What to do when the sex isn't going your way
What do you do when the sex isn't going your way? Panic and record a podcast about it. Or: Bad sex - The connoisseur's guide.
Stories of queer life and even queer-er sex.
Always interesting, definitely amusing, Probably True - the repeatedly-award-winning, slightly filthy storytelling project tackling LGBTQ issues in a fun and engaging way.
Much like its creator, it is a smutty-but-charming collection of personal misadventures working to make the world a better place, one silly, sexy story at a time.
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I’ve been having a run of bad experiences, lately. I mean, a lot of it is the general Grindr faffing about and people not wanting to actually move to get their sex. I’ve made comparisons between Grindr and Uber, but there’s a lot of another app about it, too. I’m thinking of the takeaway food ordering kind of app, and you can make your own joke about what the gay sex version of that would be called. What I mean by that is that lots of guys want to order in, as in, stay at home, click a few buttons and then have a handsome young man turn up on the doorstep in 30 minutes or less. Sadly you don’t get a refund if it takes longer..
So, yeah. Lots of people are super-keen to try something tasty, spicy and well-made, but not willing to actually move to get it. Much like Chinese food - you can get it delivered in 45 minutes, or you can collect it yourself from the place, for cheaper, in 20 minutes. No-one ever chooses the collection option, because we’re all lazy fuckers. Literally, when it comes to Grindr.
A few episodes ago, I talked about how gay bars aren’t the hubs of local gay life anymore, and how the community is mostly based online now. Which is true, but if we’re not willing to move around a bit to meet new people, then Grindr is always going to show the same lazy spods who all live near one another, and the local gay bar goes from a scruffy pub to an app. Same faces, same level of disinterest, same creepy guy in the corner who will continue hitting on you at every opportunity, no matter how many times you tell him to foff. Why leave the house for a disappointing homosexual experience, when you can do it from the comfort and convenience of your own home, while watching Game Of Thrones?
Apologies if I sound bitter. Like I say, I’ve had a run of irritating experiences recently. Starting with this hot American who was staying nearby. Fresh meat! And a hottie. We got chatting and he seemed nice enough. But he kept stringing me along on when we were going to meet up - he was keen, but it would have to be tomorrow. Then the next day it was later in the evening, then it was 10pm, which I thought was a bit late for a drink, but thought ‘fuck it, he’s cute’. Then at 10 he was ‘jumping in the shower’. Which apparently took 45 minutes. At a quarter to eleven he messaged to say he was ready to go for a drink. I sent him one back of me in bed watching the Golden Girls. Partly because anyone who spends 45 minutes in the shower isn’t going to need my services, and also because he was taking the piss a bit. Set a time and stick to it, or at least give good notice. Otherwise you’re just being disrespectful to the other guy’s time.
Anyway. After that guy, I was feeling pretty pissed off so I invited a random round so I could take out my frustrations on him. Or at least shoot my frustrations all over his face. Only after he turns up and we get up to my room and clothes start coming off, I say “My housemates are in, so we’ll have to be quiet”. Within five minutes, he’s dressed again. “I get nervous when there’s other people in the house. Sorry!” he said, as he headed for the door.
It’s about this time, as I’m flicking through PornHub, trying to watch videos through tears of frustration, that I decide to stop with the randoms. That’s all this is. Just mildly crap encounters with randoms rather than building a bit of a rapport with a guy, putting the time into properly getting to know them before meeting up.
Which is handy, as I’d been messaging a cute young man for a little while, and he’d had some inventive and thoroughly disgusting ideas about things he wanted me to do to him. So the next day, we finally met up. He was cute, funny, and still up for the filth. So after a couple of cups of tea, we head back to mine and start getting sexy. Things go well. For about five minutes. Then splat. He’s done before I even get my pants off. Normally I don’t mind this - if anything it’s a compliment - I’m THAT GOOD that I can rock your socks without actually making you take them off. Besides, we all occasionally have one that sneaks up on us. Not a big deal. Anyway, he was in his twenties, so ten minutes and a cup of tea and he’ll be ready to go again. OR SO I THOUGHT. When actually when he did was smile, stretch, say “mmmm, that was good” and then get up and get dressed. Didn’t even finish me off so we could have a sticky cuddle or anything.
Add in a couple more early finishers and time-wasting no-shows, and by now it’s just starting to get a bit silly. I’m not Frankie Howerd, this isn’t Up Pompeii. Making sweet, sweet fuck shouldn’t be this difficult or frustrating. So, while casting around for some way of breaking this run of bad bone, I get invited to a Chillout. Which is a bit of a novelty to be honest - I didn’t think they were still a thing. I’ve spent a whole episode sitting in a cupboard before explaining why I don’t really enjoy chillouts, but at this point, I thought why not - at least it’ll be several willing young men and it’ll make a nice change. Perfect way to put all this behind me. I even get photos of the other guys who’re there and they’re all pert and firm and sexy. Couldn’t get my shoes on quick enough.
Actually, that turns out to be accurate, because when I get there, everyone but one guy has gone, and he’s only still there because he’s looking for his socks. The host, a very buff 6foot 5 Australian apologised and said “I’d offer you a cup of tea, but the coke is wearing off and I want to go to bed.” It’s kind of difficult not to start taking it personally at this point. Like when I was at school and heard about a party at someone’s house, but when they saw me coming they turned the lights off and pretended no-one was home until I went away. Not that that ever happened to me. Entirely hypothetical. And even if it did, I definitely didn’t cry about it like Reece Pegden said I did.
Anyway. I came to the only reasonable explanation at this point. I must be cursed. I’ve obviously offended some old gypsy woman at some point, and this is my punishment. Like some kind of modern-day Tantalus. (See? Just because I talk about dick a lot doesn’t mean I don’t read) Although I’m not sure I’d say Hackney was the deepest part of hell. That sounds more like a Clapham thing, to be honest.
Anyway. I’m cursed. I can’t think of any other reason. This can’t be divine retribution for cheating at Monopoly, because everyone does that, and Monopoly always ends in physical violence anyway, so that doesn’t count.
I’m a good person. I… recycle. I always sign up to those charity mugger people on the street, and I never cancel the direct debit before they can take any money. That’s mostly because I can’t remember my online banking password, but still.
I mean, karmically, I must have racked up quite a positive collection of stuff in my favour. I assume it’s some kind of spiritual equivalent to Nectar Points, and sooner or later I get to redeem them against something I really want. That’s how it works. That’s just science, can’t argue with that.
I’ve only threatened to set fire to one person recently, and he was a Tory, which is pretty much a good deed. If God didn’t want us setting fire to Tories, he wouldn’t have invented Michael Gove.
Maybe this is a sign that I’ve hit my sex quota for life and now I’m done. I should retire from sex and set up an antique dealership somewhere.
Aaaah well. I guess this just brings me back to a point I made in my first ever podcast - it’s not about having all the sex all the time. It’s about having the right amount for you, however much or little that is. And it seems like now, for me, that’s less. And that’s ok. Sex is like chocolate, or cake, or gin. You know how much is a good idea for you to enjoy yourself, and yes, you could gorge yourself on piles and piles of it, but you know how you’ll feel afterwards if you do. So, y’know, chill the fuck out. Just as there’s no shame in tarting it about a bit, there’s equally no shame in not tarting it about a bit. That’s the joy of the whole thing.
And self-love comes into it, just like everything else. Whether it’s cake or cock, make sure you’re putting it in your mouth because you want to enjoy it, not because you feel you need it to stop feeling bad. Consciously decide if this is something you want to do, then either do it, or don’t. And either way, treat yourself gently, and with love.
To put it another way, a good and fulfilling sex life is like a fart. If you’re struggling to make it happen, just relax.
Because if you have to force it, it’s probably shit.