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!