some form of counselling service so that he can tell us how hard done by he was during the Take That years.

Frankly, adding the talent vacuum that is Lily Allen to a couple of tracks isn't helping any. In fact, parts of the album sound like they could be songs she rejected, which isn't saying much. The rest of the album sounds like songs Justin Timberlake rejected.

And where did Robbie get the idea he can rap from? Somebody make him stop. Please!

So, there you have it. Sorry I'm not a bit more positive, but I was kinda looking forward to this album. My advice would be; go out and buy "Fundamental" by The Pet Shop Boys instead, and see how it's supposed to be done. Or if you just want something fun, may I recommend Girls Aloud's "The Sound of Girls Aloud"; no finer collection of well-crafted pop song will you hear all year, frankly. At least until the Sugababes "Overloaded: Singles Collection" gets released anyway.

Have a good weekend everyone!

Why My Friends Think I'm Weird: Pt.2

I can't quite believe I'm going to admit to this here.

(Takes deep breath)

I need to be naked to go to the toilet. And my clothes have to be folded.

When I say "toilet" I of course mean, er, well, you know, (whispers) Number 2's.

Yes, I know I'm odd but whenever I go I have to take all my clothes off otherwise I don't feel comfortable. This unfortunately then has a knock-on effect because I don't like taking clothes off without folding or hanging them properly.

Sorry, did someone at the back just mention Asperger's Syndrome? Whoever it was can kindly keep that to themselves, and also please could you put your books in piles, I don't like the disorder.

Anyway, getting back to the subject, all of this isn't a problem at home of course, hence why The Boyf has no idea about this little quirk. I come home from work, take my clothes off, hang them or put them in the laundry, go to the bathroom, toilet and have a shower. It all fits together rather nicely. The problem comes when I need to go and are not anywhere near home. On the rare occasions that I use the toilet at work I've been known to take a coat hanger with me. No, not to break the brown weasel's back! That's disgusting! It's so that I can hang my clothes up, thank you very much.

So there you go, another of my little quirks for your enjoyment. Please feel free to let me know if you do the same thing, so that I don't feel like a complete weirdo.

A View, For You - Lloyd's

It's a lovely, cool autumn day today and I've had to wander up to the Lloyd's building to try to blag my way in to the 11th Floor meeting room. I didn't succeed, partly because a third party gave the game away.

So, this is the Lloyd's building for your delectation...