A gay indie boy living in suburban South West London recounts his trials and tribulations dealing with sex, sexuality, growing up and getting older

Friday, August 30, 2013


"Are you free today?"

That was the usual message I'd get rom Zak, and no matter how many times I would tell him I worked Monday to Wednesday and I was off Thursday and Friday, without fail on Tuesdays I would always get that message.

He found me on OK Cupid: he was a student and lived in France, but was back home with his family in London for summer. He is 20 and studies Media Communications, or something like that. It wasn't until he gave me his French number and messaged me on What's App that it started to get really saucy.

It was on an idle Monday in early August that I got a message:

"Hey sexy"

"Charmer," I said. "How's your Monday?"

"Quiet and lonely. You?"

Well, if that isn't a hint, I don't know what is. The conversation progresses. He tells me how naughty he is and how he was willing to do any 'nudge-nudge, wink-wink' jobs that I wanted. That he was very naughty.

"You know what happens to naughty boys," I said.

"No?" he replies.

Oh come on! I think...

"They get punished"

"I would love to see that," he replies.

I bet he would. I knew from the off that Zak was looking for something more than just an older man... Before I go on, can I just point out that my preference is not for younger guys at all. I have always liked older guys, but for some reason I seem to attract a certain 'type' who want me to completely dominate them.

"I like being dominated and bad words. Rude words. Little smacks on my ass," he says.

He decides to come to my place and asks if I will dominate him. When we meet at the train station he is smoking a cigarette. He seems a bit dismissive and speaks with a strange French accent. He has big quiffed blonde hair with designer stubble that almost forms a beard. He wears a stylish mac and vibrant shirt – I note it and tell him I have many great shirts at home. He is dying for the loo and the 7 minute walk back to my house seems long as he struggles to keep it in.

He goes to the toilet and comes back out.

"Take off all your clothes," I tell him.

He undresses. He has a solid stocky – but not fat – body and is very hairy. I find this very attractive.

"Get down on all fours."

Again he complies and looks at me with innocent blue eyes. I have a feeling these 'eyes' are designed to hit somewhere between the fact that I was corrupting him and as a slutty turn on – like a puppy dog who wants to be sexually abused. I do find this power play arousing, especially because he is younger and I do want to corrupt him. I think it was Baudrillard who said that innocence is the best aphrodysiac and I could feel the full effect of this.

"Now crawl and put your face on my shoes, but don't do anything."

He comes towards me and presses his face on my shiny black winklepickers.

"Do you like these shoes, boy?"

"Yes, sir," he responds.

"Do you know how lucky you are to be with me right now and for me to allow you to touch my shoes."

"Yes sir. Very lucky, sir."

"Well, I want you to show me how lucky you feel by kissing my shoes."

He complies and kisses them softly and gently.

"Now, bitch boy, I want you to lick my shoes very carefully and very lovingly. And if you do it wrong, I will punish you. Do you understand boy?"

"Yes sir"

"Good boy. Now I'm going to allow you to worship my shoes."

Where was this coming from? I thought to myself. I could see that he had an erection. He really enjoyed this abuse of power as he tongued my the leather.

"Good boy," I said.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

"Now come towards me and put your head on my lap."

He crawled and nuzzled his head against my dick, which was hard at this point.

"Now I want you to undo my trousers"

I get the feeling that Zak has this mixture of contempt and excitement. That he hated me for doing this to him, that he hated himself for complying with my wishes and yet he was inexplicably turned on by it all.

"Put my dick in your mouth and suck it, boy. And look at me while you're doing it."

Those big, blue puppy eyes that looked almost as if they were about to cry looked into mine. Yes, there was something in this that I could see. part of me wanted him to cry, to be hurt, so that the pleasure would be increased. I thrust my cock into his mouth and he gagged.

"TAKE IT, BOY, TAKE IT!" I barked at him. Instead of jerking back or spitting out my dick, he obediently waited until he could take it and continue to look at me with a hurt look in his eyes.

After a few minutes, I told him to stop. "Good boy," I said, "You do that very well. Have you had a lot of practice?"

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"Are you a cock-sucking slut?"

"Yes sir,"

"I thought so, slut. Now come across my lap."

He lay on my lap and I spanked him. "You're a slut, boy. What are you?"

"A slut," he replied.

I spanked him hard and then we stopped. I lay him on the bed. I undressed fully, put on a condom and bent his legs back. "Now I'm going to rape you hard like the dumb slut you are," I said.

I pushed my dick inside him with no regard as to if it ws painful for him and fucked him hard and fast. He moaned. "Oh you fuck so good," He said.

I pinched his mouth open and I spat in it. "Shut up, bitch," I said. Then I carried on fucking him. He looked pained as he masturbated, again like he was about to cry. I wanted him to cry.

"I'm going to come," he said. He ejaculated – again with that pained expression and those troubled puppy-dog blue eyes – in a state close to ecstasy.

I withdrew, took the condom off and masturbated vigorously into his face. I came – and those big blue eyes looked at me, asking why I had just done what I had done to him... Which perversely made it all the more pleasurable.

He stayed the night, lying in my bed telling me how disgusted he felt with himself after he had sex with men, but that I had fucked him really good and he really wanted to do it again. I was a different person. Back to normal, laughing and joking... Wondering how I had been driven to this sadistic mode of operating. When he fell asleep, I wanted to take a photo of him to remember him, knowing I would probably not see Zak again.

In the morning, he barely spoke to me. We got dressed and I dropped him off at the station. We parted not having said much.

Sometimes Zak still messages me asking when we can meet up, but is always reluctant to follow through. I think that perhaps he is scared of his own sexuality, of who he really is in bed.


It was a Friday morning. I was off work and the sun was peeping through the very small window in my flat, promising a good day ahead. I slipped on a pair of lime green jeans and a black shirt, matched with black shoes. Today I was going for a high-contrast, powerful look that made a statement.

I received a message on Grindr... "Hi"

And another – "Are you ignoring me?"

It was Luca: a 22-year-old Italian I'd spoken to the night before. He had dropped his mother off at the airport the previous night.

"Hahaha! No!" I replied, "I'm just about to leave the house for coffee."

"Why don't you come round mine for a real Italian coffee," he said.

As you can understand, these invites on Grindr always have a double edge. Is he inviting me round for sex, or does he mean what he says when he says 'coffee'? I contemplated the fact that I had already masturbated this morning and, judging by the fact that he was younger and messaging a 30 year old about coffee, I was guessing that – if sex was on the cards – then he would want me to top him. And was I up to it... And would I want to.

"Give me 20 minutes," I said, as he sent me his location and I set off from the house.

Walking down the street, I swaggered with confidence, while on the inside worried about how much attention the green trousers were getting. Had I misjudged this outfit completely? It was too late to turn back now anyway. I pressed on to my destination.

When I got to the front door, I rang the bell and a smallish, boyish figure answered the door. Luca... He must have been about 5ft 7 and with an extremely slim build. I could have probably scooped him up and swung him round the room. He probably wanted me to.

Going through to the kitchen, it was awkward as he busied himself about. He had just got out of bed and was hungover from drinking wine with his housemates the night before. He fussed over the percolator, cleaning it out and apologising for the mess. I felt like a spare part as I tried to install myself in a corner of the kitchen, but was inevitably interrupted by him needing a mug, or a spoon, or some sugar from the jar.

He gathered some things – including a small pouch of tobacco and some rolling papers – and went through to the garden where we sat at a table. I chose to sit on the side adjacent to him so as to avoid being too formal and distant by sitting at opposite sides – much more like a formal interview than a date.

I asked him what he did in Milan and he told me that he was a freelance hair and make-up stylist with many contacts and he decided to move to London a year ago for love. His name was Mikhail, he was Polish and aged 31. Now at this point I'm starting to realise Luca has a 'thing' for men my age. What did Mikhail do? He was a bar supervisor. How did they meet? Apparently they chatted online for three months before he made the decision to move in with him.

Wow... So. Three months of chatting online and you decide to move in with someone. Why not take a holiday to London and see if you get on first before going all or nothing?

"I think the universe has a plan for me," Luca says.

Yes, I think to myself. The universe seems to have that 'fuck your life up' plan for everyone. A month later and Luca and Mikhail hadn't quite worked out – he moved out and so had stayed in London for the last year.

I am perplexed by the music coming from his iPod: Natalie Imbruglia, Alanis Morrisette, Blur... Things I would have listened to when I was 14 and he was a mere 6 years old. I question him on it and he replies his sister is the same age as me and that's what he grew up listening to.

It strikes me that Luca is actually very ambitious: he talks about his career in London at a local salon called Michelle Louise – one I pass most days – and how he wants to do this and that. He's a colourist, he could make her money, he could make anyone money if they stuck with him and put money behind him. He wants to start his own business, work with fashion stylists, do projects for Mac and Toni & Guy. He's underpaid, but he's a genius (of course) – his colouring is the future etc etc

I can't help but reflect on my tireless enthusiasm when I was 22. If only I'd wanted to be a hairdresser, I think to myself. Something with a clear career plan where it could be possible that by now I'd be styling for Chanel. Unfortunately, my chosen career at that point – rock star – was a bit more impossible and the chances ever so slightly slimmer.

It then occurs to me that Luca hasn't thus far asked me a question about me and my life, and so I realise that I am actually bored with him and that he isn't interested in who I am or what I do. I surmise that Luca is a lot like me: he chooses older men with less ambition than himself so he doesn't feel like he is 'in competition' with his partner. This starts to annoy me and I purposely leave long gaps in the conversation waiting for him to ask me a question, but he never does and so at this point I write off anything further happening with him.

However, there is a part of me that senses the very deep loneliness inside him. He talks of how much he gives to people that never seems to be returned, of loves that never quite worked out (always with older men around my age) and of how he thinks too much. As an emotional sucker, I want to hug him and tell him it will be okay, but decide it would be better to leave that job to 'the universe'.

He is very sweet, very cute, but ultimately I think Luca wants me to regard him – to view him as some kind of dolly or trophy. That I should adore him and he would be my successful little lapdog. However, I think he is intimidated by my presence – and probably also by my bright green jeans.

I tell him that I will disappear and leave him to enjoy the rest of his day off. This comes as no surprise to him and he sees me to the door. I hug him goodbye and thank God – in a way – I escaped. When someone can talk about themselves more than I can talk about myself, they are definitely not the right person for me.