Trying not to scare the neighbours
Naked boys reading, naked boys dancing, naked boys regretting their choice of venue. OR: Whatever happened to my favourite pair of shoes?
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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It gives me an almost erotic pleasure to announce that for the second year in a row, this silly, sexy little podcast has come away with a gong in the Best Entertainment section of the British Podcast Awards. Better than that, the Guardian called it a ‘triumphant return’. I’d like to thank the whole team for their hard work… The whole team is me, but I thought that sounded a bit too much like me saying “Yes, I am amazing, aren’t I? Well spotted.” Anyway. Off we go!
I love being naked. That’s probably not much of a surprise, to be honest. I mean, mostly I’m whispering filth into your head about boning and banging and other jiggery-pokery, so it’s probably not that shocking for you to find out I like taking my clothes off. However, I don’t just mean for the purposes of chucking one up a random Grindr tart. It’s phrases like that that really show I’m a professional writer, isn’t it? Anyway.
If I lived alone, the first thing I’d do when I got home from work would be to strip and wander around naked for the rest of the evening. In fact, when I know my housemates aren’t going to be in, I do it anyway. There’s been a couple of occasions where I’ve had to quickly leg it upstairs as I hear keys in the front door, and one awkward moment when there was nothing I could do but grab a tea-towel, but usually I get away with it. At least, I think I do. But my living room has a huge window that’s overlooked by at least 5 floors of flats in the building opposite, so it’s a good bet at this point that all of my neighbours have seen a bit more of me than is absolutely necessary.
It’s not even a sexy thing, to be honest, it just feels nice and freeing to be able to walk around naked.
Unless I am feeling sexy, in which case, I can keep the teatowel there without using my hands.
But it’s not about actual sex. It’s mostly just the feeling of being naked. It’s pretty relaxing. You can call it empowering if you like, but for me it just feels good.
The first time I did anything publicly naked was about 5 years ago, at an event called Naked Boys Reading, which was pretty much exactly what it said on the tin. Every month or so, a group of guys would stand on stage, naked, and read different themes of literature, like Naked Boys Reading bedtime stories, or Naked Boys Reading love letters. That sort of thing. A lot of the details of these events are lost in the mist of time and gin, but the first time I went, I remember seeing a porn star squatting on the bar in some sweaty East London basement, reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and that’s when I knew this was the sort of thing I was going to enjoy. There were even a couple of occasions, in the early days, when after the readers had read, and the thing became just a normal club night, everyone would get naked and just have a dance. It wa fun, in a copping-an-eyeful-as often-as-you-can-but-not-often-enough-to-get-obviously-excited kind of a way. It was quite silly and fun, really. Lots of skin on show, willies just flopping about as we danced, that sort of thing. The weirdest bit to get used to in that situation was not really knowing what to do with my hands. I couldn’t put them in my pockets, obviously, and couldn’t play with my phone or anything like that, because phones shouldn’t be allowed in naked environments for one thing and for another, I still didn’t have any pockets, so there was nowhere to put it. I’d find my hand kind of straying back to my junk because there was nowhere else or it to be and my willy was just there, but had to stop doing that, for fear of having someone’s eye out. So in the end I just made sure I had a drink in my hand the whole time. Which, kids, is how I met your father. Lol, no. But that would make a pretty good story to traumatise future kids with.
Naked Boys Reading is still going today, although nowadays it’s a bit classier and there’s no naked partying after the show. I’m told the readings are a bit classier nowadays, too. I wouldn’t know. I’m always backstage, offering moral support to the naked boys just before they go on stage. Or after they’re done reading. Whenever is convenient, really. I’m just happy to be helping.
Apart from accidentally scaring the neighbour’s children from my living room window, that was my lot as far as public nudity was concerned. Up until recently, anyway.
I’ve been wanting to be a bit more naked, but this country isn’t exactly great at the whole ‘warm weather’ thing, so eventually I found a club that was strictly nudes only. Well, almost nudes. You had to keep your shoes on, because using protection doesn’t just mean condoms.
I took a hot friend along for moral support. I purposefully took a hot one so if he pulled, I could at least watch him getting it on. And if it was truly awful, I could use him to distract them while I ran away, like chucking a lamb chop at a guard dog.
Sadly, it wasn’t really in the same vein as Naked Boys Reading. Or even naked clubbing. I got handed a condom and a packet of lube as I paid my entry fee, which should have been something of an indicator, I guess. This wasn’t the fun, carefree, liberating nudity while dancing around and drinking too much. This was the dark, sweaty, crowded slimy fuckhole of a central London basement club. The first thing that made me think it wasn’t along the same lines was walking into the main area and seeing a bench of what looked like oversized oven-ready chickens. Then my eyes adjusted and I realised it was a low bench with five or six guys just naked and knelt over with their bums in the air for anyone to come up and just have a go.
So, yeah. A very different vibe. And smell. Oh, god, the smell.
So, yeah. No fun, free-spirited dancing around with hot naked guys. Instead shuffling through a darkened room full of… Well... Think of exactly the kind of people you see on naturist documentaries. The ones who spring to mind immediately when you hear the words “quantity surveyor” or “tax accountant”. And then imagine them naked, with particularly angry-looking erections and slightly dead eyes. They had the dead-looking eyes, not their erections. That would be… terrifying. My friend whispered in my ear at one point that it was a lot like being stuck in some kind of horny zombie apocalypse. They all just shuffle around, each of them making eye contact, pointedly looking at your junk, then back to your eyes and then wandering off when you don’t give off the appropriate “yes please” signals.
I shuffled away, hastily, hoping to lose the grabby old men. Which is when I made the horrifying discovery of the sensation of standing on a discarded condom. I was suddenly very grateful that I’d had to keep my shoes on. In my haste to shuffle away, I found myself in a little corridor with booths off of it, where a gentleman and one or two of his closest friends could go together to do consensual things to each other, while others crowded around the doorway to watch. There were lots of loud, enthusiastic moans and grunts, that were too loud and too enthusiastic to be convincing. OOOOOOH. UUUUUUUH. UUUUUH! Like, mate. It’s ok. Just enjoy it. You don’t have to play it up for us...
I’m not sure if it was the noises or just the incredibly sexy atmosphere, but people started shagging in the tiny corridor, as well as in the rooms. Whih made it very difficult to get past. So just imagine me, stood there, naked, trying to politely get around these two middle-aged men breathlessly giving each other one in this darkened corridor. Me saying “excuse me… Could I just… squeeze by…” being drowned out by what sounded very much like a cow falling into a woodchipper.
You know me, I’m not exactly a prude, but I just didn’t find this sexy at all. I’m not saying don’t do this kind of thing, if you want to, but personally I prefer a little mystery. A little interaction. A little excitement, rather than just a dead-eyed hump with a random guy in a dark room.
Eventually, while I was fighting off gross old men, my hot friend chatted up and pulled a really hot guy. Because that’s what hot friends do. After a minute or two this hottie grabbed me and started making out with me too, which was awfully nice of him. This went on for a bit, and I noticed my friend was starting to get handsy with the both of us, which was quite exciting, to be honest. He was hot, after all. I was getting quite into it.
Until I realised that my friend’s hands were over there. At the exact same moment I noticed some heavy breathing on the back of my neck. I yelped and quickly disentangled myself from what had become me, my hot friend, this sexy random and two uninvited old men whose lubey hands were sliding all over me. At least. Oh, god. At least, I hope it was lube.
That was the last straw. I went and wiped myself down, my mate said goodnight to his new friend and we left.
I had to burn those shoes.
I’ve mentioned a couple of times that there’s a Patreon account where you can pledge a small amount every episode… And today I decided what I wanted to do with the money that had been pledged so far. So, today I took every penny of the money donated to Probably True so far, and I donated it all to the London LGBTQ Community Centre crowdfunding campaign. I thought after the community had given me so many stories to tell you, it’s only fair that I give something back. There’s a link to the Crowdfunding page in the show notes, and they’re still far from their target, so if you can spare a couple of quid, you’ll be helping them do great work in East London. I know they’d appreciate it. Besides, I’d only have spent it on gin and whores anyway.