Writing for a magazine is rather strange: the publication deadlines mean that you aren’t reading this ‘til after Christmas, but I’m writing to you from early December. For me, December 25th is the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, but for you it’s already the Ghost of Christmas Past. It’s rather like having a time machine.
Talking of science fiction-y concepts, the first person who taught me about publication deadlines was Isaac Asimov, writer of all sorts of space opera, as well as the originator of the “Three Laws of Robotics” (which, in a curious case of science fiction influencing reality, are now being taken seriously by artificial intelligence experts as a way of programming our future android pals).
One December Asimov was overcome by the joys of the winter season, and dashed off a short story about Christmas in outer space.
He sent it to his publisher, expecting a delighted response to his festive contribution, only to receive a brusque rejection: “owing to our publication deadlines, you should have submitted it in May or June”. The incident made such an impression on him, and taught such a useful lesson to aspiring writers, that he eventually wrote about it in his autobiographical notes.
QXMen, fortunately, doesn’t have quite such puritanical guidelines, but I’m still here making my Christmas card list, while you’re reading this at about the time you make your New Year Resolutions. What will it be for 2012? Are you planning a diet, are you going to dump that jerk who’s been ruining your life for the last six months, or are you finally going to learn to play the ukulele?
“BY THE START OF DECEMBER I’D HAD SEX WITH 891 MEN. RUNNING A BIT BEHIND TARGET, I ADMIT, BUT CERTAINLY WITH A SPORTING CHANCE OF REACHING MY GOAL”
Whatever you pick, it’s a fair bet that you’ll have forgotten your resolution by Easter, just in time to enjoy those chocolate eggs without feeling guilty about your January diet. And if your friends told you what they resolved this time last year, I bet you can’t even remember. It’s an even better bet that you don’t remember what my resolution was this time last year, so let me remind you: I resolved to have sex with a thousand men.
You might have forgotten about this, but, for once, I didn’t forget my New Year resolution. Even better, I’ve tried to keep it. By the start of December I’d had sex with 891 men. Running a bit behind target, I admit, but certainly with a sporting chance of reaching my goal.
And so we come to the setback of December 3rd. I was in a sauna in central London, and had had sex with a couple of guys, when I met man number 894. I’m not going to mention his name, because, frankly, I can’t remember it. I’m not sure he even told me. We’d done a bit of gentle sucking and ass-licking – nothing too strenuous, but enough to count as “having sex” – when he suggested we take a break and get a drink.
I suspect he wanted to “get to know me as a person”, something which I generally hate: I don’t want people to know me as a person, I want them to know me as a cock. But I was thirsty, so we went through to the little bar area and got some orange juice. Well, he was hungry and I was hungry, and the bar sold cheese toasties, so we ordered a couple of those too. And then we sat and talked.
I find that the best way to deal with people who want conversation is to let them do all the talking. Most people think they’re interested in others, but what they really enjoy is talking about themselves, so it’s not that difficult to let them do all the work: intelligently asking “what did you think/feel/do about that?” at the appropriate points in their monologues is usually more than enough.
Mr 894, though, seemed to be one of the rare few who actually did want more than an audience for his own thoughts: he kept asking me questions, and I was forced to answer. I suspect he has a great future ahead of him as the next Jeremy Paxman.
Unfortunately, while he was interrogating me, I was also trying to eat a cheese toastie. You remember when you were a kid, and grown-ups told you not to talk with your mouth full? Well, it turns out that it wasn’t just because they didn’t want to see a cud of partially-chewed dinner every time you opened your mouth, it was also to stop you from biting the side of your mouth.
Oh my God, it hurt! Suddenly my mouth was full of blood and cheddar, and the side of my cheek swelled up like a balloon (well, that’s how it felt, though I exaggerate for effect!). All subsequent conversation was forgotten as I gargled with cold water and tried to stop the bleeding. Eventually I managed to reduce the flow to a trickle, but I’d lost any remaining interest I had in my toastie, and in Mr 894.
It took me a minute or two before I realised the real problem: a bite on the inside of my cheek would mean no kissing, no licking, and no sucking until it healed. In practical terms, this would take me out of the sex-loop for several days. (If you can’t work out why you shouldn’t be kissing or sucking when you’ve just bitten the inside of your mouth, take that cock out of your mouth right now, and don’t put it back in again until you understand why. If you’re not sure, write to me and I’ll explain!)
Well, I left the sauna very grumpy, and still in some pain. My bigger concern was my New Year resolution. With 106 guys still to go, what was I to do?
Technology, thank you! It took me an hour or two to realise what to do – I’m kind of slow. Normally, when I think of sex, I think of something mutual: you can fuck me if I can fuck you; you suck me and I’ll suck you; and so on. But then I realised that it doesn’t have to be this way. The triumphs of electronic engineering of the last few years, along with the unsung heroes who’ve coded up all those gay contact websites, resolved my problem.
When I got home, I got online and edited my profile. Out went “versatile guy looking for hot mutual fun”, and in came “strict top: no reciprocation, just suck me, rim me, then bend over and take my hard tool; ABSOLUTELY NO KISSING”. And you know what? Within seconds of entering the chatroom, I was deluged with messages from guys offering their “hot tight asses”. I really had no idea there were so many bottoms out there.
So now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and get another guy on my list: James, who says he’s an “insatiable fuckee”. I asked him if he minded not kissing. “Actually, I can’t do anything with my mouth today,” he said, “I’m just back from the dentist”. Perfect.
