by Tom Berwick
So far this year I’ve had sex with rather more than 520 men. This may, to some people, seem like rather a lot, but these things have to be seen in context. I’ve set myself a target: a thousand men by the end of December. Given that as I write this we’re well into August, I’m not doing very well…
If you’ve got a calculator handy, you’ll know that if I’m to reach my target I have to average 2.74 men per day. Those of you who are in monogamous relationships, or those who just don’t have quite my sex drive (and numerical determination!) may look on this as a bit of a challenge, but I reckon it’s an attainable goal.
It’s not that difficult to notch up three men a day if you’re out on the gay scene and have a bit of get-up-and-go about you. It’s possible to pick up a man every night in the clubs and bars, and London has so many bars that you can just try a different one every day, and never be thought of as a slut.
And you can easily add to this total by picking up matinee performances on weekend afternoons and bank holidays. But doing this only takes you to an average of about 1.29 men per day: good, but nowhere near target.
Fortunately, London is utterly seething with horny men, and it doesn’t take much effort to find them. In the old days you really had to work at it to get your sexual conquests into the hundreds: think of poor Joe Orton, trekking laboriously from cottage to cottage in Islington.
I don’t think he had a car, or even a bicycle, so that’s a lot of shoe leather being worn away just for a blow-job. Now, thanks to the many online hook-up sites, the sex is much more easily identifiable, and the risks of being arrested by an over-zealous policeman have vanished.
We should all say a little prayer of thanks to Tim Berners-Lee (the inventor of the web – surely you knew that!) every time we have an Internet-enabled orgasm.
And then there are the saunas, the sex clubs, the dubious fetish parties held by middle-aged bondage experts in East Cheam (yes, “Master Whippy”, I’m looking at you) and, of course, dear old Hampstead Heath. You may not realise it, but we’re living in a Golden Age of Gay Sex.
We’re not, however, living in a Golden Age of Risk-free Sex. It’s worth pointing this out explicitly, even though I imagine everyone reading this already knows it. If you do it wrong, sex has risks. It’s not just gay sex that has risks, but as gay men we certainly have special concerns.
Chief amongst these, as we all know, is AIDS. If, like me, you have the sexual preferences of a tomcat (or even if you don’t, and live a life of monogamy with Mr Right), you need to play safe. The basic rule, which cannot be stressed too much, is “always fuck with a rubber”.
And that means “ALWAYS!” And don’t complain that you’re too big and they don’t fit: when I was a teenager I used to spend happy lunch hours at school filling condoms with water and dropping them out of the geography room window onto teachers walking by below.
You can get enough water to ruin a teacher’s best jacket into a condom, so don’t tell me you can’t get your cock in one.
“IT’S NOT THAT DIFFICULT TO NOTCH UP THREE MEN A DAY IF YOU’RE OUT ON THE GAY SCENE AND HAVE A BIT OF GET-UP-AND-GO ABOUT YOU.”
OK, public service announcement over. Back to the main point: the availability of sex. It really is all over the place. Just this morning I was sitting opposite a cute Indian guy on the Northern Line. He caught my eye as I got on at Stockwell, and somehow I just knew he was up for it.
All around us there were straight people on their way to Kings Cross or Euston, completely unaware of the improbable sign language that was passing between us. I looked at him. He looked at me. He slowly but unmistakeably moved the hand resting between his legs ‘til a finger was pointing directly at his jeans-clad cock.
I apparently randomly scratched my balls.
We both got off at Elephant and Castle, me a couple of paces behind him. Just outside the station he stopped and turned towards me, and gave the standard greeting of two gay men who’ve decided to have sex:
“You got a place?” He had a strong south London accent.
“Not round here. You live round here?”
“No, I work in the market.”
“Oh. Anywhere there?”
“Maybe. Come on.”
He led me past a stall advertising itself as selling “traditional Hungarian salty doughnuts”, round a corner, and into a small, dark storeroom behind a drapery stall. He was already unzipping his fly as he closed the door, and I quickly followed suit. He was slightly above average: seven inches, neatly cut.
He pulled me close, and we kissed briefly before moving on to more serious matters.
Five minutes later we were zipped up and ready to go. As he opened the storeroom door again I glanced down. There was a white blob on his Nikes.
“Hey, you got cum on your trainers.”
“Oh bollocks.” He wiped it off quickly with a scrap of tissue, then stood up and gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Thanks for the blowjob,” he said.
“Well, thank you too,” I replied, exaggerating the politeness.
“Do me a favour once we’re outside. Don’t say anything to me: I got to work round here.”
“Sure,” I said.
He slipped outside, and a couple of moments later I followed. There was no sign of him.
I stopped at the Hungarian stall and got a doughnut with garlic dressing. I ate it walking through the market. I saw the Indian guy working at a clothes stall, and gave him a wink as I went past. He gave me a quick grin, then turned away to serve a customer.
I finished my doughnut and went back to the tube station, one closer to my target.