And again...

I just returned home with Vix after having watched Revenge of the Sith for the second time.

As Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, holding baby Luke, looked out at the two suns of Tattooine, I began to cry again although, admittedly, not as much as on Saturday night.

Alerted by my sniffling, Vix turned to me and with mock-exasperation, shook her head. "You are so gay!"

I believe she may have a point.

What’s with the socks?

*untapes mouth*

Good lord! That was quite difficult! All week long, so many little things happened which I totally wanted to blog about and I couldn't! If you are ever having blogger’s block or whatever you want to call it, this is the thing to do.

Ok, first off, I may have confused some of you with the photographs. So let me explain. If I were a true artist I would probably not feel the need to do this (and, er, yes, I have Photoshop), but I'm nice, so…

Monday - Expectations is a gay sex shop I visited on Monday - that was a picture of the entrance. It’s on Old Street, around the corner from where I work and also from where I used to work. It’s really huge and kinda dingy but the assistants are really nice and friendly (but not that friendly). Scandalously, one of my friends recognised the neon entrance sign, as he was once employed by the owners to name a range of dildos.

Tuesday - that was the fountains in the courtyard of Somerset House. Somerset House is where every birth and death in the UK is recorded and archived. I went there with the intention of finding out if I could “see” my name, but when I got there I realised that was kinda dumb. So I sat in the courtyard instead and watched the fountains and read some of The Time Travellers Wife.

Wednesday - that was Millie - mine and my housemate’s friend’s baby. I got home to find her on my housemate’s bed. And that was not red eye. Like Christina, in the recently cancelled Fox show Point Pleasant, I believe that Millie might actually be half-human and half the daughter of Lucifer. Most of the time she is really well behaved but occasionally she can be a real little bitch.

Thursday - (left to right) yours truly, Drew and Drew’s friend Sam. We went to Nag Nag Nag at Ghetto - the second time I had been there in less than four days. We had the most fabulous time and we all kissed boys, I think. By writing “I think” I don’t mean that we may have kissed girls (perish the thought!) but that I’m not sure if Sam kissed a boy or not. But Drew and I definitely kissed boys.

Friday - I accidentally took a picture of my crotch while sitting on the railings next to the Southbank Centre, which is right next to the Thames. Earlier in the week Dantallion had requested that I post up naked pictures. Later in the week I read that he had decided to take an indefinite break from blogging, which made me sad. So I dedicated that picture of my crotch to him.

Saturday - I was drunk and for reasons too complicated to go into here I took my favourite teddy bear, Kwah Wah (at the point of naming him I was far too young to be able to properly pronounce the word “Koala”) to work. On the way home I stopped off at Tesco and thought it would be amusing to take a picture of him next to a trolley. I had a working title for this one – “Kwah Wah has an existential dilemma”.

Sunday - I went to see Star Wars - Revenge of the Sith with Helen, Lindsay, Drew, Atul and Richard. This is incredibly embarrassing to admit, but when the film ended I was upset and crying, almost to the point of hyperventilating. Yeah, I know – gay. As we left the cinema, Helen had to accompany me away from other others for a minute or two so that I could compose myself. Basically this was never going to just be a regular movie trip for me - Star Wars was one of the first movies I saw at the cinema and is very much a part of both my youth and my adulthood. I have watched each of the movies countless times, so in more ways than one this movie was going to bring “closure”. Aside from that it was also just a pretty cool movie as well as more than compensating for the previous two, which were, it has to be said, a little bit of a let down.

Oh, and the title of this post? Those of you who get Urban Dictionary’s Word of the Day will know what it means. And those of you who just clicked on that link.

Until tomorrow...

(For Dan)

Blogtox, um, thingy

Ok, there are things I want to say. Things about work, health, family, friends, travel, money, etc.

But, of late, it's been about hair.

I do feel like I need to write some kind of mental "enema". I'm not unhappy per se, but I feel that my brain is congested with so much stuff at the moment ...

But before I write about those things, I need to clear my head. I once heard that Evan Dando stopped speaking for a month or for a year, or something, and that he found the whole experience incredibly cathartic and cleansing. So I'm going to do the same. Kind of ...

For the next seven days (that’s Monday to Sunday, peeps) there will be no more words from Christopher. Only pictures. One a day. A peek into my world.

Ooooh! Maybe this could be the new big thing! Blog detox!?

Or not.

Anyhoo ... here are some nice soft floor cushions to lie back on.

*throws cushions*

Depending on your point of view this could be the longest, or the shortest, slide show known to man.

*tapes mouth shut*

Christopher's Wednesday blog post (Christopher his Wednesday blog post)

It's a long, boring story but there is a genuine, legitimate reason why I am not the world's expert when I turn my hand to the subject of punctuation and grammar.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I asked him a question:

"Where in the 'dogs cats bowl' does / do the apostrophe/s go?"

And he told me:

"The dog's cat's bowl. Perhaps it might help you to know that (I could be wrong about this but I don't think so) the possessive apostrophe is actually a contraction of '[noun] his.' So people used to say things like 'the dog his bowl.' That got shortened to 'the dog's bowl.'

"The apostrophe always comes after the noun of ownership. If that noun is singular (dog), the apostrophe comes after that, followed by an s (dog's). If the noun is plural (dogs), the apostrophe comes after that (dogs')."

[now etched onto my brain]

As a "thank you" for his outstanding tutelage, I promised him that I would recommend (not loan) his new book "Gay Haiku", which was released yesterday, to all of my friends.

Faustus's book (Faustus his book.)

I am slightly disgruntled over the fact that the soonest Amazon can get said book to me is by May 24. Goddamn this far-flung isle.

My breakfast

I've recently started eating porridge for breakfast. I hadn't eaten porridge for years, not since I was a kid, when I thought it looked and tasted like vomit. But with honey and bananas (not sure about the Kiwi in this picture though) it is deelish! It's also a slow release energy food so you don't get that mid-afternoon nap slump.

And the best thing about porridge? Celebs are eating it! Kate Moss, Donna Air, Mischa Barton, P. Diddy and most importantly my favourite homeboy, Clive.

I'm going to a Puma by Maharishi party tonight and I'm hoping for something scandalous to happen, so tomorrow I won't have to tell you what I currently have for my lunch (gravy.)

The One About the Promise

Sometime last year I made someone I care about very much make me a promise. In retrospect I guess it was a stupid promise to ask him to make, with no real consequence one way or the other, but nonetheless at the time it was important to me that I felt that this was one line that he would never, ever cross.

I actually found out some time ago that the promise had been broken - the day after it happened, if I remember correctly. Discretion, it would seem, has never been a particularly favored virtue amongst gay men. It was actually a good friend who told me that what had happened had happened. With good, honest intentions this was someone who felt that I should know. And it was an act of kindness I quickly rebuffed in a misguided attempt to sweep the gravity of what the broken promise meant to me, at the time, under the carpet.

That didn’t stop me, however, indirectly attempting to discover the truth, direct from the horse’s mouth. But I was told in a roundabout way that I had been misinformed and I chose to believe that. I believed it because I wanted to believe it.

Yesterday, for some reason, he told me the truth. Which of course, really I already knew. And I told him that, but I didn’t tell him how I knew. Some things are better left unsaid.

Isn’t it amazing how our minds work? I knew. I knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt! I had the word of a good friend. Yet it is months and months after the fact that I finally actually hear it. Really, really hear it.

Here’s the thing - when I made this person make that promise I really cared that they wouldn’t break it. And I now I find myself not caring that they did. Not in a bad way. I just woke up this morning with the realisation that it doesn’t really matter. Life is way too short. I don’t think any less of him. It doesn’t make him a bad person. He’s still one of my favourite people.

This is the thing - I can’t be mad at anyone for breaking any promise. Because I made a promise to him and to everyone I know once too. A really, really big one. And I broke it spectacularly and there were consequences.

But then, afterwards, I made the same promise again. Once more. This one won't be broken.

I know that you all know that.

[proof]

Taken last night, at dinner, in Birmingham (for my best friend's 31st birthday).



I wish my cheeks were more sculpted. I must have practically 0.01% body fat, except on my cheeks. I smile and hampsters within a twenty mile radius start knawing through their cage bars in order to get to me.

Oh! I made a remarkable discovery last night. Or was it this morning? Anyway - sticking to the same drink, i.e. not mixing, means that you don't get incredibly drunk, very, very quickly and you don't wake up in the morning with the hangover from hell!

I'm sometimes a little slow on the uptake.

The Darth Side

God bless my friend Robbie for alerting me to this. Scottish people do, after all, have their uses:

Darth Vadar's blog!

"Okay, I admit it. I cut off the kid's hand. Everything went downhill after that. Blast! Blast! Blast! I am such an idiot."

Right...

I had my hair cut and you'll be most relieved to know that I am pleased with the result.

Now, I know your next questions is going to be, "Can we see a picture?" Well, you can, but you're going to have to wait until Monday because this evening I had a fuck up with the hair dye. I decided to get rid of the highlights and go back to being my usual mono shade of dark brown (Gayer Nutresse No.145 - Sexual Chocolate). But when I came to mix the solution, instead of using the colour concentrate, I accidentally dumped the contents of the post-colour intensive conditioning treatment tube into the developing mix.

Even though I realised I'd messed up before I put the contents of the bottle onto my freshly sheared barnet, I will admit to freaking out, just a little bit.

Unfortunately it was my second freak out in less than 48 hours, both of which occurred infront of Vix, who after having lived with me for almost a year, had never born witness to a Christopher freak out.

I'd like to say that when I freak out I'm like Madeline Kahn in Clue:

"I hated her ... so ... much ... I ... it ... it ... flame. Flames ... on the side of my face ... breathing ... breath ... heaving breaths ... heaving ..."

Or that I freak out like my brother - pure, unbridled rage, coupled with a spark of pure psychopathy. He's very, very good at this one and will demonstrate it at the drop of a hat - for example, the time when he found out that the fleas present on William, our cat, had laid eggs in the follicles of his chest hair, or the time when I accidentally drove my car over his already broken foot, or the time when Mum found and destroyed his hidden marijuana farm, or the time when...

But I don't freak out in either of those ways. I'll leave you to guess exactly how I freak out. But I'll tell you this: I'm seriously considering exacting a terrible revenge against Vix for laughing profusely at me, on both of the occasions.

The One With the Bathhouse

Elizabeth has an expression for the sordid dens of iniquity that many of us gay boys like to frequent from time to time. It's an expression I rather like:

Steam emporiums.

Yesterday afternoon, at about 4.30pm, I realised that I had a bit of the horn thang goin' on. As the dial on the wallclock inched towards home time, I began to realise that this particular sensation was not something that I was simply going to be able to take into, erm, hand once I had arrived back at the pad. Therefore I decided that needs must sometimes involve another and at 6pm I hopped on the Northern Line to the fairly newly decked out steam emporium in Waterloo.

For the uninitiated amongst you (my female and dwindling straight male readership), here is the deal with gay bathhouses:

1) Gay bathhouses are not necessarily seedy affairs. Infact many of the more established ones in London are more akin to top notch health clubs than your average heterosexual "Swedish Saunas"

2) Hot guys with good bodies and decent sized, er, intellects are often in abundance (although it does depend on the time of the day)

3) You get free condoms and safe sex is actively encouraged

4) People are not, on the whole, going at it infront of each other

5) There is usually a bar, where you can have a civilised pre / post coital drink with your new fun-buddy

6) It is possible to turn a steam ream rendezvous into something less steamy afterwards

7) The guys are not completely naked (and guys look surprisingly hot in a white towel and nothing else)

8) Most gay men have been to a bathhouse at least once

9) Most gay men have been to a bathhouse at least twice

10) It's good clean fun!

So I get to the steam emporium, hand over my £12 (yeah, ok - it is quite expensive) and receive my two towels (no prizes for guessing why you get two.) I probably spent about half an hour soaking up the atmosphere, literally and metaphorically, before I start gettin' down to the serious business of gettin' myself some serious business.

Now ok, while I said that the guys are not, on the whole, going at it infront of each other, you will, if you keep your eyes peeled, notice a few fumbles going on under towels. That's not really my scene. I prefer catching some cute guy's stare, exchanging a few cheeky smiles and having a bit of a chat, before venturing off into a private (lockable) cabin and getting down to some fun, fun, fun!

And that was how it was last night. No sex on a rope swing a la Joan Collins and Oliver Tobias in The Stud. His name was Stephan, looked a bit like the footballer Ryan Giggs, had a great bod and was a really, really good kisser. And he knew all the other stuff. After we were done, we exchanged the customary pleasantries ("Thanks man! That was hot! What was your name again?") And I went off to have a shower and get changed.

On my way out I handed my locker key over to the attendant at reception. As I put the key infront of him on the desk the guy (actually a breathtakingly cute early twentysomething) looked up from his copy of Boyz or whatever it was and looked at me, at first, absentmindedly. But after about a millisecond a look of recognition sparked into his face, which then extended into a very broad, very "knowing" grin.

"Looked like someone was having some fun earlier!"

The cute receptionist is talking to me, I thought. But what words are these, coming out of his mouth?

"Ergh?"

"You! In the Jacuzzi! Looked like you were having some fun!" he exclaimed with this kinda weird smug thing going on, gesticulating towards a CCTV screen, semi-hidden behind his desk.

I believe that what must have been, initially, a look of distant interest in having this young whippersnapper speak to me quickly turned into a glare of incredulous disdain.

"I didn't do anything in the Jacuzzi. I didn't get in the Jacuzzi!"

The whippersnapper just smiled and gave me the "Yeah, whatever." look, before dipping his head back down to his free gayboy rag.

"But I didn't," I quietly repeated, more to myself this time around.

And then I left, feeling much less randy, but somewhat confused. Was that a line he pulls on all the punters as they leave the premises feeling all washed and clean (and spent), in order to try to make them feel embarrassed about having random, lusty sex with strangers?

Or did I actually just get wildly gang-banged in a Jacuzzi whilst being watched on grainy black and white CCTV by a cute, young whippersnapper ... all of it without my knowledge?

"If I Don't Look Good, You Don't Look Good"

Thank you, thank you, thank you! Your votes are in and you appear to have elected for this:



But, I swear, with Vidal Sassoon as my witness, that once I have it done on Thursday, if I hate it and regret it, you will all be so very, very sorry! Yeah, you should be scared, because I am Rosemary's Baby:

Genuine baby picture of Christopher


Seriously! You can just about see my head!

Now, my Mum took that picture and her name is Rosalie, which is almost Rosemary, so while I guess that technically makes me Rosalie's Baby, it's still near enough. Also, Vidal Sassoon did Mia Farrow's famous gamine crop on the actual set of Polanski's Rosemary's Baby. And I mentioned Vidal Sassoon earlier in this post. And I used to do the PR for Vidal Sassoon. And [insert further menacing coincidences].

All legitimate reasons why you should all be afraid that I might not like my new hair cut. Democracy comes at a price, kids.

(Note: it just occurred to me that this is not actually an experiment - I did have my hair cut like that before and I did like it. Oh. Perhaps I should just put a sock in it?)

Not a vanity post (er, no really, it's not...)

As many of you are doubtlessly aware, about six months ago I decided to undertake an extremely time consuming project - I decided to grow my hair out.

Now that my hair is genuinely that bit longer than normal I am beginning to have doubts that floppy hair is actually befitting a thirtysomething, professional gay man, like wot I am.

The plus side of having long hair, for me, is that, well, I just have the most sensationally amazing hair - naturally shiny and straight, in a rich and lustrous chocolate shade of brown. I get lovely comments from boys, jealous girls and friends, who know very well not to mess with the fragile ego of moi.

The downside is that, um, I get bored easily. When I was at the gay boy party at Soho House on Sunday afternoon I was struck by how I had the longest hair at the party. Not that there is anything wrong with setting yourself aside from the stereotype, but there were so many cute guys with lovely short barnets and suddenly I started to feel isolated from my fellow homoboys. I asked myself the question - am I just wasting my time, when I could be all stud-u-like with a short and messy? Am I just making myself look like even more of a bit of a pansy?

So today, dear readers, I am giving you The Ultimate Power*. I am providing each and every one of you with the chance to voice your opinion on how you think my hair best suits me. To give you a nice array of Christopher hair choices to pick from, I have literally spent ten minutes hours and hours trudging through old pics of me.

Please leave your thoughts and opinions in the comments section at the end of this post.

* Explanation of The Ultimate Power - I take on board your comments, nod a bit, then I do exactly the opposite of what you tell me to do.

Me, today (albeit, Sunday)


And your choices are:

Cropped


Short and messy


Short and messy with blonde tips


Short and messy and yellow blonde


Preppy


In-between

Dimanche

My throat has been quite troublesome this last week. I’ve been really hoarse and short of breath and I’ve had to get two batches of steroids from the hospital, including one trip on Saturday.

So you probably think that I ditched my hectic Sunday plans for a quiet night in, infront of the TV, cozying myself under a blanket, right?

Like, duh!

Less words, more pictures...