The Promise - Oria Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.' It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
‎​I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

New Shoes - Paolo Nutini

Woke up cold one tuesday,I'm looking tired and feeling quite sick,I felt like there was something missing in my day to day life,So I quickly opened the wardrobe,Pulled out some jeans and a T-Shirt that seemed clean,Topped it off with a pair of old shoes,That were ripped around the seams,And I thought these shoes just don't suit me.

Hey, I put some new shoes on,And suddenly everything is right,I said, hey, I put some new shoes on and everybody's smiling,It so inviting,Oh, short on money,But long on time,Slowly strolling in the sweet sunshine,And I'm running late,And I dont need an excuse,'cause I'm wearing my brand

new shoes.

Woke up late one thursday,And I'm seeing stars as I'm rubbing my eyes,And I felt like there were two days missing,As I focused all the time,And I made my way to the kitchen,But I had to stop from the shock of what I found,A room full of all my friends dancing round and round,And I thought hello new shoes,Byebye them blues.

Take me wondering through these streets,Where bright lights and angels meet,Stone to stone they take me on,I'm walking to the break of dawn.

*Tick*Tick*Tick* .... BANG!!!

We read articles, self help books, watch Sex and the City and listen to advice about relationships from friends and those more experienced than ourselves. We lay awake at night rethinking text messages, tone of voice in phone calls, dinner plans and card greetings.

We stand in the super market for ages wondering what to get for dinner, which wine he will like and what dessert will induce sex. We spend our time with our new partners deciphering body language, getting to know their characteristic traits and looks and drive ourselves mad during kissing sessions of what may be going through his mind, if your breath stinks, if you should have applied lip balm before starting. We drive ourselves to distraction!

Why? Why do we go on and on about things in our minds? Why is this constant drive to be completely perfect plaguing our quality of relationships and is this the main cause for failure of gay relationships? Are we so worried of not living up to our dating/Facebook profiles of the extremist perfect branding of ourselves that it could destroy our quality of life?

It has recently been told to me that I am mad. I know I am eccentric, I like being eccentric, but I realized that I am somewhat inconsistent in love and life. Is it due to age? Lack of experience? Or what I have stated above?

Does knowing more about our lovers make it more difficult for us to make informed and decisive decisions when it comes to our relationships? Are we so completely obsessed to have the perfect lover, life, car, job, wardrobe, sporting ability, and body that it consumes all the little pleasures that we do not allow ourselves to enjoy. Life doesn’t carry on forever and neither does your teenage hairline.

Is the DINK (Double income no kids) lifestyle aging us at the same rate 2 screaming brats and a bond would? The cover model/Conde Nast lifestyle doesn’t seem to be for the faint hearted and more importantly is our “switched on-ness” going to switch us off eventually?

Do we wake up in our mid thirties, walk to the bathroom scratching our flannel wedgy, get to the mirror – La Mer EyeCreme wand in hand – and let out a blood curdling scream when we see our reflections? When do we not realize that we need to stop and smell the roses along the way?
Thankfully I am now with someone that forces me to see the everyday. Not the weekend, or next month or the 5 year plan and as the epitome of the W.A.S.P it is taking time for me to slow myself down.

The question is, how do we change our natures to be kinder to ourselves in the long run? That’s right… another thing to worry about!

Prep Tastic

Herewith some rules of dress for my fellow preppiens!

We wear sportswear. This makes it easier to go from sporting events to social events (not that there is much difference) without changing.

We generally underdress. We prefer it to overdressing.

Your underwear must not show. Wear a nude-colored strapless bra. Pull up your pants. Wear a belt. Do something. Use a tie!

We do not display our wit through T-shirt slogans.

Every single one of us—no matter the age or gender or sexual preference—owns a blue blazer.

We take care of our clothes, but we're not obsessive. A tiny hole in a sweater, a teensy stain on the knee of our trousers, doesn't throw us.

We do, however, wear a lot of white in the summer, and it must be spotless.

Bags and shoes need not match.

Jewelry should not match, though metals should.
On the other hand, your watch doesn't have to be the same metal as your jewelry.
And you can wear gold with a platinum wedding band and/or engagement ring.

Men's jewelry should be restricted to a handsome watch, a wedding band if he is American and married, and nothing else. If he has a family-crest ring, it may be worn as well. For black-tie, of course, shirt studs and matching cuff links are de rigueur.

Nose rings are never preppy.

Neither (shudder) are belly-button piercings.

Nor are (two shudders) tongue studs.

And that goes for ankle bracelets.

Tattoos: Men who have been in a war have them, and that's one thing. (Gang wars don't count.) Anyone else looks like she is trying hard to be cool. Since the body ages, if you must tattoo, find a spot that won't stretch too much. One day you will want to wear a halter-necked backless gown. Will you want everyone at the party to know you once loved a man called Bo?

Sneakers (a.k.a. tennis shoes, running shoes, trainers) are not worn with skirts.

Men may wear sneakers with linen or cotton trousers to casual summer parties.

Women over the age of 15 may wear a simple black dress. Women over the age of 21 must have several in rotation.

High-heel rule: You must be able to run in them—on cobblestones, on a dock, in case of a spontaneous foot race.

Clothes can cost any amount, but they must fit. Many a preppy has an item from a vintage shop or a lost-and-found bin at the club that was tailored and looks incredibly chic.

Do not fret if cashmere is too pricey. Preppies love cotton and merino-wool sweaters.

We do not wear our cell phones or BlackBerrys suspended from our belts.

Real suspenders are attached with buttons. We do not wear the clip versions.

Learn how to tie your bow tie. Do not invest in clip-ons.

Preppies are considerate about dressing our age. It is for you, not for us.

Men, if you made the mistake of buying leather sandals, please give them to Goodwill.

You may, however, wear flip-flops to the beach if your toes are presentable. Be vigilant!

Pareos (sarongs) are for the beach, not for the mall. (Even if it's near the beach.)

Riding boots may be worn by non-riders; cowboy boots may be worn by those who have never been on a horse. However, cowboy hats may not be worn by anyone who isn't technically a cowboy or a cowgirl.

You may wear a Harvard sweatshirt if: you attended Harvard, your spouse attended Harvard, or your children attend Harvard. Otherwise, you are inviting an uncomfortable question.

No man bags.

Preppies don't perm their hair.

Preppy men do not believe that comb-overs disguise anything.

You can never go wrong with a trench coat.

Sweat suits are for sweating. You can try to get away with wearing sweats to carpool, to pick up the newspaper, or to drive to the dump, but last time you were at the dump, the drop-dead-attractive widower from Bishopscourt was there, too.

And finally:

The best fashion statement is no fashion statement.

...

Sexy Is...

Sexy is.... Laugh lines, freckles, chest hair and waking up next to someone you love for the first time.

Sexy is... Making out to your favourite song, having your clothes slowly removed from your body...

Sexy is... Blushing, feeling awkward, looking into his eyes and not being able to say anything...

Sexy is... Real unwashed, unironed life with a decent splash of flirtatious behaviour!

Sexy is... 2 bodies sweating in the heat and cuddling in the cold... It is feeling every texture, absorbing sounds, smells and love.

Sexy is... The weakening of your knees and the blush of your ears when he makes you laugh!

Sexy is... The tensing of muscles at a single touch and the arching of a back...

Sexy drives us, it kills us, it makes us cry but want more...

Sexy keeps us on the brink of insanity but emotionally well rounded...

Sexy just is...

My World Cup Hemorrhoid…

Now before everyone heads off on their “You are so unpatriotic” tangent, followed by the “what this country has been through to get here today” rant, I would like to tell you to shut the f&%$ up!!

So, we are in Africa… Right at the bottom of it as a reminder. We won a bid to host a World Cup Event for Soccer… and NOW everyone seems greatly interested in how our country compares to some eastern European shitholes with unpronounceable names. Every person with a car bitched and moaned about roadworks, delays in upgrades, Gautrain construction and taking two hours to travel 10km’s to work. You said that we would never have the chance of winning or even getting into a semi final. You complained about the air ticket price hikes, the influx of people that would render it useless to travel anywhere for almost two months unless you won the lottery and finally you spent an hour on the phone to your girlfriend because you didn’t know WHAT you were actually going to do with your children while they were on a month’s holiday… god forbid actually speak to them!

And now? NOW you sit there, covered in face paint and an ill fitting R600 National Team jersey blowing at the end of a plastic vuvuzela like a deranged idiot and you have the audacity to tell me that I have no sense of Morale or Camaraderie...

The point is… I AM NOT INTERESTED IN SOCCER! Therefore I see no need to dress like a fool and support that team that you destined for failure two years ago. I live in South Africa, I am as happy as anyone else to be here. I have no hopes of packing my bags and “fleeing” to Perth like a million other people did post ’94 election results. So LEAVE ME ALONE!

That is all.

The Last Straight (Acting) Man…

When in conversation with my devastatingly attractive fellow friends that have also struggled to find the right man for ages, a common denominator has always come to the fore… A STRAIGHT ACTING MAN!

While the bunch in my friendship circle are not exactly the biggest most strapping bunch of burley men… we do know how to please the mentioned and be VERY good arm candy! This being said… we have now all adopted the “old enough for marriage” attitude and have been scowering the corners of the dregs of gay society for the possibility of the urban legend – “the last straight acting man”.

A said friend in complete desperation and the hope of finding a Gerald Butler look alike that happens to enjoy cooking, be wealthy and own a golden retriever did what most 20something gay men do in their state of panic (biological clock and all that) and joined Gaydar…. *awkward silence* . Not being exempt of having done this myself and neither is any of you reading this but we all know that not one of the 2000profiles of Scene Queens, GHD using, blue contact lens boffing fools are what we are looking for…and this in itself is enough to generally throw you over the edge into pudding and a romantic comedy completed with a box of Kleenex.
So the question is… DOES HE EXCIST?!

While the idea of the camel man that happens to be kind hearted AND appreciate a bit of cock and bum fun turns us all on… I need to see a few to believe it myself. This so called gay wet dream for us boys does NOT do/own or partake in any of the following:

Prada
iPhone
GHD – (Even if his hair resembles Big Bird’s pubes)
Hand Lotion
Scarves
Excessive Clubbing
Full body Waxing (If his legs are smoother than a supermodels bikini line… run)
A Hairstyle otherwise seen on exotic bird life in the Amazon (creative colours included)

This man doesn’t whine because his hair appointment had to be moved. He is not considered a “pretty boy”. He has a five o clock shadow… in the morning. He offers his jacket when he can see you are getting cold. He helps without being asked. He gets along with your father. He partakes in DIY. He has rugby player legs. He holds YOU at night. He makes you feel safe. When he loves you, he means YOU not your cock or your arse. His eyes look right through you and at any time he can throw you over his shoulder, drag you back to the bedroom and fuck your brains out!
My point being that if these men exist, they don’t go to clubs on weekends, they don’t have sad profiles about kittens and long walks on the beach on testosterone driven fuckfest dating sites and they certainly aren’t one of your mum’s friends kids. This man could be the guy that services your car, the guy that plays touch rugby with your best girlfriend’s straight friends and possibly has a pilot’s license (ok maybe not)… but boys… he is not an underwear model, he is not Daniel Craig but I am sure he is possible and I will find him even if it kills me trying!

The question, however that we can be asking ourselves, is if we are really ready to handle him?

Builders Whorehouse – One screw is all it takes…

Ever since I was just a wee little dungaree wearing poof I used to watch my father telling the staff how to fix things around the house. What the point of DIY was when you weren’t ACTUALLY doing it yourself is still beyond me, but what I am getting at is that I’ve always wanted to be handy and manly even though I would more willingly help my mother choose which pearls to wear with which mink.

While other boys were out in the woods behind our sprawling estate, blowing up frogs and playing gookie-on-the-cookie, I was in my room imagining obscure ways of mixing paint colours and fabric choices (and picturing the other boys playing gookie-on-the-cookie). Alas, the closest I ever came to actually conducting this kind of skirmish was to, like my father, arrange some staff to move furniture around my apartment and help hang paintings and fix toilets.

This all being said, I pulled myself toward myself one fine Saturday morning and decided to head out to the local Builders Warehouse in the quest to reconnect with my long lost butch inner self. This was going to be a day that involved a wide variety of other activities, some of which are more inclined to be suitable to my delicate nature. These included: visiting the garden center, going out for dinner with two gay couples, schlepping faggoty antiques around town, attending a showing of Iron Man 2, impressing my bitchy friends, and attempting to take a new route to my house without getting lost.

My arrival at Builders Whorehouse, I mean Warehouse was trumpeted by refusing to pay a car guard who asked for a tip upfront or purchase a Boerewors roll at the door. As I stepped through the door I could only stop in my steps, open mouthed and awestruck by this mammoth of a man-store. He was as unflappably balanced as Ginger Rogers in Crocs, as compartmentally voluminous as Leigh Bowery’s fake uterus, more technologically sophisticated than the Michaelhouse second grader, throatier than Linda Lovelace after a bottle of expectorant, and featured staff with evasive moves superior to those of a ANC government official. My visit was also quicker than sex with an over eager teenager, a trait that sadly earned me a license not to speak of the store experience in its entirety.

I recieved more strange looks than a drag queen in a catholic church so I chalked up this drawing-of-unnecessary-attention to my jersey’s colour—a hue that looks not unlike the orgasmic output of the male members of Smurf village.

All of this aside, I must recommend builders whorehouse to ANYONE who is husband shopping. It is DILF (Dad I’d like to F&^@) heaven!! I have never before seen so many beautiful strappingly straight men under one roof handling power tools and many other phallic looking equipment since I stumbled into a Lesbian Bar accidentally one drunken and debaucherous evening. (Soon after finding out they weren’t men).

So after 30 min of roaming around looking more overwhelmed than a housewife at her first Prada sale armed with her husband’s platinum card I was eventually helped by a man that looked as if, due to complications, while being born, arising from a dimensional mismatch between his head and his mother’s woman parts had a ridiculously tiny head on a Trojan horse’s muscular body.

I was reduced to spluttering and going the colour of purple that can only be accurately described as “Battered Wife”. After about a minute of being ridiculously in love I asked him where I could locate a G Spot (The intended object of desire however being a G Clamp). At this stage I was about to soil my Calvin Kleins and NEVER RETURN to this place where I had made a complete tonsil of myself. And if this didn’t cap the entire trip of hilarity, I was nearly accosted a foam-capped, mulleted, red-faced, Redneck stereotype, whom I accidentally cut off in a parking lot (“You asshole!”) Neither incidents I would like to clarify resulted in a court summons.

So in conclusion, depending on what colour you are wearing, your experience at Builders Warehouse may vary.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!!

The X Files....

The X Files…

The age old what happens after the breakup has always been a time in my life that seriously PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF!
Not only do you have to make your way through the per functionary last month of the dregs of the relationship building up to the breakup, but then also the actual breakup (long winded or not so long winded) and then the aftermath of it all… something like the remains of an elephant taking a giant shit on your car.
So in my past limited experience with some of the world’s most psychotic men these are the three types of break up:

1. Ugly Crying and Emotional Cutting:
When I refer to Ugly Crying I refer to something we have all done before. The type of crying that involves all the fluids in your general face are to end up running down your neck. You cant breathe properly, you have a ridge of snot and tears on your top lip and your eyes resemble piss holes in the snow…. On top of this occasional outburst of emotion (at least six times before lunch) you also indulge in a bit of emotional cutting…. Like looking at the photo’s of when the two of you were happy, listening to bad breakup songs written by pseudo lesbians ( Lindsey Lohan) or buying the same cologne he uses and spraying it on your pillow at night (Excuse me while I try counter involuntary bowel movement)

2. World War Drama
Yes my dears, this is when shit gets crazy and when you decide to go all Ivana Trump on his ass! “Don’t Get Angry, Get Everything” is the motto I like to live by when it comes to this. The division of everything is the one that will catch up to you on this… The division of the friends (like a first grader making them decide who they like more), the division of the assets (you get the Paul Smith towels, and I will take your mother’s heirloom crystal) and the division of your sanity… yes, you are foaming at the mouth possessed with trying to make his life as difficult as you can possibly muster.
May I state however that the above is usually proportionate to the incident that lead to the break up in the first place… or the amount of anti psychotic medication not being taken as per the prescription at the time. Be careful what fight you pick my dears… some boys have a bigger bite than bark!

3. Cut his cock off and set it on fire
This situation I have realized in the past is usually due to cheating or something equally horrid. This is when you lose all sense of humanity and whatever you do is definitely not becoming of a homo. You plot how to sneak into his house when he is not there and break things, you wonder if you have long lost, hair covered, gold chain wearing cousins that can break his legs with cricket bats and more importantly you wonder how well his expensive German sedan’s breaks would work if they were covered in axel grease?
You also have an inclination on making his doings public to all your collective friends on Facebook… with or without incriminating pictures and you have a mandatory rebound with his brother or best friend.

After all of this a brief but glorious period of “finding oneself” ensues which is usually followed by lonely singledom and then…. Then my friends the worst possible thing happens… you are having lunch with friends… or a boy you have liked and never been able to make a move on and while with this person… you run into the arsehole at the most inconvenient of places… awkwardness is the only answer to the brief few seconds in which your eyes meet and you wonder whether to look away, look down, smile, frown, flip him the bird, giggle, say hi, tell him to go fuck his mother or just turn around and bolt?

This is the day where you cannot eat anything, you are filled with rushing mixed emotions of love once forgotten and rage at why the hell he dared come into your space of comfort and where he knows you usually hang out. (You should have marked all the boundaries by peeing on it like a Jackrussel).

This is unexplainable to anyone you are starting anew with without jealousy ensuing or friends without weirdness or banter about what a wanker he is and if he has picked up weight in the last two months and you cannot help but wonder… wonder if he still misses you at night like you do him some times.

But all of this is filed in the X File by the following day and put into the back of the longest drawer possible. Upward and onward I always say…. AND FUCK THE EX’S!! :)

Does Size Really Matter?

Hello Lovelies!

It has been an eternity since I last had a chance to throw some random pot stirring crap at you.... After much consideration during my experiences of late... the question once again raised its (throbbing) head.... Does size really matter?

So this time round... we are yet again talking penis: And "its about time" I hear you say?

The short answer is yes. But a one-word answer doesn’t really fulfill the length (ugh!) requirements of this column, or get at the complexities. So allow me to expand (ugh!!).

1) How big? The Argentine Lake Duck has a penis that’s twice as big as its body, proportionally equal to a dude with a 12-foot dick. This is obviously too big for anyone to use in deriving anything resembling physical pleasure. (Visually, it could be interesting) Bigger is better, but biggest isn’t best. Personally, I like to stick with the rule my mom used to have about the Dagwood-style sandwiches my friends and I would make in third grade: If you can’t fit it in your mouth, how are you going to enjoy it?

2) What comes with that? If a guy’s got good girth, proper proportions, a stunning shot, or a sack of boulders, a lack of length can be forgiven. Up to a point. You want to stay away from any of the following silhouette categories: Soda Can, Candy Apple, Mango, Dreidel, Nutter Butter, Lollipop, Portobello, Umbrella, Wine Decanter, Juice Box, Tulip, Spruce Tree, Cake Stand, Funnel, Isopod, Champagne Cork.

3) How much is too much? My mother had another relevant line: Don’t let your eyes be bigger than your stomach. And while the physiology is exactly right, the idea remains pertinent. Some guys are on an undying quest for that ideal Louisville Slugger that will finally knock them home. Then, when they find it, they’re unable to sit down or eat solid foods for a week. The great thing about the Internet is that it allows you to enjoy the prurient spectacle of enormity -- even, or especially, as it's perpetrated on others -- without the negative side effects. Sometimes, it’s better to be in the audience than on stage.


The "experts" at Masters and Johnson supposedly studied 10,000 rounds of the good ol’ in and out and concluded that size didn’t equal pleasure. Their evidence revealed that the magical powers of the long schlong were just that -- a myth.

Well, I must confess, I disagree. I think size ABSOLUTELY matters. But let me qualify -- one homo’s perfect might be another homo’s ouch too big or ewwww too small. It’s really like Goldilocks here -- depending upon your criteria for comfort, you and you alone know your justttttt right.

Along with the issue of too thin is the less distressing but equally problematic just too damn big. While a really large and long dick standing at attention is lovely to look at (close up and on the screen), the pain factor can definitely outweigh the pleasure principle. And from my experience with well-endowed fellows who were oh-so-proud of their members, no orifice was safe from repeated exploration. So not only was there the danger of not walking the next day, but a sore jaw, painful bladder infections, and some possible back-door damage. For me, these boys with their big toys like to play hard and play often.

At the end of the day -- I would have to say that it's really about the whole package being greater than the sum of its parts. With decent proportions (girth to length), a perky, trimmed set riding high, and a man who knows a few tricks or two, all (or most) can be forgiven.

Pubic Topiary - A homo's crowning glory!

I would admit that I am no Martha Steward, but I have come to the realization that for essential gay functioning there are a few things that just HAVE to be done.

One of these fine things my fairy friends, is the need to trim the hedge, you know, between you and the pot of gold? Since I could remember body hair has been something I have not been very fond of on myself. While I find it attractive on certain types of men, I have always been a serial groomer.

Our lovely little furry friends in nature (No, not straight men)spend many hours of their daily routine grooming and cleaning the fur they have been so lovingly given to keep warm (thank goodness we have labels), so it would only make sense that we do the same. Sure, you wash, condition and use the odd moisturizing mask, but I am talking about the hair that grows in places where one needs to look good at all times, in case of an emergency of course! My grandmother used to always say that she will never wear knickers with holes in them as you never know who would be undressing you should you need to be rushed to hospital, and now, I live by the same mantra, because there may just be a male nurse involved.

Now before I go off on a tangent of tequila induced waxing incidents and accidental near castration, I must implore you to always make sure that your bush is well kept! Too many times have I come up from a vigorous blowjob session with more hair in my teeth than a vegan, mountain worshipping lesbian without the need to smile at the recipient. I am not asking you to shave it all off, but for goodness sake man, don’t leave it to the point where heavy machinery needs to be involved in finding your pecker. It is the deciding factor on turning any steamy date from fabulous to flaccid. Over time it has become more acceptable for straight men to groom their faces so surely we should be one step ahead!?

There are also now many looks one could go for, and believe me, all of these say a tremendous amount about your personality.

1. The Slightly Mowed look – This is the quick, earth child alternative to hardcore grooming. You have a pair of electric clippers, right?! The allover, slightly shorter than nose tickling trim, that neatens things up without there being much evidence of tampering with Mother Nature. Balls are left the way they are of course.

2. The Golf Lawn – This is like the Slightly Mowed, but with a touch of artistic talent. With the same pair of clippers hair is cropped to a length that causes it to lie flush with the skin, while testicles are dry shaved with a razor and thighs and buttocks are slightly neatened up.

3. The Landing Strip – Now without the need to start singing “Brazil” at a World Cup Soccer match (yet remaining patriotic to those gorgeous specimens), one shaves the inner thighs, testicles and bum region only leaving a acceptable patch of hair above the penis. This look is famous with porstars the world over. One must naturally be careful with a razor and use hair removal cream rather in more “hard to reach” area’s.

4. The Hatchling – With obvious references to the name you can imagine that this requires total removal of all hair. I would like to advise that this should only be attempted by seasoned professionals as knicks, rashes and burns are almost always imminent with first timers and I bet you two virgins and a Jonas Brother that the regrowth, unless maintained impeccably, will be absolute torture!

Now after all of that, I am sure there are still questions like, but what about the chest? The legs? The arms? The stomach? The answer: One should always match! What gets done upstairs, should generally be carried through downstairs and same the other way around. Continuity is aesthetically pleasing after all!

The Latter...

The post before this one was all on early childhood! Thereafter things like boarding school, puberty and the boys on the swimming team seemed more interesting and suddenly, hot faced, it hit me like a ton of gold bricks: My world, was in fact, not MY world, but a world shared by other humans, with a common sense of what was right and what was wrong. This realization made me realize that , not only was I different, but it was noticeable to others.

I got along better with the girls than the boys and spent most of high school lunch breaks trying not to look awkward. I was in the said “closet” and my god was it getting hot in there!! I was so naïve to what the world had to offer me and not just what it had against me. If most of you are starting to relate to this story , you would by now know that I am talking about my “Coming of age” as a gay man.

Experts have shown that most Homosexuals as boys, or girls know that they are “different” as young as the age of 6. Those same experts have disputed the idea of Homosexuality being genetic or solely because of circumstance and upbringing, but I can tell you that mine was a fabulous mix of both. As you can imagine my mother would hang herself on a string of freshwater pearls at the thought of “making” me gay. I do not think this was the case at all, I just think she was the incubator for my already “differently” programmed being. Shocking, however is how difficult it is for many boys or rather, young men to embrace this sense of themselves. In the past and still today more and more men are “coming out” to their family and friends as men well into their 30’s or 40’s or at the opposite side of the scale at 15 or 16. Has it now become more acceptable, or as recently stated by someone close to me as being “fashionable”. Personally the idea of missing out on all the nubile fumbling and unexplained erections at rugby games would be quite depressing.

As a reader or user of this website, I would think that you, yes you, would be a fairly open minded individual with a sense of exploration at hand. Do you feel like you have something within you screaming to get out? Here are a few ways of knowing you are gay, or just downright a flaming queen:

1. You have at least three different movies that you can watch everyday of the week.

Not so FAST! “Anyone could have that “ you say, well not ANYONE also wants to be the lead actress or can relate their life story to her. And not ANYONE always cries at that one spot when he tells her he loves her.

2. You look at yourself at least 5 times in the rear view mirror and proceed to either find something wrong , or the need to squeeze something on your face in the car on the way to work in the morning .

3. Your penis has a name…. (Yes, it happens)

4. You NEVER wear black and brown in the same ensemble. (And if you do, go to the page with the tits and ass, you don’t belong here)

5. Your mother was either instrumental or detrimental to your dress sense as a young boy.

6. You consider hair removal on every square inch of your body a sensible investment.

7. You find the need to use your hands excessively during conversation.

8. You stop to look at your ass in reflective surfaces. (Glass doors, lift doors, your car)

9. Your idea of commitment is looking after a plant, given by someone you are seeing.

10. There is a distinct difference in a person you are “seeing” and one you are “in a relationship” with.

11. You have dreams of getting married in something similar to what your mother got married in, only bigger!

12. You knew that all the above was completely over the top, but mainly true.

So, once the difficult denial period has worn off you are now feeling interested in knowing what your mind is all about and how this highly modified train of thinking has lead you to where you are now, alone, with a picture of a Men’s Health cover model in your hand and a hard on. Personally at this point it occurred to me that this behavior, as well as matching pastels, may mean that I was indeed, of THAT persuasion, you know, “batting for the B team” or interested in playing “hide the sausage”.

(As a side thought, I would also like to know why a highly evolved being such as a gay has not come up with better terms than these, anyway…)

Now what does one do when newly discovered as being a gay? Does the sense of excitement guide or destroy you? Do you feel ashamed or deprived? Do you take the plunge or spend the next 20 years spanking the monkey to a picture of your personal trainer, Johannes, while your wife prepares another exciting meal of fish fingers and something that resembles mashed potatoes?

This question can only be answered by the involved party. I asked myself these questions, I asked myself these questions many times when trying not to come across as gay or pushing people away when I could not brave the idea of someone knowing, when one day, I was sitting in my fat pants, watching Oprah with my mother and eating ice cream out of a tub, when she told me that if I plan to sneak another man into the house in the dead of the night, I may consider letting her have a look at how cute he was first.

Just there and then, accidentally deep throating an ice cream spoon, with tears in my eyes I thought that pretending not to be was so much harder, than trying to make it work!

Shortly after my mother ripping the doors off my closet and setting it on fire life was a rollercoaster that I am still on today. From what I have written here I realize that the bulk of it is stereotypical of gay behavior, but my dear, it is so true! And that one faithful night, sweaty and standing in the middle of the dance floor of a favorite nightclub where some Sandton Queens would venture to on Safari to see the Lesser Spotted Barefoot Homosexual, a sentence of realization hit me: “Behold… The Gay”.

Behold… The Gay! The windy road to Homosexual discovery, faux or fabulous?

One would think that the idle days of childhood for a boy would be spent getting dirty and accidently setting things on fire… well it was like that for me… kind of, minus all the above.

As a young boy my world was a mish mash of confusion, observation and dreaming! I was, and still am, a boy from a slightly religious family that was the height of popularity in the 90’s! Life was great - exceptional partying and even better shopping. We were at the tip of the social scene and THE event always happened at our place and was graciously hosted by the ideal mix of Martha Stuart, Brie Van der Camp and Princess Diana… my mother! One of my fondest memories of my mum was of the two of us singing aloud to Bette Midler in her convertible Mercedes with her red nails clutching onto the steering wheel. With me, her toddler of a son, wearing one of her many pairs of sunglasses, which I would have you know naturally matched my outfit at the time. Now, if you haven’t spotted the difference between this and the usual mud slinging boy behavior, I am afraid my friend you are a lost cause.

Having thought back on all these memories while reminiscing with a friend a couple of days ago, I wonder if my parents ever doubted my sexuality back then! If they didn’t, the tennis lessons, Ballet and horse riding should have tipped something off, and never looking more stylish I would have you know! My mother was my idol and I used to help her choose outfits, sit on her bed and watch her in draped in silks, wearing miles of pearls and diamonds that blinded the many admirers. And all I could think was: “why the hell do I have to wear shorts?!”