Same Same But Different

Take a bow (The End)

2010-09-07T07:28:00.004-04:00

I hate endings. A cliche, I know but if you've read any of the books I have this year you will understand. They always seem rushed, there is no closure, much is left unexplained. A bit like Lost. I hope however that my ending has been thought out, gently disseminated over the past few days and leaves you wanting more while not feeling disappointed.

I started this blog on 19 May 2010. I set you up with my life in London and what was leading me to New York for a summer of adventure. We have all been surprised by its happenings - M1 instead of M2, Chicago instead of New York and pining instead of shagging. I could go on but it doesn't matter - I had the summer I was meant to have even if not the summer I wanted to have. I didn't find 'true love' (whatever that is) but I did have a few good flirtations and found I'm more popular in the USA than I realised. For what that's worth.

Now, here I am - right back where I started from.

...

I awoke in my flat at my usual hour of 5am to overcast skies and chilly temperatures. It was much like that morning on 20 June when I set off for America. I set off for a run through Hyde Park. I passed the same people I did three months ago, as I do most days. I was glad for the familiarity of that early morning start.

I stopped at Sainsbury's on the way back for soya milk, a banana and porridge. A quick shower and Pret latte later I queued at my bank for an eternity to pay in the last of my US dollars. Before long it was time lunch and I dashed into a black cab to get to Caprice for my 12noon booking. The ladies - my best mates - were there in all their glory dishing the latest gossip over champs and then white as we grazed on salads, soups and nibbly things.

I walked home through Green Park, that park I walked through so often when I first came to London and had no money, no love but plenty of hope. This is London, the place of my dreams. 13 years ago I left North America with its lack of charm and character behind for the UK. I accepted it as my imperfect home, adapting to tube strikes, open plan offices, a different English, expensive and small flats and slow service.

For better or worse...this is my home.

That's why when the job offer not of my dreams but of the real (London) world came through I said yes. I said yes to living because I'm not tired of London. I realise I'm here, home in my space; I'm in my rightful place. This is God's work. And it is good.

The End. For now.

Two and a half gays

2010-09-07T06:28:00.005-04:00

I can't imagine a more complicated life. I'm in London with RFG but flirting with my London beaux as I'm incapable of deciding what to do. There's a new Mr Big on the scene - tall, great build, successful, flies Club and I have it on good authority he has a good-sized, cut cock. Could it be any more promising? M2 managed to avoid me on Sunday when he had the chance then I've failed to meet up with him. It will all come to nothing as far as I can tell. All the times he's promised me some sex only for me to be disappointed. That man has no life in him.

Meanwhile my hectic London life is back in full-force. I'm trying to see a million people in the span of a few hours and not doing very well. Babies are the main problem - One's still in the oven (8 months of baking so far), the other popped out the day before I left and the last one is having her first birthday. On top of that I have to fit in a waxing (essential), two more drinks, a dinner, two lunches and a coffee chat - all in the next 30 hours.

Working again is rather a bother of course and getting in the way of my fabulous back-in-London life. Endless typing of emails, delegating to minions and catching up on the office gossip is exhausting me. Still, I've managed to fit in an extended lunch and still managed to leave the office on-time yesterday.

Despite all this drama I've manged to find time to make a decision. I'm staying after-all. You see London is, well, it's London. The people are fascinating, exciting and when the men are good looking, no American compares. So the cocks are covered in extra bits and they don't trim their pubes. After 10 pints in the pub, no one notices that sort of thing anyway. The city has life flowing through it, is exciting and diverse, even if nothing is open 24 hours and the Tube is crowded and hot even in winter. It's still home and I can't imagine being anywhere else.

Yes, this is the beginning of the end. I have come home.

77 days later

2010-09-06T09:38:00.006-04:00

After 77 days away I'm finally home. HOME! I feel it, I feel it as I walk along the King's Road again and take it all in. I've come back to where I belong. The air smells right, the temperature is perfect, the people speak in familiar accents. Everything looks right and orderly. Even my flat is almost just as I left it.

Things I've missed about London:
1. English accents!
2. Cafe Nero
3. Sainsbury's
4. Pret
5. Surly, grumpy people
6. Radio 4
7. The weather
8. My flat
9. My car
10. My mates
11. Not tipping!
12. The men

I'm having second thoughts. Can I really leave London for Chicago?! Really?! I must be mad to want to go. This is a world-class city. Chicago is...well, it's nice too.

Then there are the things I haven't missed:
1. How, crowded tube trains
2. Tube strikes
3. Grumpy, surly service (love/hate)
4. Working
5. Congestion charge
6. M2 and his confusing signals
7. My tiny flat
8. Uncut cocks (not that I've seen ANY cocks since landing)

New York reflections

2010-09-06T04:01:00.002-04:00

In one of my last interviews for a role I'm up for in the USA I was talking to the recruiter about the firm's HQ in Milwaukee. I expressed interest in career prospects at HQ down the line. She then asked "But would you really want to move to Milwaukee?" And I said "Of course! Hello - Laverne and Shirley." Was that the gayest thing I've ever said?

Saturday morning I awoke in my New York apartment for the last time. Before I ventured out for a run, a allowed myself a few moments for some indulgent reflection. I started to wonder, what could have happened this summer had I just not allowed M1 to interfere with my life again. Had I just remained in New York.

I'd been out with my friend H the night before and she rightly pointed out that I'd looked for a job in New York for four weeks and not much more. I've given Chicago more time, why? No, in the end I can't blame M1 for that. I'm attracted to it because the men flatter my ego but also because the 'buzz' of NYC and London is what I want to get away from...right?

Or maybe I've got it all wrong. Have I missed out on meeting the real man of my dreams because I went after this ghost of my past? Did I do the right thing in at least trying and, perhaps in the end, finding something else? Or is the fact I've missed noise, buzz, people actually a sign I just want to return to London and forget my American dream entirely?

Later, I ran through Central Park for the last time this summer with these thoughts swirling in my head. With two job offers and two piles of men on my plate, I started to make sense of things. As I prepare to board the flight to London in 12 hours I'm starting to see through the gloss and am finding what I really want is...

Flying the friendly skies...at 5am

2010-09-03T09:50:00.000-04:00

There's something not right about flying at 5am, but in order to avoid Hurricane Earl and make my trip to New York, it had to be done. I did not realise what an experience it would be.

As I waited for my car, I spotted an early morning jogger who looked like he might be cute 'til he let rip a big, noisey, vibrating fart as he breezed past me - perhaps his way of saying 'not interested'. Feeling's mutual mate.

Then, I found myself stuck in a lift with three very American businesssmen. One of them was particularly horrific. Drunken, swearing like a sailor and wearing a brown belt with black shoes. I nearly fainted.

I get to security, almost always a drama. Today the chimp who stares at boarding passes wouldn't accept my UK driver's licence as valid ID. He asked if it part of Canada or USA? No, separate country still, I replied. Body search he said.

I'm then walking around the airport. To my horror I see several people in shorts and t-shirts, looking like they've never bathed - especially fat people. I felt tacky wearing jeans to clearly that is the new glamour of air travel.

I'm then onboard, in first class of course, managing to email and facebook thanks to the very modern concept of in-flight wifi.
I asked the stewardess for a vodka cran. 'Bit early isn't it, sir?'. 'Oh yes, of course its breakfast time isn't it? Vodka and OJ far more appropriate, thanks'. She walks away with an odd expression on her face.

The toilet in first is full and the hostie asks if I can brave steerage. I put on my tough guy face, hold my neck up high, arm myself with water and bread and brave the jungles of economy. As I make my way through the outstretched hands and the cries for water, I start to realise just how big this plane is. Who knew so many people existed this far back?

Before I sign off, I've discovered my lesson of the summer - the biggest cocks have the biggest cocks.

Summer is over - my mobile told me so

2010-09-02T07:17:00.005-04:00

This morning at 0515 the alarm on my mobile went off. Almost without exception, it has not disturbed me at any hour this summer. And the last time I awoke in darkness it was late winter. As I struggled to get up at this ungodly hour, I realised I'd best get used to it - summer is almost over and I shall soon be a mere worker again like the rest of you. What city I shall be doing that work in remains something of a mystery for another 24-48 hours (negotiations continue).

I had another date last night. Another bad date I should say. So bad it could only be an internet date. Classic tale - he looked nothing like the picture (neither the one he sent me nor the one I created in my head). It was a moment of weakness when I cruised Craig's List and it was a moment of stupidity when I agreed to go out on a blind date the night before an important meeting (entirely too dull to mention further.

Meanwhile I continued to exchange flirty messages (and indulge in naughty thoughts) about M2 and a new London-based prospect. At least I know they both have big cocks, charm, taste and decent underwear. Shame they live in areas run by the Liberal Democrats - they may be 'our' coalition partners but I will never leave safe Conservative territory for the unruly Lib Dems regions.

I hate tipping bartenders

2010-09-01T10:39:00.009-04:00

If you've been missing me the past few days I can only but apologise for my poor show. Dear reader, I have been very busy indeed. I'm not sure what happened or when it happened but all of a sudden I am full up with dates (free dinners) and am in negotiations for two different job offers and haven't had a moment to myself. With days to go I am starting to wonder if that ticket to the UK isn't a one-way after all.

I can't stop thinking about all the cock I could have sucked this summer if I'd stayed in London. Just in the normal course of my London life of working and going to the gym I would have had at least 10 blow jobs and I reckon three shags. What have I had instead? Just three blow jobs and three shags (but with the same guy, M1). I have been deprived during this summer of no sex and me at my horniest since I was 15.

I had my date with M1 the other night. It was uneventful and yet I still left it feeling on edge enough to feel in desperate need of a recovering drink. He didn't unnerve me, he didn't make me feel awkward - in fact I was perfectly normal and confident. I didn't even have the itch to shag I'm (but wouldn't have said no) it's just that as we were parting ways I didn't want it to end. And I saw there was still feelings, just buried deeply, not on the surface as it once was.

This one drink to recover turned out to be among the biggest drunken evenings out at my reliable Sidetrack this summer. I blame the hilarious random encounter with two Australians over from London with whom we share a mutual friend. This made us instant bosom buddies (did I mention he was also a little hot in that rugby player build kind of way?).

Later and several - and I do mean several - drinks later I found myself chatting up a very thin but cute older man whom I found beside me in the morning (along with a headache), his name entirely forgotten despite my best efforts to remember. He was well into me and wasted no time trying to jump on my cock. I would have been quite a happy guy had his cock not been so small. I've seen more girth and length on fingers. Men like this really must come with some sort of warning sign. I'm so depressed now I mightn't ever other to undress a man again. If I don't see them naked at the gym first, I won't even talk to them.

So I've had sexual release but I still haven't had a good cock in my mouth. Summer is nearly over and I'm starting to think London is a one-way ticket for me. No M1, no RFG, no cock, no fucking, no job (yet). At least in London I shall always have the gym, M2, a job and my flat. And I won't have to tip bartenders a dollar every time they get me a beer.

If all else fails, I shall always have Sidetrack

2010-08-29T10:24:00.009-04:00

There are few things we can rely on in life - bills will always be there, taxis will never be around when you need them, there will rarely be a drama free moment in our relationships with friends, lovers and family and, for me, there will always be Sidetrack.

Sidetrack was a small Chicago gay bar turned megaplex in the years since I've been gone. Whatever it was to me back in the early noughties, it has in the years since I've left this place has been a steady source for the supply of beaux. It has been particularly reliable since I arrived in Chicago this summer and, after last night, I realise it - like me - has yet to wear out it's usefulness.

I decided to venture out despite my pledge to be done with the gay bars of Chicago (after all, I would never go to a gay bar in London) secretly hoping I might see Mr Another World or even M1. I dressed to impress and got there around 9pm, apparently way too early by Chicago standards. As soon as I walked in my first victim was mutually clocked. He was bald, stocky, and had a nice bum. Eventually, Baldy approached me. He claimed to have seen me at the gym. Why argue with a man with a nice ass right? Turns out he was one of the bartenders for the evening and needless to say my charms earned me several free drinks for the remainder of the night.

Four drinks later I had managed to gain the attention of two other men - nice enough but not really floating my boat. Still, flirting and man-catching are skills like any other and must be practised regularly to stay sharp so I'm always game for a little playful attention. Then, just as I was swigging back on my last drink and giving up hope, there he was right next to me - Mr Another World.

I don't know if he deliberately passed my way having clocked me before I did him but I felt my evening was complete on seeing him. Of course, without the benefit of planning, I couldn't find any useful words to say to him other than I was glad I'd spotted him and had hoped I might get lucky again.

We talked, that's the main point. It defused the situation for me, calmed my roller-coaster feelings. Perhaps I'm being cruel here, but in seeing him again I found him less attractive both physically and otherwise. I think I shall certainly pine for him a little less. Besides, tomorrow I have M1 to contend with and back in London, M2 is showing signs of being more than a virtual flirt.

In the taxi home, I realised again that I needn't settle. I have options. And all I need do is go out and I'll find even more options. As I crawled into bed at 2am and put on my headphones to block out Monica's lovemaking (I've really got to get my own place again soon), I thought to myself that if all else fails, at least I'll always have Sidetrack to amuse me.

Waiting

2010-08-28T14:24:00.004-04:00

In a mere 6 days I will be back in London. It seems as though I've been gone a lifetime and I am looking forward to pound coins, Cafe Nero lattes, Sainsbury's, the Tube, Radio 4 and, of course, English accents. Even the uncut cocks, surly service people and miserable weather will be welcome. Am I returning for good? I need a few more days before I know the answer to that. Do I want to just chuck all this in and go home, home to London, for good? Depends on the day - two days ago, yes I did feel that way. Yesterday, I wasn't so sure and same today.

The trouble is I'm waiting. I'm waiting for a job offer (why didn't the bleeding mobile ring on Friday? After all that's what phones are for right?). I'm waiting for a man offer (whatever else I might say) - is there anything to come from seeing M1 on Monday? Probably not. What about RFG? Will he finally give it up in the UK? Hopefully. Or will M2 seduce me while I'm back in London? Again, unlikely. And then there are the two or three strays I have picked up along the way - Mr Another World could yet return for example.

The uncertainty so close to the end of my trip - and this Blog's story - is unbearable. All I can do is keep fit, drink average wine, put on my pretty clothes at night to search for amusement all the while waiting...waiting for whatever it is that's coming next.

Climbing the walls no longer

2010-08-26T12:48:00.007-04:00

It had to happen eventually. No wanking, no sex, lots of talk and empty promises. I finally broke this morning. I decided I had to sort myself out, could not go on pounding my fists on the bed, trying to climb the walls. I resorted to that most reliable of options when the horn just won't go away - I posted an ad on Craig's List.

At 3pm my will power and patience died. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I wanked like a fiend and came like I was on fire and a water hose put me out. As I managed to squirt beyond my pecs I could feel the post-wank nap coming on like a coma and I was soon down for the count.

Hours later I was up again and decided to venture out for the third night in a row, this time to somewhere new. I went to a place called Second Story Bar. As I strolled through what I call 'town' in Chicago, I thought this is where I want to be, back in the heart of things. I have to get a job and soon and then I'll be at peace again.

You could easily miss the door to this little place. It is practically unmarked and, like it's name suggests, is on what American's call the second floor of a building on East Ohio. The bar itself is dark, and no larger than my old Gold Coast studio apartment on Dearborn. The punters are much like the interiors - dated, dingy and otherwise forgettable. However, as promised, the drinks are strong, cheap and the bartender was the cutest, friendliest little thing I ever did see. Were I as creepy as some of the other ghosts perched on the bar stools I might have tried to pull him.

Instead, realising I was in the right part of town but the wrong bar, I quickly gulped my drink and made my way into the night. Strolling up Michigan Avenue for the first time in weeks I heard myself saying, 'Yes, this is the place I want to call home next'.

Preparing for M1
I've already got a short list of possible shirts to wear to my dinner with M1. I decided I should think of a few phrases to use as well. So I jotted down one or two little subtle but cutting jems to use. I then considered the various 'what if' scenarios that need not be said here (for they are the same ones we all picture in our minds when going on a date and especially with an ex).

The one thing I didn't consider until now is that this is by no means the last time I will see him, especially if it really is my intention to move to Chicago. M1 will be everywhere. I will see him. It will be unavoidable. Worse, it will be random and uncontrollable. I won't have time to plan an outfit, to brush my hair, to think of what to say, to wax, to consider the possibilities - he will just be there in front of me at random points in my Chicago life.

How will I deal with that?

Much ado about (almost) nothing

2010-08-25T17:03:00.003-04:00

Hidden Gays
The gay community in any city can seem small f one spends their life in the gay ghetto, in the gay bars an does all these wonderful 'gay' things that there are to do. But in every city, town and village are the Hidden Gays; those gays who do not partake of the 'gay' this and that, either because they are settled, are too busy, don't go out or whatever. Every once in awhile these guys dip their toe into the pool of homos and they are the men I look for, but they're almost impossible to find.

Much ado about nothing
I was in the mood to sulk last night. I exchanged some final messages with Mr Another World - oh and let me be clear on a point: I detest exchanges, 'conversations' by text message. Whatever happened to picking up the telephone? Not only have Americans taken on board the whole text messaging thing a little later than the rest of us, they have become so good at it that they rarely communicate by voice any more. But I digress...

After telling Mr Another World to sod off and not contact me again (I didn't meant it) I found myself in the one of the sad watering holes of the homosexuals. I sat at the bar, in one of my less sexy ensembles, put on my geeky reading glasses and dived into my new book, a strange Norwegian novel called The Half Brother. I was being happily entertained when the bartender approached me and, overlooking my half full glass, asked if I wanted another drink. When I said I did not, he informed me that a young gentleman across the way wanted to buy me one. I laughed, looked at the young man in the black t-shirt and shouted, "Me? Really?" Receiving the affirming nod, I then said, 'I'm really rather old you know" but he insisted. I can't even recall the last time such a thing happened to me because it was just that long ago.

I took the drink - who says no to free drinks - and walked over to join him for a chat. He was sat with a friend of his, an older man in his 50s whom I'd initially thought was his other half. This chap was in fact a pilot and based in San Francisco. In talking to him I realised he was a Hidden Gay and should have been a match. I would have taken an interest in him had I not already dated three pilots in recent enough memory. That left the young man, called Patrick. I made as much small talk as I could manage with someone 10 years my junior whom I have no interest in but I was distracted by thoughts of Mr Another World, the dinner with M1, trying to work out how I will snog M2 in London while RFG is there with me...

So I made a polite exit, after giving him my card (felt I had to though hope he's one of the guys who won't follow it up). Then, to complete the tragic scene, I rode the bus back to my little room in Logan Square and continued to feel sorry for myself. The day had started out so promisingly well but somehow it all fell apart.

As I got into bed, my cock was begging to be touched but after a few friendly strokes I stopped myself. It will have to wait a little longer. And no, I am not shagging M1 next week. No matter what. Seriously.

The Fizzle

2010-08-25T16:43:00.003-04:00

When I first started dating it was easy to get rid of someone when I was done with them. It was pre-internet so I couldn't do it in an email and it was pre-text message era so that wasn't an option either. Yet, we still had options. There was the fizzle, my favourite solution to any short-term dating problem. They'd call, I wouldn't call them back. They'd call again, I still didn't call them back. They'd call once more and we'd chat. I'd say I'm busy and I'll call when I can make plans. I'd never call again. They might call one more time and then they'd fizzle away.

After three days and nights with RFG and having pulled every trick I know to get him to sex me, I realise it's not likely a match. I don't want to confront it though; I just want things with RFG to fizzle out, so that we go back to being flirty friends. I suppose it's a habit I seem to be developing lately - starting up with new guys before I've gotten rid of the old guy. It's rude of me to not mourn the old relationship properly, I know but it's just not my style.

How convenient that this lost interest in RFG coincides in heightened interest in (and several hard-ons for) Mr Another World. The trouble is, as I made my way back into Chicago this morning, he sent a text saying he's had second thoughts and doesn't want to see me as RFG is in the picture. Of course I cursed myself for being so open - everyone knows that honesty doesn't get you anywhere in love (nice guys finish last and all that). I was gutted but what's a fag to do?

I'll tell you what this fag did - I ran to my defaults. First I sent a flirty message to M2 and duly received several back with empty promises of shagging, snogging et cetra if I would just come back to London. Not restored on that alone I then did something I've not done in two weeks or more - I sent a text to M1 (whose number I had to look up in my old contacts database as I had duly removed all trace of him from my mobile). He responded back immediately, almost in a sulk that I had not been in touch. Before long - brace yourself reader - I found I had ACCEPTED AN INVITATION TO DINNER WITH M1 NEXT WEEK. Yes.

So let me just summarise the current situation:

M1 - makes no effort but am now having dinner with him next week (excellent snogger, excellent shag)
M2 - makes some effort, is good on the emails, won't lay a finger on me in person (no data on snogs or shags)
RFG - makes a damn good effort, is kind and generous and marriage material (not a great snogger, won't shag)
Mr Another World - made a good effort, wrote lovely words, said lovely things, set me wild with excitement (I can tell he's an excellent snogger and would be a good lay).

None of them will fuck for whatever reason. So that's four men who like me but won't fuck me. Ain't I the lucky one. Loving my 30s.

Bad Girl

2010-08-24T10:21:00.006-04:00

"...drunk by six. Kissing some kind stranger's lips. Smoked too many cigarettes today. I'm not happy this way." Madonna wrote these lyrics with me in mind and it was my theme song of the mid 90s. I thought I'd moved on since then and improved but as I dangerously play with fire I start to wonder.

I have, of course, committed no greater sin than lust and sending 'flirty' (read 'sexual') text messages to Mr Another World and found myself standing in RFG's living room with a massive erection popping out of my boxers that I pound away at in between messages from Mr Another World. It FEELS wrong because in many respects it IS wrong. Sure, there is no particular understanding between RFG and I at present but surely I should maintain some propriety while a guest in his home (which does not include lining up my next date with Mr Another World). Oh the entanglements I create for myself.

Now comes the next problem: I fear I have discovered an issue I came across with RFG when we first met - a lack of sexual chemistry. Oh it pains me to admit it, and I winced as I put the words to this page but I cannot hide from it and, deep down, I know I cannot attempt to live with it again as I did with the Ex (small cock, bad sex, awful times). I have to sort it or I fear I shall have to move on. Damn it, I hate putting those words down but there it is. I need good sex and preferably with the man I marry.

As I sign off, I can't help but wonder if life was (and always will be) this complicated for me or if the summer of 2010 is truly an exception (in which case I am looking forward to autumn). With less than 10 days before the end of this blog dear reader, none of us are any clearer on how this will all end...

Juggling balls

2010-08-23T09:09:00.004-04:00

When I last left you I was generally pining and finding no satisfactory means of putting it to rest. I am now in an very different place - indeed, I am not even in Chicago but in the uninspiring small town where RFG is currently indentured. I write to you from his bedroom where I am still lounging in bed in my Bjorn Borg underpants as I watch this most exquisitely built man run back and forth getting dressed for work. And one thing is certain - I have not seen a man with thighs and arse that impressive since I last looked in the mirror. In fact, he may even have a better build than the two rugby players I have been fortunate to date in my life (to date - there's always room for more).

I'm ashamed of my next confession. Mr Another World made contact at a most in opportune time (no, not quite that bad). He finally broke silence late last night and I could not help but indulge in a few text messages back and forth despite being in the company of RFG. It is innocent flirtation at the end of the day, isn't it? Yes, I declare it to be so. Besides, thanks to some light stalking I have been reliably informed that he is 'in a relationship' so that hardly makes him a serious threat.

I suppose I'm juggling my balls a bit here.

Reasons to avoid urinals at train stations
Speaking of juggling balls, I had a most unfortunate encounter at Chicago's Union Station yesterday as I boarded my train for RFG's town. I was desperate for a wee before getting on the train and made a dash for a rather horrid loo in the waiting room. I was happily (well, contentedly) at the urinal minding my own business, relieving myself of the several litres of water I'd had to drink that morning when out of the corner of my eye something caught my attention.

As I turned to my left there it was - an ancient, bald Indian man turned towards me at a 45 degree angle waving his small, uncut cock at me like he was George Michael and it was the biggest most beautiful dick on the planet. I grimaced, turned away and thought, 'Really? Does he really think I'd go for that? Like I can't do any better?'. Even if there was money involved I would have still said no. Oh and never mind that it was a PUBLIC TOILET. What was I meant to do? Walk over and - ugh, so gross! - give him a blow job?! Christ almighty, recalling it is enough to make me turn straight.

Next time, I shall just wait for a cubicle.

Pining

2010-08-22T11:12:00.006-04:00

I have discovered the eighth deadly sin - pining. And, what's more, I am guilty of it (and the other seven as well). I have spent the better part of the past 24 hours pining for RFG, M1, M2, Mr Another World (you'll hear more about him later) and anyone in between. I blame a lack of sex, wanking, intimacy and text messages (I'm starting to find that the yanks just aren't as good as us at pinging the messages back and forth).

So how did I actually commit this sin? For starters, tossing and turning in bed in the middle of the night, comparing M1's snogs to RFG's (M1 wins hands down - ahem). As if that wasn't enough, I snooped around M1's Facebook page to see what he's been up to. At the same time I sent M2 a flirty message (he's always good for a virtual flirt but useless at any thing real life) and then fell back asleep. There I was asleep, sinning in my dreams - it was all about M1 and his ex, A2. And me. Stupid me. I woke up feeling sad, frustrated and asking myself, why, why is he doing this? Why is he changed (again)? And why on earth did I ever let it go that far.

I arose early in the morning and pushed thoughts of M1 and M2 away from my mind (with the slightest concern that I still have thoughts of M1 at all) and went about the day which was as ordinary as any other day is for one who does not do any sort of work. Even the evening started out civilised enough. I was at home stuffing my face with chips n salsa, watching RuPaul's Drag University and Facebooking from my BlackBerry when it occurred to me it was a Saturday night - surely I could be less tragic than the scene that I just painted.

So I went out.

I ventured to the Gay district for a night cap with a mate. We got to our usual watering hole which was busy but not overcrowded. We did a quick fruit-loop to see if there were any exs in our midst before sitting finding a perch to enjoy our drinks and have a bit of a natter. It was just then that I saw a man out of the corner of my eye who looked familiar and, bam, it hit me - he was the first man I'd noticed at Mary's Attic several weeks back before Pink Shirt came up to me and insisted on a snog. I pointed him out to my friend who thought he resembled a soap star and instantly was crowned Mr Another World. I waved at him and he smiled and waved back and mouthed a 'hello'. His smile was infectious and I mouthed a friendly 'hello' back then, recalling RFG, I turned back to my friend to continue talking.

As I was explaining the story of how I met Mr Another World, he approached from behind. Taller than I remember at 6"2 and far more confident this man from Kentucky introduced himself and in the span of 5 minutes I knew where he worked, what he did for fun (plays volleyball like every other fag in this town), his residence (Uptown) and even worked out a very embarrassed apology for our initial introduction the last time around. I wanted to return my focus to my friend and to not catch myself flirting with Mr Another World so, in an odd but natural move, I gave him my card and asked him to call or email which he said he would do.

I don't know why I even gave him a second thought. He is nice enough looking, couldn't work out how fit he was, but he's a fellow writer and I felt a spark (I like sparks, even when they cause trouble). I fancied that I would be a bit of a catch for him (despite my genteel poverty and lack of employment) so he should have called. He should have been itching to make contact. So that's how I got to pining for him. I went from flattering myself that he'll send a flirty message suggesting a dinner date which I was already artfully turning down in my mind...to pining, to obsessing over email, checking my text messages and wondering if I'd given him the right card.

He never called. He never emailed. OK, yes it's only been 12 hours or so but either American men just aren't quick to make a move or the men I've been meeting this summer are not as sure about me once they step away as they are initially. Maybe I'm not as irresistible as my PR machine would have me believe.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm actually ordinary. Normal. Average. One of them.

Nah!

What do you get a guy who has everything (because he has me)?

2010-08-21T15:58:00.005-04:00

It's that fateful point in my 'relationship' (are we calling it that now?) with RFG. It's time for me to give him a present due to it being his birthday. If only I could have had another month or two to really get to know his tastes I might have found the task a little easier. Already I know (and share) his love of red wine and good books - and wasted no time in supplying him with a good bottle of malbec from Medoza and my book of the year, Jane Juska's A Round Heeled Woman. Both of these went down well but were too obvious and too easy to count as proper presents. No, this birthday gift is the test.

Armed with several hundred dollars, I ventured to Chicago's North/Clybourn area to meander through the shops in search of what I thought would be a new collared shirt and (under)pants to show off his great chest and his hot ass. And then I saw it, and grew weak at the knees, my brain stopped functioning and my brow started sweating, my heart beating faster - the sale rack at Banana Republic. Before I knew it I was holding about 10 items in my hands and delirious with joy at the sale tags and the extra 25% off.

Then, my bubble was burst - the sales people. Twice they came up to me to ask if I wanted to 'start a change room' or if they could put something on the counter for me. When I finally gave in to the change room - the place where they hold you hostage until you buy something - the robotic chirpiness that I had managed to ignore earlier was overpowering me, sucking the joy out of my shopping experience. Then total anger set in - 'and what is your name?'. Puzzled expression crosses my face...it isn't Starbucks so they don't have that lameo excuse... reluctantly and only to get her away from me did I give it. 'Okay, great Dieter, my name is Kathy with a K and I'll be right here if you need me'. Great. Fuck off.

Of course she returned over and over again to 'check on' me and used my name every time like we were old school friends. God I wanted to strangle the little wench. I dressed as quickly as I could and ran away straight for the till where I was inundated with more impertinence: 'So where are you from? I hear an accent there', 'Wow, that's a great deal isn't it?', 'Do you want to sign up for a Banana Republic card and save an additional 25%?'. Lord, were it not for the fact I walked out of that place with five items (three for me, two for RFG) for less than $100 I swear I would never go back. But I will. I can't resist the BR sale rack.

Me, a stripper?
After my shopathon I joined a group of friends (and several hundred horny straight women) at Joe's on Weed Street for a performance of Thunder Down Under, Australia's answer to the Chippendale male strippers. I spent the next 1.5 hours mostly cringing at the sight of them and laughing at the way the women were going crazy when they flexed their arms or bent over to show off their average size bums.

I had my compliment of the year when a woman in the audience came up to me and said I could have been one of the strippers. Nice - but let's get one thing straight, I have a far nicer bum than those lads.

The eyes have it
The evening would not have been complete without a visit to one of the gay bars. I was hoping for Big Chicks (a little more grown up, civilised and greatly lacking in eye candy for my wondering pupils) but Sidetracks was voted the venue of choice. As has almost become customary, I was barely in the door when the men started to queue up (fine, I should not have worn such a close fitting t-shirt and those sexy jeans but what's done is done).

Two drinks later, I put myself in a cab and away from the temptation to get home and be in bed by myself - with my hand down my pants as I imagined RFG laying beside me. There are other pretty faces out there and I will still attract and be attracted to other men but I will manage it again as I have before. It's easy really. I like RFG the best and I'm not about to fuck it all up for a snog or a romp with some other guy jsut because he's 'new' and tells me how lovely I am. I deserve better than that.

Straight mates

2010-08-20T18:01:00.002-04:00

After a lack-lustre day that involved little more excitement than the usual morning run and gym routine, I ventured into my old Chicago neighbourhood, the Gold Coast, to attend ASW Chicago's weekly drinks at the fabulous Park Hyatt hotel. I was joined by two straight mates that I know from uni.

The venue was an old favourite and was thankfully open-air, with great views of the city, without being too crowded. It was perfect weather for being outdoors - perfectly warm with just a light breeze. I was there to mix with the great and the good of ASW Chicago but after some obligatory introductions I returned my focus on my friends.

I've not bonded with my straight mates for much of the summer and forgot how much I prefer the company of straight men to gay men. I'm not sure how to describe it. Perhaps subconsciously I admire their ability to chase after and enjoy women in a way I never will. Or maybe I like it that they aren't competition nor are they trying to get into my pants. Whatever it is, I'm never more relaxed than when in the company of my heterosexual friends.

I guess this makes me a bit of a homophobe. Tell me something I didn't already know.

Off to the Tea Party

2010-08-19T15:16:00.005-04:00

Its been over two months since I last got involved in politics. As I've all but decided to make Chicago my new home I thought it high time I dipped my toe into American political life. What better place to start then attending the monthly meeting of my local Tea Party.

If you've never heard of this grass roots movement that started barely two years ago then you've been missing out. They aren't officially affiliated with either political party but overwhelmingly they are conservatives and I dare say normally vote Republican. They had my favourite girl, Sarah Palin, as a keynote speaker at their first convention this year and the American media portray them as little more than nutters and racists.

I suspect the Tea Party are reflective of American society as a whole; my impression of America has always been that it is more bigoted (if that is different to racist) than most other places I've been. Having said that the candidate they are excited about in Chicago is black as the ace of spades (as mother would say) and that woman in South Carolina is of some sort of mixed heritage, so I think the 'racist' thing is pure media nonsense.

The attendees at last night's meting proved a mixed bag really. Typical of what I encounter at any other political meeting - there were indeed some nutters, ramblers/self-promoters, newbies and normal people. There was at least one visible minority though I did not see any blacks. I suppose its reflective of Chicago in that these people seemed of at least average intelligence and were generally middle-class or small business owners. It was also a slightly younger crowd than I'd encounter at a typical Tory event in London. The only thing I found that stood out was the attitude - almost all are clearly angry or frustrated with the system and want to be heard, want real 'change', not just Mr Obama's sweet words.

The people who are attracted to this movement seem to be ken on smaller, more transparent government. They are almost certainly fiscally conservative. Social issues I cannot comment on just yet but I suspect this is where there will be a divide in the ranks. I can see that it would be odd - though not impossible - for them to like most Democrats. Indeed most seemed to be Republican, at least one Dem and one Libertarian but several didn't seemed aligned to any part.

In any event, I do not think they are ready to be a political party as such, but as an organisation that gives practical support to the individual candidates of various political parties which best represent their collective goals/vision, I think they have a future. It's a great way to judge the various candidates from across the political spectrum. Fundamentally it seems they are a force that will get behind candidates they like and be good foot soldiers. They can count on my help.

What would I do if...
M1 (or M2 for that matter) did something massive like proposed marriage or professed great love and passion for me? I was pondering this as I lifted more weights at the gym today. Funny enough, it wouldn't tempt me. No, they are too up and down, too unpredictable. I need consistency, stability. Yes I want them sexually still. Well, not 'want' but more like 'wouldn't say no'. And no one snogs like M1. No one. But it's not enough. RFG can give me all that I need and I don't have to compromise. My heart has room to love him like no other and still have a little room to remember what could have been with these cold-hearted men I once desired.

Her Majesty's Garden

2010-08-18T10:40:00.004-04:00

My best mate in London called me yesterday afternoon as I was trawling through the help wanted ads in my boxer shorts as usual. He was sitting in the garden at Buckingham Palace having just taken the official palace tour occasionally offered in summertime, which until yesterday neither of us had ever done. I cold hear the murmur of smart Londonders and sad plebs from the provinces making the most of the occasion, glasses clinking in the background. As I prayed for the whisper of a breeze to descend on me just once more so I wouldn't continue sweating like a whore in church, my mate too a few more sips of fizz and asked if I was missing London at all (yes, oh yes).

Heffers of America
Have you ever noticed how some women, particularly American women seem to totally let themselves go as they get older? They start to look like men. I've noticed it particularly this summer as I travel around the USA Women with men's hair cuts, shapeless, wearing old shorts, t-shirts, and no make up - yes I realise I'm describing bull dikes but these women have children and, occasionally, I see husbands with them. Imagine being a straight man and going to bed with a kid brother looking wife every night? No wonder men cheat, go to titty bars, post ads on Craig's List etc.

Fitness and fags
The weather here finally cooled off and I'm able to start running long distances again. I haven't actually done that yet mind you. After nearly two months of restricting myself almost exclusively to 3-4 mile runs my body can't imagine doing more just yet.

After a good morning run today it was off to my latest gym, FFC on Halstead. This is in the heart of the gay village and I was expecting to be up to my arm pits in fags. Nothing doing. It was almost civilised. Not the same as the posh gym I was at last week but I managed to get a decent work out in. And then I went to the steam room, where temptation nearly found me.

I still look at cut cocks and view them as a novelty. Back in the 'old' days when I was living in London, if I happened upon a cut cock I generally wouldn't let it go - so rare a delicacy was it. But there he was, a pastey-white, generic homosexual with a tattoo and shaved head. Nothing special to look at until he unwrapped his towel and I casually noticed his well proportioned cut cock (with elegantly trimmed bush - American Gays are so civilised)

I looked at the guy, his tattoos and his willy a few times. I thought about RFG (who is better looking and far fitter). I noted it was the middle of the day in the middle of the week so this Fitness Fag was likely unemployed. And that was about all I needed to know before I stood up, walked away and rushed home for a good old fashioned wank.

They say love is when you still notice the other people you could sleep with but you don't. I'm not in love yet but I don't want to stray. I want to focus on RFG.

In the loop

2010-08-17T18:03:00.006-04:00

I had to get up early today to head into Chicago's 'Loop' (financial district). What lovely sights were in store for me. It all started at the Damen blue line stop. Endless hot farmer guys in sharp, sleek conservative dress. All form fitting too and what great forms they had. Those meat, corn eating faces crying out for a cum facial. the trail continued all the way into the Loop. It made me long to be working again so I could look at these beauties every day.

Working would be excellent. A little bit of society, more of those pretty farmer boys and plenty of distraction which I need to stop pining for RFG. Yes, I'm pining for the past two days now. Already I'm missing the company of this wonderful man that I've only just opened up my eyes to really see. Of course the honest truth is I still find my thoughts occasionally turning to M1 and even M2 but so what? There is nothing there for me. They may think of me too, from time to time, but without more, much more, why should I consider anyone serious other than RFG? Indeed I don't.

Prime meat or prime mate?
I was enjoying one of my 7 day gym passes last Friday and happened upon a very fit guy. Tall, handsome, ripped (as Americans say) he was yummy. We ended up in the change room at the same time (I swear it was coincidence). There I slowly watched him take off his short, his shorts, his pants and slip into a towel. My mouth was watering...until he turned around. All of a sudden my prime meat turned to primate as I looked at his back and shoulders and saw enough hair to leave no doubt he was actually the missing link.

I guess I'll just stick with RFG.

Who needs a rockstar when you can have a rock?

2010-08-16T09:14:00.007-04:00

I've returned from my first weekend with RFG and it was excellent. We did absolutely nothing bar eat three meals and go to the gym. We otherwise spent the weekend in bed or watching DVDs. Or both.

There's something wonderful about being around someone easy. Someone not full of affection so you can't get up to breathe, but who still makes time for a few kisses, a bit of hand-holding and a cuddle or two. Not a Mr Perfect either - just one of these 'good guys' that you occasionally hear about, sometimes even meet but almost never date or fall in love with.

I'm not in love with RFG, but I can see a path that leads me that way. To me he is perfect in every way - his mind, body and soul. What would I change? Not a god damned thing. He isn't artful in his thoughtfulness; rather than being deliberate it is obviously how he treats everyone around him. He is tender but not overwhelming. Kind but not a push-over. And he's an ordinary man, free of drama. He is no rockstar but instead a rock, which is what we all need most of all.

I loved being single at one time (indeed I was a perfectionist at single life) but I never knew what I was missing until I discovered how great life can be when you find someone you can share it with. That is, the right 'someone'. I think that's RFG.

Amtrak - who knew?
At the end of my lovely weekend with RFG I found myself on an Amtrak platform in a small town trying to get back to Chicago. I was surprised to find that there was a gay giving me the gay-eye on the platform of this small town and he wasn't bad looking either. But, rather than find myself in trouble, I walked down the platform to get on another carriage. he followed but I didn't pursue. Instead I took my seat, opened my laptop and wondered where the nearest bar would be.

Seeing a man walk by with beers, I decided to wonder the train in search of the source of such heavenly pleasures. As I did so I started to notice there was an increasingly decent selection of eye candy. By the time I reached the other side of the train I had counted almost 10 guys I wouldn't mind seeing again for a closer inspection. Well, a gay on his way to being in love may still like to look but there was no chance of straying. I was home and in bed (alone) by 10pm and as I closed my eyes, holding my pillows I imagined it was RFG in bed with me in a lovely home of our own somewhere in the future...

Bingley, Darcy, Wycombe

2010-08-12T15:47:00.003-04:00

Oh Mr Darcy! Oh Mr Bingley! Oh, poor Wycombe!

Yes, I've been watching Pride & Prejudice again (sigh). Imagining myself in Regency, riding horses and searching for a rich husband to take me away from it all. It has all gone to my head and last night RFG and M1 assumed the roles of Bingley and Darcy whereas I was some version of myself in the 1820s. Mind you Darcy and Bingley never competed for the same girl (much less man) so this is all rather muddled up, as dreams tend to go. I awoke this morning ready for me, eager to see whom I'll end up with.

Ramadan Mubarak
Today is the beginning of Ramadan for most muslims in the USA. The Islamic period of fasting, like other religious fasts, has always interested me. A period of denial, of prayers, of sacrifice, generosity, forgiveness and honesty - it's a beautiful thing and sadly, lost on too much of the modern world. As one who indulges in hedonistic pleasures far too often I like to pay my respects to Ramadan whenever I can. This year I have elected to fast from M1 (certainly I have been over indulging on that feast) and my alcohol consumption (less, I'm told, is more).

As for today, out of respect for the start of the season of fasting I shall refrain from my usual banter (for today anyway).

Nesting - and other things I thought Lesbians did

2010-08-11T13:47:00.006-04:00

I've been learning more American English again. Some of it just isn't my cup of tea and I've decided I shall never take it up. One example is 'nesting'. I was sure this was something Lesbians did, but apparently not. Nesting is a type of stacking, but it is not stacking which is when items of same size are stacked one on top the other. Nesting is when items, say bowls, of different sizes are stacked - or rather 'nested' - on top of each other. This is similar to 'spooning' which is one of those terms I can't stand.

Why can't Americans just speak normal English anyway?

The Guy at my gym and other reasons to love American men
The man who signed me up for my new gym membership seemed very heterosexual so I was surprised when he spotted me in the street, waved and then followed up with the gentlest of flirty emails. Of course it wouldn't be the first time a straight man went for me (that's the type I attract). It also wouldn't be the first time I met a prospect at the gym - RFG is a prime example. But it got me thinking that there are serious advantages to meeting guys this way. The number one reason is that you can't be disappointed when you get them naked because you've already previewed it in the showers or change room.

Pros and Cons of American Men
American men...
Have cut cocks (bless them)
Wear t-shirts under their 'dress' (collared) shirts
They even wear 'tanktops' (vests) under a t-shirt
They wear boxers (same word) more often than not or boxer briefs - but never hipsters
Don't all have nice bums
Do almost always have nice teeth
Do occasionally have some hair in the wrong places
Have an infuriating attachment to baseball caps and those 'shorts' basketball players wear

Weekend planning ahead
I'm spending a long weekend with RFG. I have known this since Sunday. I have been packing since Monday, trying to select a series of 'I just tossed it in my bag' clothes that will accentuate the good and hide the bad. I have already booked in with a new waxing lady for a touch-up (wouldn't you like to know what I get waxed). And despite two cheeky wanks this week I am attempting to build up enough sexual energy to rock his world (and, when all else fails, I have packed enough viagra to ensure someone gets pregnant this weekend).

Truth be told I can't wait to peek into RFG's life - to see what he does, when he does it, who his friends are, all that stuff that makes a person. After all, RFG did say he would marry me and that he wants to settle down, just as I (secretly) do and under the right conditions.

That's what Lesbains do isn't it? Talk about moving in, getting married and adopting a cat...all on the first date. They like to build a nest as soon as they find the right someone. Gays muck around, play little games, go hot then cold. Nesting - that's what Lesbians do.

Randoms

2010-08-09T21:06:00.007-04:00

Why must I conjure M1? And why doesn't he go away any how? If only I could really, truly push him far from my thoughts (and my wank fodder). I received a random call from him last night that I reluctantly took. Typical M1 stuff - he called because he had no one else to call, talked a lot about A2 naturally. I gave him one last shot, hinting that I was 'free' to which I received no invitation in exchange. Just a 'stay in touch' at the end of the call. What frustration.

Luckily there was some good randomness. RFG sent me a message just because. He said he just wanted to say 'hi' and hoped the job search was going well. Now that's what I call being a man, being a good guy. I don't see him again until the weekend and the week has never seemed so long.

The clock is ticking
I am due to return to the UK in little over three weeks. It's amazing to think that so much time has passed and yet I can hardly begin to account for it. I did some travelling at the start, had a month in New York, and am now in Chicago. There has been a few beaux along the way at the early stages and then, of course, a protracted non-affair with M1, followed by RFG.

Is that all my summer adds up to at this point? Sadly, yes.

I confess I was expecting more. I thought there'd have been loads of excitement, travels and other adventures and surprises. This summer, like the past year, has not turned out at all as expected. Is the best yet to come in the next 25 days or is it more of the same for the weeks to come?

No Gays allowed
I've joined a new gym - well, I've taken up another free 7 day pass offer. This gym is super posh, with Kiehl's products in the showers, people who come around to wash your dirty gym kit for you while you shower and dress, free personal trainers on the floor and there is actually plenty of space. They don't seem to let in any riff-raff either. So far I've not seen any gays and more thankfully I've not seen any guys in the showers waving their willies at me. I may have finally found a gym to call home and it only costs $100 per month. Plus tips, no doubt.

Beyond the M1

2010-08-09T21:06:00.001-04:00

I've spent my first weekend with RFG. Well, not quite a weekend but I saw plenty of him in a 24 hour period. Finally cured of my M1 infection, I was able to give RFG my full attention. And, with the death of my affair with M1, my confidence returned so I wasted no time in asking RFG point-blank to date me. The deal with agreed and sealed with a kiss. And breakfast.

What bliss, what fun it is. Getting to know someone, Someone kind. Even better, he's thoughtful - asking about my job search, driving me home, doing little things that make a big difference. I may not have the intensity of feeling for RFG that I do (erm, did) for M1 but I don't think that's a problem.

Firstly, it means I can manage the whole affair a lot easier in both my head and heart. Then, of course, there is such a thing as a love that grows, develops as you get to know someone. Love at first sight is for fairy tales, novels and 93 minute movies. RFG is a good man and I'm sure I will develop the right proportion of feeling for him in due time.

RFG vs M1
RFG is, well, a really fit guy
M1 is not
I don't feel like I'm on pins n needles around RFG
M1 brings the butterflies and doubt
RFG is just a decent guy
M1 is a decent guy too
RFG communicates and shows interest
M1...lately, none of the above
I've known RFG for 3 years
I've known M1 for 10 years
RFG has an arse so hot it needs to be worshipped
M1 - nil points

And then I opened my eyes

2010-08-08T09:42:00.005-04:00

I can now say I've lived for I have seen Market Days. It was my worst nightmare, it is what I dream hell will be like. Hot weather, crowds, loud music and wall to wall generic homosexuals. Oh, and of course, M1 was there and I was unescorted.

I won't play games. I did my research - I knew M1 would be there around the time I was going. I hoped I'd see him. I just hadn't quite gotten my lines rehearsed and my supporting actor, RFG, was not in sight. Even worse (and characteristic of our relations) M1 didn't spot me at all. I found him seconds after I'd been conjuring him again (saying his name too many times in my head).

He was in his role of playing the happy-go-lucky, don't-you-want-to-like-me guy. I was trying to play a sorta cool indifference 'tude that turned out to sound more like frustrated, angry, I-don't-like-you. It was a disaster. But I really don't care any more.

I've spent the last 10 years hoping M1 would wake up and see the light. I thought he had last month and so I dropped all my other flirtations to focus on him. Then he went cold on me. This week I finally opened my eyes and saw a man who would never be what I need him to be and would never see me, except on those occasions when it suits him to. I am now free and moving towards a man who does see me and who wants to be with me. Besides, M1 has no bum.

After my encounter with M1 I ran home to drink away my sorrows while watching Pride & Prejudice. My friends caught wind of my sulk and weren't having it so I was soon out the door again. After a boozey dinner at El Jardin on Clark Street, we stepped into the night-time version of Market Days and I immediately found myself in front of Pink Shirt from last Saturday. The little tart barely remembered me and I can't say I was bothered to be remembered. He game me his number (I could hardly say no) but I binned it as soon as I walked away from him. As I was on a roll but with some hesitation I confess, I then deleted M1's contact details from my mobile.

If only it were as easy to rid myself of him in real life.

It's all about me, me, me

2010-08-07T04:07:00.009-04:00

60 hours
I feel like a recovering alcoholic. I've made it to 60 hours without contacting M1 and, sadly, without hearing from him. It's a small victory for my sanity. It unfortunately proves that my heart has been wrong again and my head is leading me back to my true self. In just a few more days I will be free and cured of M1 again... until he calls, right?

Unlike previous occasions over the years I'm now back in the same city as M1. I can't avoid seeing him forever - Chicago is too small and even M1 will eventually make contact. So now I'm avoiding the next drama - the talk. What will I say? When will I say it? I'm talking about breaking my pledge to be there for him, waiting. I'm talking about giving up, once and for all, on our on again off again romance. It's not a conversation I want to have. It's nothing to do with him (I know he will show little emotion) but me, having to admit defeat (yet again) and wondering how it even got to this point (yet again)

As much as I can admonish him for bad behaviour over the past two weeks am I sure I can't blame myself for anything? Am I really the good guy this time around? I can't entirely absolve myself of responsibility - after all, I could have said no but I never did - at least not out loud.

Open for business
This weekend is a street festival called 'Market Days' in the gay section of the city where several local shops bring their wares onto the street and various music groups perform. To me it sounds like some sort of Gay Pride II. Given my aversion to large gatherings of known homosexuals I've naturally never been to it, until now.

I promised an old beau I would meet him at this festival since we've not seen each other in nearly three years. Poor man - he was really into me, but I just wasn't that into him. I can't really say I tried either. I took one look at his lifestyle and home and realised it was just way too far removed from my London life to consider. He was a decent man though and one of the reasons I remain in relationship purgatory.

RFG is at Market Days today as well and he is my new focus. Here's a man who looks great, is kind, pays me the attention I'm seeking, and says all the right things. In my heart of hearts I know I'm not madly in love with RFG but I haven't given him the chance. Today that changes. I will give him every opportunity to make his case and I will approach his courting with an open mind. The heart has the capacity to love more than one person and love is something that grows; it doesn't appear over night.

If I could turn back time
I didn't get the job at my old firm. My old apartment has been sold to someone else before I could get to it. I'm not getting my old boyfriend back (not yet anyway). I may talk about returning to Chicago but it is not going to be a return to the past after all. It turns out what is done is done. I can return to this city but I cannot return to my past. And the truth is, I'm glad. I love my memories but I do not wish to be trapped in them. It's time to experience a new side of Chicago, start a new career and meet a new man. I'll make new memories and hopefully fewer mistakes along the way.

Unescourted Men

2010-08-06T08:53:00.005-04:00

After three days of hiding in the Logan Square apartment I share with Monica I was ushered out the door last night to seek out a bit of fun without drinking too much. Recalling my motto to avoid men, taxis, drinking to excess and drunk text messaging I ventured to my usual watering hole in Chicago's gay village (and left my mobile at home).

I arrived at my bar of choice for what I already knew would be one of the last visits for awhile. In London I would never go to a gay bar period, but in Chicago I have been a frequenter over the past fortnight. That must come to an end - a gentleman has to think of his reputation and a recognisable face like mine will be too easily recalled as that of a man who is always unescourted at the beginning of the evening but rarely at the end.

Sadly, despite dressing as understated as I'm capable of I managed to attract plenty of unwanted attention (okay, I could have gone for shorts and t-shirt and really blended in but it just isn't me). I discovered a new trick to get rid of them - I just excuse myself to the loo and return to a different section of the bar in question. With the crowd I encountered last night this was a perfect plan.

After making silly eyes for half the evening at a man who turned out to be a fellow Londoner, I happened upon a man I saw only the week before. Tall, handsome, salt n pepper to me he's quite irresistable. Last week we chatted for ages, he bought me a couple of drinks and even drove me home which was well out of his way. I gave him a snog in exchange (would have been rude not to). But, he never called.

Last night he again bought me a drink and again insisted on driving me home whereupon I gave him the same payment in kind as before. I guess if the pattern holds he won't call me again. He is fit, handsome, gainfully employed but not out of my league, so what gives? Does he just feel sorry for me? Do I appear to be tragically pining for one man?

The thin line between M1 and M2
I've started to think M1 and M2 might have more in common than I realised. M2 has persistently suggested he fancies me but he has only once or maybe twice in three years actually demonstrated that. It's all been words, words, words. I find I am only attracted to him because he acts so aloof. In fact I have told him already that I don't believe he really is attracted to me - no gay man has ever professed to be hot n bothered in my presence but refused to make even the smallest move or resist me when I take the initiative.

For the past two weeks M1 has ignored me almost entirely. If I make contact he engages and if I twist his arm and manoeuvre, I can get a little of his time - and I do mean a little. But, despite his profession to fancy me, to have enjoyed all the hot sex we had in New York (and previous) and twice saying our Big Apple experience wasn't just a fling, he has yet to bone me. More importantly, considering Americans like to call their love interests 'friends', I would have thought M1 would actually act like one. All my other friends in Chicago have called me, asked me to join them for dinner, drinks, yoga - whatever. But from him nothing. Not one invitation.

I know when someone fancies me, which is why this stumps me all the more - because I'm sure he DOES. Why the wall then? Why the resistance? Oh I can explain away some of it as I have already countless times, but notwithstanding all that I can't excuse bad behaviour. So it's for that reason and that reason alone that I have to walk away from it. When he wants me bad enough, he'll call and ask me out. And, of course, when he does I'll come running. Because when it comes to M1, I'm lame like that.

Until then, this weekend I look forward to spending a little time with RFG and perhaps playing a wicked game or two if my plan works out...

I can learn from my credit card

2010-08-05T09:48:00.005-04:00

My credit card has started to say 'no' to me after two months of loyalty. It was inevitable. I can only swipe it so man times for food, booze, taxis and boys. I wish I knew how to say no, or at least 'stop, think' - to drinks, boys, snogs, drunken texts. The lot.

In the past week more guys than I can recall have chatted me up and otherwise told me how pretty I am and how they'd love to get a drink sometime, rah rah rah. Despite that, I really don't want to 'date' anyone from scratch so it boils down to M1 and RFG.

Of course as soon as I attempt to ignore M1 he starts to do things that string me along. Meanwhile I have a chance to spend time with RFG this weekend which I really think I should take up. The trouble is I am yet to work out how to go forward without hurting anyone or damaging my prospects with whichever of the two is 'the one' (and I suppose I have concluded that it is down to the two of them).

With the end of my reliable credit card comes the end of hedonistic pleasures. Now I must become a worker with an income. The extent of my adventures in love shall involve flirting with RFG and being boyfriend-in-waiting to M1 who tells me he cares but can't give a lot right now - his words.

Relationships are never easy
While I struggle to make progress in the early stages of my re-relationship with M1, Monica is at the point I long to be at. She is at pre-marriage stage. That's when it's obviously to everyone that the question is due to be popped. Despite this (or perhaps because of it) they have their share of arguments, miscommunication and I witness a clash of values and outlook that is like a nuclear war at times. And when the dust settles, I can feel the wall between our two bedrooms shaking and I know they've made up.

The truth is that relationships are difficult at every stage. In the moment I think that all I have to do is get M1 to stop thinking about what he has lost (A2) and instead on what he can have (me). Then, in months from now, I'll have him there, in my arms each evening (and in my mouth each morning). It won't be a case of 'and they lived happily ever after". It'll just be a new set of troubles to get through - but at least we'll be together.

Women are crazy

2010-08-04T17:11:00.001-04:00

I've been living with a woman since arriving in Chicago nearly two weeks ago and have learned much. More than anything else I realise now that women are crazy and I don't know how straight men cope with them. I have witnessed crying, irrational behaviour, blatant attempts to cause a row, ridiculous notions of what they have a right to demand of their men and obsessing about their men to the point of being psychotic (and doing my head in at the same time).

I wanted to be straight at the start of the summer. I must have been crazy myself. No matter how frustrating men (read: M1) get, I can still see reason in them. But women are all crazy. Gosh, imagine what it's like to be a Lesbian.

What's an Anglo-American jet-setting fag to do?
I can't get used to American accents. When someone first starts speaking to me the sound of their voice throws me off for a moment - I simply don't expect it. Of course when I first speak to someone the immediately ask where my 'accent' is from. As everyone in London knows I certainly DO have an accent but it's an American accent as far as they're concerned. To think, one reason I wanted to return to this part of the world was to escape being treated as a foreigner. Nothing doing!

Missed Connections
I've been introduced to the fascinating world of Craig's List missed connections. Most of them are predictable, 'I saw you on the subway this morning, did you see me?' or 'We were both showering after working out at XSports'. Others were more saucy, 'You fucked me behind an SUV in the Disney School car park'. I'd never, ever seriously thought to even look at this section of any classified/bulletin board because, of course, what are the chances that the other person will look? I was tempted to post a message of my own but I could really only think of one: Guy called M1 spotted in the Northside last Wednesday and at Softball last Sunday – I saw you but you didn't seem to see me. I like you. Let's date.

I know what I did last summer

2010-08-03T18:29:00.006-04:00

A year ago my life was rock solid and the path clear. I had a great job prospect to work for a large American firm in my chosen field. It would have had a golden hello and even better cash rewards for the future. I could taste success and sniff its vapours. Each evening I came home to my lovely flat. It wasn't large, but it was well decorated and on my quiet street in SW1. The place was always spotless thanks to a Romanian woman who ensured I never found a spec of dust or an unironed shirt. When my partner wasn't flying around the world for work, I had him too – Mr Perfect (on paper). My podiatrist even called us a power couple. Perhaps that's why I was tipped to run for a minor post in the local government. And, miracle of miracles, I was even in good shape. Everything was going well, not just according to plan but beyond my dreams.

Here we are a year later and life is chaotic. I'm drinking way too much, staying out way too late, and doing all the other things one does when they are single. The recollections of last night, the night before, the night before that and so on make me cringe. The hunt for a man – for a husband really for I am beyond my halcyon days of short-term flings – has given me a fever. I have no particular form of employment, but I grant you some fair prospects. I still have my flat in London but someone else calls it home for the moment. And technically that rat motel I called an apartment in New York is mine for another 5 weeks or so. But really I call a little room in a West Chicago apartment my home for the moment.

My life has gone from dull and domesticated to fun, exciting with much potential. I miss domestication but my life a year ago was wrong. I never felt right but I could never say why – and everyone around me thought it was because I just wasn't accustomed to things being so smooth. That wasn't it though. I wasn't happy because the various things I'd brought into my life to create this mythical tranquillity were bad choices – the right idea, but poor selections.

In 6 months from now when my life in Chicago (indeed it appears that I am staying here) is established I will reach that point of domestic bliss again. That is why, despite everything, I cannot afford to give the wrong impression. I must be more discreet in my 'dating', drink less, stay in more to focus on the things I need to sort out (including M1). This time I'm going to make the right choices to get back to that serenity I briefly enjoyed.

Willy Waggers
I tried a new gym out yesterday. It was pretty shabby compared to the place I'd been using since I got here, but I got my workout. I ventured into the change room and, after a quick shower, into the sauna. No fags being seedy - so far so good.

I get back to the shower and some potato shaped man in his 50s gives me a quick look that I didn't take to be anything. I started to shower in the open cubicle and, out of the corner of my eye, realised he was looking at me. Perhaps it was my builder's tan or muscular thighs that caught his eye, I thought. No, I turn around and there it is, his semi hard uncut cock for all and sundry to see.

I turned my back on him again and rolled my eyes. Another creep at the gym trying it on with me even though I'm way, way out of his league. I have to admire the confidence though - older, with a guy, balding and grey but he still thinks he has a shot. Never going to happen. Besides, I didn't travel 4000 miles for more uncut cock.

The Thin Line Between Love and Hate

2010-08-02T09:31:00.008-04:00

Boyfriend-in-Waiting no more
It was a typical summer's Sunday in Chicago yesterday - the sun was beaming, people were cycling or jogging along the Lake Shore, the straights were sunning themselves on North Ave beach and the gays were playing sports on the lake. And I was there, in the spectator's area, watching M1 play softball with loving eyes while glaring at A2 who was also playing.

My strike from making an effort began about 36 hours ago but this outing was pre-planned and being a 'no show' would have been wrong - after all, I wouldn't do that to anyone I know. Of course I made no effort to talk to him and left promptly after the game. I was tempted to say something to A2 but then, what would I have said beyond 'thanks for ruining him for the rest of us'?

M1 reacted surprisingly quick to my cold shoulder routine. He actually picked up the phone to call me last night as I was getting dressed for dinner. I had only just said his name to myself three times and cursed myself for conjuring him when the phone rang - before I looked I knew who it was and hesitated to answer but did of course (there are some games I don't play).

After the usual pleasantries in which I was anxious to discover why he was calling he proceeded to moan about A2 as I slipped in and out of undies, trousers and shirts for my dinner plans in Lincoln Park. For 20 minutes I listened, advised, consoled, and once or twice admonished - I played the role of good boyfriend-in-waiting. All for nothing because at the end of the call all I got was 'see you later'. 'No, I won't will I?' I thought to myself; after all, we have no plans.

I would have slammed my mobile down in frustration were it a good old fashioned landline, but it wasn't. So instead I stomped my feet, cursed aloud and wished M1 would set me free and get out of my life. Now I'm good enough to lend a sympathetic ear but not anything else. I should have never picked up that phone and I hate myself for caring about him.

Job hunt + Man hunt = results
I'm looking at several job propsects, despite knowing there is one job I really want. That job hasn't come up yet - no final interview and certainly no offer. The natural course is to keep on making applications or to at least proceed with other prospects or interviews until a firm offer is made and accepted. So why should it be any different with the hunt for a man - after all I know what job and which man I'd like but until they make me an offer shouldn't I keep my options open?

We have the capacity to love more than one person in our lifetime. As Dan Savage has said numerous times, there isn't one 'the one' but several and occasionally they might both appear at the same time (love is never convenient). The flame for M1 lives on but my thoughts this week turn to a short list of other characters I'd like to consider and in particular RFG.

Monica voiced support for my plans to see RFG after seeing a picture of him. She said he could be my soul mate yet - in a reflex response, I said he was not which took us both by surprise. I think it was true though or certainly I don't see him in that way. He's just a decent guy at heart with a great looking exterior. And he can give me what I want. But, wait, haven't I been here before?

The Third Way

2010-08-01T09:07:00.005-04:00

Choices
When will this summer start to make sense? Options are flying out all over the place. I'm 10 days into my Chicago sojourn and more than half-way through my planned stay. This summer is turning out so wildly different from anything I expected. It makes me want to hop on the next plane back to London, crawl into bed with Radio 4 and a cup of tea, look out the window onto my Regency period street and forget all about what has happened here.

Life in London was a struggle, it was hectic but it was familiar. Guys aren't aggressive and chasing me there. Amazing jobs with crazy salaries don't exist, but I pretty much know what I can get and where I can get it. I had my rituals, I had my home and I knew what was what with few surprises. As this whirlwind continues to throw more and more surprises at me, I can't help but wonder, is London not the 'simpler' choice after all?

Beaux, Beaux and more Beaux
I'm afraid I am going to have to accept I'm attractive to the men in this town (even the hot ones) and start managing myself better. I said was done with venturing out on my own to seek validation but even to go for an hour to see a friend has caused an avalanche of men to appear. I can't smile and talk to every person who comes up to me. From now on I'm going to have to have a good brush-off line for the ugly ones certainly and make the attractive ones work harder. And then, I'm going to date the ones that get through because there really isn't any reason for me to not see what else is out there, especially when there seems to be so many to choose from all of a sudden.

Yes, I'm moving on from M1. He doesn't show any interest and I'm tired of trying. It goes against the advice of most friends but I have reached a point where I must thank them for their input and take my own advice. My love for M1 goes on - time has already proven it does not die out - but love on it's own is not enough and certainly not one-way love.

I made a commitment to be there for him today, tomorrow, next week, whenever - and that commitment stands. He can call me and I will listen. If he calls to arrange a 'date' and I'm available, I will see him. But as for me calling, texting, emailing, trying to find a way to spend time with him - that is done. I can do better than that.

Introducing RFG
Unlike my previous attempts to create some space between myself and M1, I now have several motivators including an old beau I call Really Fit Guy (RFG). Like his name suggests this guy is built like a tank (and, so it goes, hung like a horse if memory serves right) and a bum I could stuff my face into and make my new home. He's a total catch, well out of my league and yet the poor sod actually fancies me.

RFG knows all about M1 and, predictably, said I could do better and I should think of him (RFG) because he wants to settle down, get married, live with someone... all those things I'm itching to do and - crazy! - he is actually showing real interest in me and paying me the attention I deserve. I can't ignore that (and I won't).

If you're okay, I'm okay

2010-07-31T07:52:00.003-04:00

Last night I finally tried to tackle some of the weirdness with M1 head-on. I was half asleep when he called me in response to a text I'd sent earlier saying to call (funny how when you ask for something you usually get it). I asked him how he was doing generally:

Me: "So, are you okay? I mean how are you?"
M1: "Yeah, I guess I'm good...yeah, I'm fine. You okay?"
Me: "Well, I guess so...yeah, if you're okay then I'm okay."
M1: "Okay..."
Me: "Yeah, well I'm tired so sorry I should probably go to bed. I mean I wanted to talk but...yeah, never mind. It's...nothing..."
M1: "Okay..."
Me: "Actually, well, the thing is, I just thought... um, well... the other night it just seemed like I was overstaying my welcome..."
to which there was silence.
Me: "...and I guess my instincts are sometimes hard to ignore....So I guess I'm right about that?"
M1: "No, I don't think that was the case at all."

Damn it, I thought - I should have just said it felt like he wanted to be alone - perhaps the better angle. After I put the phone down I started to wonder, if he says he's fine (which I have to take at face value) but things still feel weird (remember reader - we STILL haven't slept together nor had a snog since I arrived), then the only other person who could be acting odd is me.

So am I the one who's acting strange?

Walk a mile in my shoes
L made a good point the other day. She asked me to step back from myself and try to imagine things from his perspective (brace yourself) - so I did. This is what I saw...

Old fling comes back into town for a couple of days. As soon as I see him at O'Hare it's like, 'Wow, he's hot and looking fit too' and we end up in bed together (just as we'd probably both hoped). Had a nice time. He didn't seem to do much while he was here. And I'd already booked that flight to see him in New York so more good times ahead.

We run around New York and see some stuff, talk a lot and have some seriously good sex. I can't keep my hands off him. But I'm still thinking about A2 - I can't seem to shut up about him. No, I don't want him back. I don't want all that hot n cold from him again. I don't want that, but I do want to feel that way again. Dieter is so into me. Wow, a little too much maybe? But he kinda knows what he gets with me. I hope he doesn't think I'm pining for A2. I can't help but touch him, kiss him and stuff like that but I should really hold back. I know I'm not totally right in the head.

He said he was thinking to spend some time in Chicago to date me. Wow, would he really come to Chicago just for that? Seems crazy. But I kinda like the idea. We don't have a lot of the same interests but he's an interesting guy and great in bed. I bet he'd be a good boyfriend, even if he did freak out 10 years ago and not even give me the time of day. Fuck, bad timing though - I know I'm not ready for that yet.

Wait a minute. Now he says he's going to come to Chicago sooner. All of a sudden he's here. Shit. I have to do something. I can't deal with it right now. Well he's here and he's got other friends to see. I'm going to play it cool. I need to be sure. I don't want to break his heart. I know what that's like.

Well now he's acting odd. He's here to see me, right? But he's out at the bars on his own 'til late at night. I get some messages from him but he never says he wants to see me, just says he wants to watch TV or borrow something. What's that all about? Okay yeah, he cooks me dinner one night but couldn't he not joke about it being a test to see if he'd be a good boyfriend? Can't we just relax and watch TV? Talk about pressure.

Damn it. Some mutual friends of mine and A2 have seen pics of me and Dieter in New York and are putting things together. I don't want to deal with that. So I have to say something to him. I call him and he seems to totally understand. He's a good guy for understanding when I say I'd rather he didn't come to the practice with me the next night just to avoid any more talk.

Now he's interviewing for jobs. Talking about staying. Really? So he's just quitting London like that? Okay, okay he said something about liking America again and wanting to be closer to his parents. But is he doing all this to get closer to me? I don't get it. He's not even talking about dating now. I guess he's just doing his own thing. Be nice if he'd just come stay over one night - I like sleeping next to him. And what is with the keys?

He's sure acting strange.

Today's post is dedicated to L - thanks for sending me on that walk

Warning signs

2010-07-30T09:12:00.007-04:00

This blog will expire in 30 days
When I started this blog it was to share with a small audience the excitement and planning that was going into my big summer adventure in New York. I set it up to weave a tale of excitement as I crossed the Atlantic going from the hedonistic, post-relationship fun of my London life to the glitz and glamour of New York. My summer was to have been about parties, travels, runs in Central Park, maybe even pick up a bit of work along the way and, of course, shagging and endless romances (with guys mostly, but at one point with women).

Things just never turn out quite as we expect, especially with plans as big as these. Ever since I sent that damn message to M1 asking about A2 I have set myself on a path very different to the one I planned for myself. I embrace it, I do. I like it when I shake things up a little and my life was in desperate need of it. The trouble is I am walking this path alone at present. Am I missing the warning signs, dear readers?

Still, I like to think I have been good to my readers. I have tried to remember the purpose of this blog, keeping you abreast of all the excitement and, of course, explaining the similarities and differences between America and Britain as experienced by me, a Briton at heart but a North American by birth.

Now as it turns to August I must warn you, my growing audience, that this will soon come to an end (as all good things must). In about 30 days I shall make my last post and then cease to make more. The story - this story anyway - will end there. My writing will go on though and I hope you will read my novels someday as and when they are published.

Timber!
I am instructed daily by L, my relationship guru and Monica to stick with my M1 campaign, be persistent, show I am worthy and wait it out. Be selfless they say but be weak is what I hear. If it's worth having it's worth fighting for they say but my instincts think this may be a prize I cannot get no matter how hard I try. I'm starting to wonder if this attempt at just dating or 'hanging out' as they prefer here is failing. Still, just as the next bit of contact comes in (text, email, Facebook), I am fed with enough to think maybe, just maybe, I might get through if I just stick it out a little longer. Besides, it has only been 8 days.

Meanwhile, I'm under strict orders to take M1 off the pedestal I've allegedly put him on (have I?). I claim to know his faults, at least as I perceive them. So, without further delay, here are M1's faults:

- He's not a good communicator
- He's hard to read - especially through his 'nice guy' persona
- The sex is great - doh! That's not a fault...
- He doesn't have a bum (unfair I know as he can't really fix it but still a disappointment)
- His left hand doesn't seem to know what his right hand is doing
- He is a little on the messy side (within my tolerance levels though)
- He is neurotic - so am I but we're not talking about me now are we?
- He is indecisive (typical conversation with M1: "What do you want to do?", "I don't know what do you want to do?", "Not sure. What do you want to do?" and so on)
- He effectively knows he can have me if he wants me - technically that is a fault of mine but, again, we're not talking about me, we're talking about him.

There, now is he off the pedestal? I'll tell you later. I'm at his place tonight. First, a run, arms and chest at the gym and then to choose the perfect, I-didn't-make-an-effort outfit. Dear God - when did I get this pathetic?

I deserve better

2010-07-29T04:39:00.010-04:00

There's an iPhone app for everything but what about the one for convincing someone you could be 'the one'? Or an iPhone app that somehow brings out all the stuff you want to say when the other person is actually there and not after?

I can no longer ask if you're tired of hearing about M1 any more than I can say I am done with him - I know the answer to the question and I know the declaration has been made before only to be broken hours later. All I'm going to say then is that despite living in fear of his rejection again (for what would feel like the millionth time) I've turned a corner with him. Someday - 'Sooner or Later' as Madge once crooned - M1 is going to love me. And when he does and, years from now, we are laughing about our early attempts to get together I'm going to remind him what a cock he was.

Until then I finally said to myself that I deserve to be treated better than this. Even in the same room with him I feel a coldness - not playing it cool which I can handle, but playing it cold which I cannot. It's like I barely exist and he doesn't care if I come or go. No, that's not me. That's not what I'm about. I do way better than that. I've done way better than that. I may not be interested in the guys that want me but that doesn't mean I shouldn't at least try. Frankly, that's precisely what I'm asking of him.

In case you're reading M1, just think of this: A2 doesn't want you, and guess what? He doesn't deserve you. But hear this - I want(ed) you and I deserve(d) you. Our situation is so simple too: you like me + I like you + sex is great (when I get it) = let's get on with it. Relationships are complicated but surely not the basics.

Then there's M2...
So what do I do when I'm feeling frustrated with M1? I turn to his UK equivalent, M2, for an easy flirt and to string him along a bit. I'm weak, I know. I should be like a rock, weathering the mix of things M1 throws at me and I am trying to do just that but I cannot live on wanking and little affection. M2 knows all about M1 anyway (okay but not the other way around I admit). He wonders if M1 is crazy - or so he says these lovely things to make me feel better. M2 is actually just as bad. While he continues to claim to fancy me, he practically leapt into the air the one time I tried to snog him and he's never layed so much as a finger on me. M1 isn't ordinarily cold whereas M2 almost always is. He's good on Facebook and Skype though, I'll grant him that much.

Essential British English words I can't live without
Bum
Snog
Shag
Wank
Chav
Fags
Tosser
Cinema (a 'theatre' is where actors perform on a stage, not a screen)
Dodgy

Wanky American talk I will never use
Buddy (for the record - I have ALWAYS hated this word)
Bro - the modern 'buddy' it seems. I hate it too.
Reaching out – this means contacting someone
Connect – this means to meet up
'Have a nice day' and it's derivatives - okay, it's not a word but a phrase. Still, I do not intend to order anyone to have a good day. Let them do what they want. I don't care. Just fuck off and hurry back with my drink already.

Will a poke on Facebook lead to a poke in the bedroom?

2010-07-28T10:47:00.009-04:00

Friends
On telly they are the most useful sounding board we have and somehow they know the answer to our romantic mysteries. In real life they each given different opinions based on what you remember to share with them and their own romantic lives to date. Like in my case, one friend says I should date other guys until M1 comes around, another says flirt like mad to get him jealous and a third says to do none of these things. Relying on my own, Conservative instincts and with my near-miss with HIV fresh on my mind the choice was actually quite easy when I sat down and thought about it.

Ritual
I like ritual. I like consistency. My diary tells me what time to get up (always 6am for a cup of tea and banana), what time to run (7am for at least 30 minutes) and what time to start doing admin/emails (while cooling down from the run and eating my porridge). As usual within 24 hours of arriving in Chicago I had a gym membership and bike sorted. These are things I must have (transport and fitness) - I can't even begin to feel as though I'm in my ritual without them. Chasing after men who pay me the least amount of attention seems to be another one.

Its a fine thing to read
I just had to read Ken Fowlett's disappointing sequel to Pillars of the Earth (The World Without End) before the excellent TV series premièred on Starx. It took me over two weeks to read this book that I borrowed from the library several months ago. It would have continued to sit on my New York bookshelf until the end of the summer thanks to automatic renewals via my library's website had someone not reserved it. Between fines and postage back to the UK this little paperback with a disappointing ending has cost me over $20. With penalties like that it's no wonder reading books and libraries are dying out.

Poking and proding
My dear friend Monica is a hilarious Jersey girl in Chicago. She's vivacious and many years younger in spirit and body than her birth certificate suggests. She is also dating a perfect man - so great I wish he had a gay twin brother somewhere. They are 7 months into their relationship and the whole co-habitation thing has come up. Of course with straight couples it's hard to escape the hidden suggestion of marriage that might exist.

Monica told her Perfect Man that she loves him and wants to move in with but needs to be paid. No, not quite as you might be thinking. She wants what is called a stipend. According to the internet and modern American women, she should be compensated for all the contributions she will be making - cooking, cleaning, taking care of his three children and for loving him (that one threw me off). According to her calculations that works out to $2000 per month. Monica is a reasonable woman however and gave her man another option - the joint bank account. He liked the stipend idea much more after that.

Later, while they were pounding away and the joint wall between our bedrooms shook like a 6.5 earthquake, I exchanged pokes with M1 on Facebook. I'd like to move in with him someday, get married, have kids and a dog (no stipend required) - but it seems like the stuff of dreams. As I nodded off to the remains of the lovemaking sounds of Monica and her Perfect Man, I hoped my Facebook poking would lead to a few real pokes tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after. And...

Differences - part 2

2010-07-27T08:58:00.013-04:00

In a country that manages to make the day to day so much easier than the UK its amazing how complicated dating and relationships can be. M1 would never describe us as anything more than 'friends' at this stage (I don't shag my friends so I disagree). I'm not sure exactly how hard I'll have to work at things to reach 'boyfriend' status which is taken quite seriously apparently. To say we are 'dating' would also be too much for him to process - while I agree with that one I'm really not sure what to say. I think Americans call it 'hanging out'.

The money people make here is incredible as is the success. A friend from university who graduated just two years ahead of me is now one of two partners in a firm he established barely a year after qualifying to practice law. He has offices, staff, owns his own home, flash car - amazing. I interviewed for a job in my old field yesterday - a job I'm not even that good at, and I can make over $100k if they offer it to me. Imagine that! I don't even know what a person does with that much money (but rest assured I look forward to figuring it out).

A more local difference I've picked up on is the quality of men in Chicago (forget the women - sorry ladies, you are rather a plain lot). Chicago men are hot, way hotter than New York men. Beauty is only skin deep of course and while New York men are exciting and rouse my interest intellectually, Chicago men - these farmers in the big city - ooze a sex appeal that is unmatchable. Give me a Chicago man or give me death.

Last but not least is the heat. It's so hot here my brain shuts down at certain times of the day. No Englishman could be prepared for the heat I have encountered, sometimes as much as 40c. The wonderful thing about this roasting summer is the humidity which has done wonders for my skin. Not a spot in sight and my skin, it's as smooth as butter. I can hardly believe the wonders of this climate which has managed to take away layers of rough, London life from my face to create a youthful glow.

Throwing myself into the path of love
I was having such a good day yesterday until I received a giddy email from yet another friend announcing his engagement. I want that - I want to get married, to settle down, be happy with someone. I could have done that with the Ex but I would not have found happiness. I know who I want of course.

My dear friend L reminded me this game is a marathon, not a sprint. I'm a marathon man myself but the trouble is I didn't finish my last one. I got bored, tired, wasn't feeling excited so chucked it in and went home. L says be patient, be the best man / boyfriend I can be so he sees what's on offer - and he won't want to let it slip away.

Despite L assuring me things can still turn out right, I awoke from an afternoon kip to disastrous thoughts about M1. I convinced myself that any interest on his part was in fast decline. Feeling rather sorry for myself, I decided to venture out to an old favourite yet again - showtunes night at Sidetracks. I went alone with a bit of an empty space inside hoping I could fill the void with some campy atmosphere. Very quickly found myself chatting away to foreigners - first a Frenchman from New York and then next a German from Alabama (never quite figured out how he ended up there). Eventually I did manage to meet some locals.

First up was a man who said he'd seen me having dinner in a near-by restaurant the night before. I was flattered he remembered me. Quickly discovered he was a furniture designer with a partner of 8 years. He accused me of being handsome to which I gave my customary 'oh go on!' response. Somehow I mentioned M1 and he quickly realised how enthralled I am with the infamous man and sauntered away in search of something I could not offer him.

In between all this I spotted a minor Ex with his boyfriend. I went up to them to make polite chit chat for a few minutes. The moment I arrived at their stools however, the boyfriend got very territorial. As I laughed with the minor Ex, the boyfriend grabbed his man's arms, held his hand firmly, kissed him repeatedly and kept his eyes firmly on me. The only thing he didn't do was wee on him. I chuckled to myself thinking if I really wanted his man back it wouldn't be too hard - but I don't and why should he be so insecure when it's him who has won the prize?

Snogging for charity
In my final act of the evening I got to chatting to two blokes who were both recently single. But the one guy, called Jon, was in the unfortunate position of being in the same room with the ex that dumped him for being too fat (he was pudgey but hardly fat). First, I reminded him it's just more cushion for the pushin' and to love and respect himself and tell that arsehole to fuck off. Then, I decided we needed to have a little more fun.

We positioned ourselves just within the view of the horrible ex whereupon I started to act flirty with Jon (who, for the record, was not my type). Soon I was (apparently) so into him that I could not resist a little kiss which I then returned to with a full snog. It was classic. I could just see the ex doing a double take. Jon was proud of himself, I was pleased and it was the first snog I've had since I got here, even if it was just for charity.

Before I disappeared into the night I had the pleasure of seeing Jon kissing another man, probably one who actually fancied him and didn't think he was fat.

Differences - part 1

2010-07-26T09:52:00.001-04:00

It's been awhile since I focused on the differences I'm experiencing in this part of the world. Shall we start with my new favourite object? Of course. M1. Like many American men he lacks a carefreeness that I've become accustomed to in the UK. In London if a man likes me, he just goes for it. There really isn't much in the way of 'does he, does he not' as there is here. Oddly, while the British just go after it they tend to lack the intensity that an American man can have for someone when he lets himself go. Wouldn't it be nice to find a happy medium?

Then there is the whole 'ID' thing. If I've bitched about this before then just deal with it because since arriving in Chicago I have felt as though I am in a police state a la Stalinist Russia. Go to any bar and you will be asked for 'ID'. Go to any restaurant and order a glass of wine and you'll be asked there too. Enter a building to visit someone and you'll be asked for 'ID'. Use your credit card in certain shops and they will say 'ID please'. Most importantly, don't forget to carry your 'ID' when driving - unlike the UK it is compulsory here. In fact, I'm told if you are walking down the street, stopped by a copper and not carrying identification you can be arrested. Imagine that!

Applying for a job is one of my favourites so far. I'm only talking to a recruiter and yet there is an endless stack of paperwork to complete. Endless tax forms (how bizarre!), actual McDonald's style application forms that you have to handwrite (in addition to showing a CV!), forms to prove citizenship and you must bring 'ID' of course. I'll leave out all the nonsensical lingo which, to be fair, exists in the UK too (though I still think some of the bollocks they say here is seriously wanky).

Not missed - anywhere
I've been gone too long – people in London have forgotten about me. Today I inserted my UK SIM into my mobile after 9 days, expecting endless text messages and voice mails that would take me ages to get through. I even sighed, feeling the burden of all the 'work' ahead of me. Much to my shock there wasn't a single voice mail and not one text - not even from the beaux nor the shags. Not a thing. It's like I've already quit London.

I did have one message as I inserted my USA SIM back into my mobile. A call from one of my old Chicago-based beaux asking if he and his man could set me up on a blind date with a friend they think I will like. I groaned and rolled my eyes - these set-ups never ever work for me. People just don't get me as I discover when the sad bachelor arrives on my doorstep. Still, I was intrigued but I wasn't quite sure...

Is it 'cheating' if I let my beau and his man set me up with a guy? What am I thinking?! I don't know really. I guess that's the point. M1 is doing whatever and I'm meant to be keeping my options open (am I?). It doesn't feel right but there is that needy side of me that just wants a little attention. Unable to find clarity on this point I agreed that we could all meet for a drink sometime. There seems little harm in that and it may yet rouse the man I really want to pay a little more attention to me. Or lead me to opportunities I have not yet considered.

I have no self-respect

2010-07-25T08:46:00.006-04:00

I'll stop saying I'm done with M1 now since I'm clearly not. I'm in M1's apartment right now where I have been for over 12 hours. He gave me another scrap of affection yesterday, enough to live on for a few more days.

I guess I'm a fool. Certainly it seems like I'm losing my self-respect or at least my dignity. I just can't help myself. And I can't give up, no matter what I say. So far I can say I've discovered he's not a great communicator. Can I live with it? Yes, I can, because its not a red line item as I talked about with my girlfriend yesterday afternoon as we enjoyed a few pints while watching the contestants of the Great Urban Race arrive.

No man is perfect. Most have plenty of flaws, but we take them on anyway because we see qualities that are good and hope some of the less desirable bits can be fixed - maybe wax his back, buy some new clothes, hope he gets a better job... whatever it might be. For me, what's most important is good sex, good books, good wine, a bit of banter, good cuddling/intimacy and loyalty. M1 pretty much ticks all of those boxes.

But what the fuck do I have to do to get this sleepy git to wake up and see me? Is the name of the game play it cool or should I be unleashing myself and letting my emotions run wild or even just be myself, whoever that is. Well, at least I managed to get a set of keys (it doesn't really count since he probably doesn't mean for me to keep them) and now I must turn to my next attempt to woo him - I'm going to make him dinner. It's meant to be the way to a man's heart after-all.

In spite of seeing him last night and feeling just a little bit better about the whole thing there's still a part of me wondering: is he really that into me?

Chicago Encore

2010-07-23T19:18:00.004-04:00

This isn't the first time I came to Chicago in pursuit of love, recovering from a long period spent in London. The truth is Chicago and I have been here before, nearly 12 years ago. The love affair didn't last very log but I decided, against HIS better judgement, to stay and make it my home. It was one of the best decisions I ever made - Chicago was good to me and left a lasting impression for which I have not always been grateful.

Much like my first love affair in Chicago it turns out M1 and I have very little in common. I can learn to play softball, sure. I can do anything but that doesn't create real commonality. As I've discovered in the past 24 hours we aren't on the same wave length, our spirits are different though I know - I know - our hearts want each other. It seems however that this is not enough. My interest is in fast decline.

And what happened?
If I were you, I'd want to know what I got up to last night considering I was in the mood to be admired. Well, I put on the new black jeans I bought, slipped into a nicely fitting t-shirt, plucked my nose hairs, sprayed a scent, had a few confidence boosting drinks and ventured to my favourite old haunts to see what the night brought me.

First it brought me friends. Several of them - new, old and unexpected. It was great to see these familiar, easy-going Chicagoans that I'd not enjoyed a pint with in a long time. There were, of course, a few new 'friends' too, like the big guy with the Chanel cologne on that was well named ('Allure') as I could not resist chatting him up at the bar. Then there was the shy guy in the beard whose eyes said he was much younger than the beard suggested. I was noticed, I was attractive, it felt good. The trouble was, it was too superficial and didn't have the desired effect - I could not forget the pangs for intimacy with one man.

I don't expect my love affairs to last for long...
I found myself in the rain on North Halstead in Chicago's Boystown wondering what the fuck I'm doing back here. As the rain soaked through my t-shirt and new jeans I shouted, "I'm a Londoner, I don't belong here, this is madness!"

I muttered to myself as I slowly walked up the street, having given up on trying to stay dry. Of course it was all about M1 and my insane, out of character attempts to revive and relove a man that for some ungodly reason never seems to leave. He never seems to 'set me free' as The Supremes pleaded in their classic hit.

For now there will be no more talk of M1. My summer is going to come and go without any thing to show for it if I don't get out there and forget about him. I've now wasted a month on this enterprise. That has stopped now. I'm not going to call him or beg him to spend time with me. I will be at softball and I'll be at the end of a text message but no more effort on my part. Now to focus on me, myself and I - and not the bits that extend to him.

Single life is not for me
An old shag sent me a message last night saying he'd just come up HIV positive. I can't tell you the shudders of panic that went through me and then the sadness for him. It was a downer that several shots of vodka eventually numbed. But for several minutes I couldn't help but think it could be me. Of course despite having been tested for everything recently I just had to go again when I woke up this morning to be sure.

As I sat in the STD clinic I got to thinking about my HIV 'scare' and night out on the town and I realised this life is not for me. This hedonistic single life of sleeping with different men, going from place to place, doing contract work, renting apartments...all this floating around. It's not right, not for a man of my sort of age. I don't want it at all any more. I want to love, to be loved and to be with someone. I need a rock, a person to go to bed with and wake up next to.

Funny, I used to enjoy being alone. No, that's a lie – I used to relish it, to crave it even. I couldn't wait to be at home, with a glass of wine, a few candles lit and no one else around. Now, here I am in America in this big apartment and two days ago in that car going cross the country wishing there was someone to share in the adventure with me.

As I filled in the boring paperwork for this millionth STD screening I started for the first time to think that maybe going back to London this Autumn wouldn't be such a bad plan after all. I'm settled there, I know it and I could even 'settle' with one or two of my beaux there (there's always M2 who still claims to fancy me while making no effort). Besides, the way Americans speak and act is starting to wind me up – and I have no intention of learning to speak like them, despite what I said before. I am a Londoner and today, for the first time, I miss the Big Smoke just a little bit and long to be back on solid ground.

(Postscript: for the record, I remain as free and clear of any STDs as before - but it was a scary 30 minutes waiting for those results)

Destination: Chicago

2010-07-23T14:06:00.004-04:00

People from small islands should not attempt car journeys that exceed eight hours. Shame I had not thought of that before deciding I would drive from Toronto to Chicago. This is a trip I have done on two previous occasions but it was in another lifetime when I was an American and therefore accustomed to long road trips so my memory was naturally inclined to think this was a pleasant, easy journey that anyone could do comfortably. Friends, speaking as an (ex) Londoner I can assure you this was nothing short of a great mission and I feel as though I have crossed an ocean (but found there was nothing to be colonised). My back aches, my feet ache, my eyes ache and the emergency mud mask I put on took off several layers of dirty and grime.

Never mind though because the journey was worth it. As I approached Chicago from the south with the skyline of the Loop in front of me at long last, I started to fall in love with this city all over again. I looked at the buildings, almost all just as I'd left them over 8 years ago, and found myself easily giving in to the temptation to call the Windy City home once more. Maybe I'm just tired of the constant struggle and the hassle of London life or maybe I just long for something simpler or maybe M1 is the attraction - I really don't know why I find it so attractive again but the fact is I do.

Perhaps it won't work out after all

There was a time when M1 chased me. I had him wrapped around my little finger. He was almost always available and I could rely on him - life was good. All change as we well know - it's now me doing the chasing, me carrying the torch while he goes with caution. The trouble is I'm out of my comfort zone, in ongoing conflict with myself, struggling to adapt and to keep up the momentum. Not because my feelings are in flux - far from it, I care about him a great deal and I desire him like no other man before - but one cannot live on hope alone. I need a reassurance or two from the other side, which I am not getting.

This morning I did what every man who is chasing someone should do - I made sure I looked good. I went for a run, then hit the gym (chest, arms, abs, shoulders - of course). Came home to put on a mud mask, shaved, cleansed, toned, scrubbed, tidied up my bush n balls with a little help from Veet, got a bit of a hair cut and picked out a sexy I-didn't-make-an-effort ensemble for our admittedly vague plans this evening.

These plans we had tonight were important to me and I think important for 'us'. But he cancelled on me just hours ago without any real reason. I've been here 24 hours, he claims he fancies me and relishes the sex as much as I do but somehow he's not available all evening on a Friday? This, my friends, is not a good sign, no matter how you spin it or what excuses you make. I don't wonder what he's up to because my money is on a 'who' (and I don't want to care about that either).

Whoever he's with tonight I wish them well. As for me, I shan't be lonely. I need a little reinforcing flirtation tonight. I need to know I've still got it, that men do want me. It's sad I know but while a good wank and chatroulette.com has cured the horny boy within (what a great release after 10 days) I can't be cued of the loneliness and need for intimacy. I thought M1 would be here after my long journey (the literal and the figurative) but he's not. While I think this is the best chance M1 and I've had in a long time, it's still not better than 50/50 odds. Meanwhile I want to live, to experience and, for a few hours, to feel like someone who can be loved. Chicago, give me all that you've got.

Toronto - city of memories

2010-07-22T06:43:00.001-04:00

A place I once called home

I crossed the border into Canada for the second time in as many months, this time without fuss and drove the 90 miles or so towards a place I once called home – the city of Toronto. This is the place I couldn't want to leave, the place that I felt was stifling me, that I'd already outlived at the age of 19. I left it and never looked back. Whenever I visit it is like a city of shadows – memories lurking on every corner and I find it hard to escape a bit of self-indulgent nostalgia.

I've often said that Canadians are generally an unattractive breed, and Toronto is no exception to that rule. I reckon it's one of the reasons I left – there is little space for attractive, ambitious people in a city of the mediocre. But, as I drove through some of the old neighbourhoods last night and again this morning strolling down my favourite streets, I noticed something I'd not seen before – good looking men and women. Even more impressive, they didn't appear to be foreign. I suppose they could have been from Montreal (Canada's only good looking city) but I have a feeling they are locals. Perhaps something in the water has been aded to improve the features of the populace.

I come here for the family though. To be reminded that I come from simple, humble stock (with the odd posh person lurking in the background). I love my family. They remind me who I really am or, at least, where I came from and how I got my beginnings. They give me good food, laughter and happy memories. It is a reminder that I am a little too far away from them in London, which is ever farther from my mind.

Is he dating anyone else?
Someone asked me this of M1 the other day. I decided very quickly that I don't want to know and I don't care – I will kick all those other faggots to the curb. No one can love him like I will and I am going to be the one.

Then it was 'Do you think he's sleeping with other guys?' Well, I never ask questions I don't want the answer to – and, again, I don't care if he's shagging other guys. Once I'm there he won't want the others anyway.

Finally, 'What do you want from him?'. That's easy. I want him to spend a little time with me, to think of me. I don't care about titles, status or anything like that – I just want to be with this guy, to sleep with him and to laugh. He can call me a friend. He can call me a shag. Whatever – as long as he calls me. I know that makes me seem weak but I'm not. I'm still me. It's just that the scraps of love he gives are the best things I have ever tasted.

Buffalo, New York

2010-07-19T06:37:00.005-04:00

So far from London and yet so close to me

I'm far away from London now and yet, as I drove several hours yesterday I felt so much closer to myself. Buffalo, on the other side of New York, is a place so dead that when I asked one of it's former residents what people do in Buffalo he said 'they leave'. A friend from London said the only reason to go to Buffalo was for the wings. I don't care for the accents personally but I'm here strictly to see my parents. They are simple people - this sort of place suits them. Though, over breakfast at Denny's, I'm sure our conversation of trips around Europe, the South Pacific and Asia were foreign to the real locals. But that's my parents - and me - a bundle of contradictions.

In desperate need of a break from the parents and to see some actual human beings I have escaped to the local Starbucks. 'Bob', my Starbucks name' had a 'lucky day' according to the girl on the till. I was given a receipt with 'amazing' survey that is really 'fabulous' and, if I fill it out and say how 'awesome' Jenny and Susan were today, I can get a free coffee. Wow.

3 drinks and 20 stories
My last evening in New York was spent with my two glamorous Brooklyn girls. Celebrating Bastille day in true American style (the wrong day, with too man beers and not enough French flags) we gossiped like mad over sangria at an Italian restaurant.

We were discussing water sports - and I don't mean the kind you do on holiday in the Caribbean. None of us has indulged nor do we get it (though I profess a very limited empathy with it). I came close once- my Ex said wanted me to wee on him someday, but then it never came up again. The girls said it was probobly then up to me to decide when to wee.

But when do you wee on someone? As we discussed this point the next table moved away from us - perhaps they were already familiar with golden showers. In that 15 minutes of lovemaking (you know that's about all it is really) is the weeing part of foreplay? Is it the first or second half of the main act? Or is it the encore? (a good way to clean up any 'mess' from the main act?)

I was glad for a cheap and cheerful Brooklyn evening as money has been running low. My New York budget never factored in paying for my own meals and drinks. I planned meet and date several amazing men this summer who fund all that. After all, like Miss du Bois, I have always relied on the kindness of strangers. But then M1 cropped up and even though we have no understanding of any sort, I can't really date anyone else. And love costs money – oh yes it does. The meals, drinks, cabs, and endless 'oh no, I'll get it' statements that I made while he was here...all made me think I better not even look at the credit card statement when it comes next month.

As I did the last of the packing back at home I looked at all the clothes hanging in the closet. All those collared shirts and trousers I brought offer - they will never be worn except on those rare occasions when I go from flat to cab to air con and its necessary. Who knew it could be so hot.

Lust
It's been 9 days since I last had sex and about 5 days since I last wanked. I'm going nuts now, feeling on edge and awake in the morning tossing, turning, thrusting, bashing my fists into the bed. Much like the ginger pussy that leapt into bed with me as I woke this morning fussing to be stroked, I am insatiable and cannot be satisfied with my own paws. I've got to fuck M1 and I've got to fuck him soon. I booked in for Friday on the offer of 'dinner, etc' - he wouldn't give me the dinner (someone else already has it - who? who? who?) but I've got the 'etc' and really that's the bit I need. Fuck food and fuck me.

Why don't we go for the men that fancy us?

2010-07-18T13:13:00.001-04:00

I'm a good looking man. It's not something I often like to admit to myself; I'm not comfortable playing that role having grown up as the ugly duckling. But I know I can attract the attention of men (and women for that matter) with only minimal effort. Countless men have fallen for me, have tried to woo me and make me theirs. I've loved every moment of it. I've been serenaded by writers, politicians, athletes and millionaires and tasted all the benefits of a life with them - but rarely have they aroused much interest on my part.

It is the man who shows so little interest that attracts me most. It's the man who doesn't have a lot of glitz and glamour to recommend himself that I desire. It is a man who is ordinary, with a typical mid-west life that attracts me the most. Like my mother, of all the men in the world that I could have, I must have this 'nothing special' guy who is special to me in every single way.

I realise his body is not like some of the muscle men I've dated but I love to watch him undress and I find what he's got to be very sexy. He hasn't got an arse that I could bounce pennies off but I love that cock of his. He doesn't wax but I'm into his retro appeal. He's not ageing well but I want to grow old with him.

What he's got no other man has ever had - he's got me, fluttering, waiting, desiring and wanting every inch of him. His scent is stuck in my head and I can taste him in my mouth and I long to feel him again. He farts, snores, tosses n turns, talks in his sleep but I wouldn't want any one else to have those moments with him but me.

And yet, if I could only flip the switch in my head, I could make my life so much easier. I could have a man that wanted me (more than I wanted him), who would adore me, worship me and provide the life I want. But I can't do that; it's not what I want. I want him.

So I've packed the car, am waving good-bye to the Big Apple and doing whatever it is I have to do to put myself in his path, in what I hope will become our path. If I'm wrong, I'll be heart-broken again (yes, again) but if I'm right, the reward will be something so precious I could forget I had any other care in the world.

I don't drink to excess - I only drink until I pass out

2010-07-17T09:56:00.002-04:00

10 things to do before I leave New York
1. Have brunch at Essex
2. Cycle the length of Broadway
3. Get dry cleaning
4. Take latest big bag of coins to TD bank
5. Get everything waxed again - its been a month
6. See cousins in Staten Island and Jersey
7. Tell the ex beaux in New York I'm shoving off - now their menfolk can sleep easy again
8. Go for a final run around Central Park
9. Do two, intense sessions at the gym
10. Update asmallworld.net - after all I want some decent party invitations when I get to Chicago (you can take the boy out of London but you can't take London out of the boy)

Not quite London in America after-all
Following a bike ride from uptown to downtown and a painful but necessary waxing touch-up, I met my friend H at Essex on the Lower East Side - THE place in New York for a down and dirty brunch. For $20 you get brunch and a steady flow of mimosas and screw drivers. Poor H was suffering from an unfortunate hangover after drinking in the bars of Brooklyn (yeah she's dirty like that) until the wee hours. H had only said to me the night before that she never drinks to excess, only until she passes out. Indeed. Today's little gem was her profession that she will not engage in anal sex until marriage (she's saving herself). This caused me to break out into a good belly laugh.

An hour later brunch was over. One of the strange things about life in America that meals are over and done with so quickly, even a Saturday morning brunch (and no newspapers!). My plate was, of course, lifted away just as I'd taken the last bite of my spinach.

We took a stroll around Soho despite the intense heat and lack of trees. As I was taking it all in I dared to confess that I find New York less glamorous with fewer beautiful people than London - it's not as 'Sex and the City' as I'd expected. Not that it matters much - I'm venturing to the mid-west in a matter of days. I might love Chicago but I'll be replacing my shiney shoes and crazier clothes for comfy trainers, my sole pair of jeans and t-shirts.

Family
In the evening I took the ferry over to Staten Island to visit my extended relations. These are real people, people who know me. I always feel so soothed and relaxed in their presence. There's also the home cooked food, with the tastes and flavours that take me back to my youth. Despite all the drama, pretence and whatnot, that kind of family is very dear to me. Sure, we're not posh and most of them don't have much in the way of material things but what they have is love and laughter and that is something they shall always be both rich in and generous with.

As I crossed back to Manhattan, passing Lady Liberty I asked her if she could somehow make my own modern immigrant's dream come true - let it be, yes, let it be that I am back in Chicago, with M1 and in my old job. That's what I want. It's what I really, really want. Along with a winning lottery ticket of course.

Is my trail of broken hearts bad karma-in-waiting?

2010-07-17T07:51:00.000-04:00

I spent the day doing the last of the painting and cleaning on the New York flat I am soon to abandon. In true New York form, as soon as I listed my sublet on craigslist.org the offers came pouring in and it was let within 24 hours. And because I had a new project to focus on I had that energy of purpose and a focus that always puts confidence where hesitation and anxiety may have lingered. I am doing the right thing - except for one point.

The trail of broken hearts I've already created since landing in America not even a month ago is lingering in the background. Two New Yorkers, a couple of young men in the Bay Area, thankfully nothing in LA but then there's the 'oopsie' in Ottawa. Oh dear. And why is it so much easier with them anyway? Why is M1 such hard work and why does he make me nervous, cause me to lose all confidence and otherwise be frazzled?

Funny, I tend to think it a good thing that M1 can't see these thoughts but once in ever 50 lines I do wish he did follow the saga (he would easily recognise himself) - perhaps it might speed things up a little. In any case, I just hope my accidental trail of broken hearts isn't bad karma-in-waiting.

Has life really come full-circle?
I've just applied for a job at the firm I used to work for in Chicago. I worked there for over 3 years and it was one of the best jobs I ever had - they way over-paid me for my limited skills and the work almost always fit around my schedule. Occasionally, I even liked my work colleagues. I still have dreams about the time I spent there and I've secretly longed to go back somehow.

So, is this it? In six months from now will I be living in Chicago, in my old job, with my (favourite) old beau? I confess as I laid in bed last night I thought I could quite happily live with that. Yes, I could be happy with that scenario - a normal, stable life again. Of course no more parties in W1, politics with the Conservatives, weekends in the countryside, shiny shoes in the West End and pound coins in my pocket but I'd manage just fine. A healthy diet of the bars of Lakeview, M1's constant supply of new music tracks, taking the Brown Line around the Loop just for fun, Sunday brunches and easy access to anywhere from O'hare Airport.

Does that mean the past 10 years been in vain? All that money, the constant battles, the highs and the big lows - was it some sort of necessary rite of passage for a contrived international sort like myself? Who knows, but I can't help but laughing at the prospect that my life has truly come full-circle.

It's much more fun when someone else is doing all the hard work

2010-07-16T07:43:00.001-04:00

I hate being on this side of things. The side where you make the effort, you court, you try to convince. I much prefer being the recipient of such things. That's the natural order, the way it has always been. I flirt a little, make some sort of initial effort then sit back and enjoy the fruits of my success - dinner, drinks, weekends and a bit of sex as and when. And, of course, I never have to be available if I don't want to be.

I wasn't entirely convinced I stood much chance of success with M1 playing the role of the effort-maker until I caught up with an old Chicago-based beau who happened to be in town for the night. Over tall glasses of water and quesadillas (he's a healthy type and paying so I was a healthy type too), he told me about his current love affair, which started about 6 months ago.

There were a lot of bumps in the road not the least of which was his guy saying he didn't want a relationship and, in the beau's words, he had to do a lot of arm-pulling over the course of the first few months and, then, actually suggested they call it a day after one particular incident. Somewhere along the way the hesitant boyfriend decided he didn't want to miss out on a chance with my old beau (who is cute, successful and otherwise a catch). Now they're in a happier place.

After I heard that I thought it might just be possible. I might actually manage to lead things along for a bit and capture the prize I've always wanted. But is winning M1 like going to an amusement park? Once I've spent all my money, played all the games and won my big toy will I look around and be sad I can't go on any more rides?

Chicago, Illinois
Every major place I've called home - the innocuous little suburb of my brith, Los Angeles, Toronto, London - has been revisited at least once except for Chicago. I left the Windy City over 8 years ago and with no intention of returning. I even had four separate leaving parties to make the point.

Ever since I left Chicago I have somehow managed to attract the attentions of several of its menfolk and more than once was asked to consider a move back. With some hesitation, for these were great guys, I always said no, not Chicago, not again and not when I could live in London. Silly boy that I was.

Now I'm some sort of man and Chicago doesn't look so bad. And I'm heading there for a an initial 6 week stint but possibly longer. Soon after I made that decision it struck me that there are about 5 men still living in the Windy City who won't get it at all. They will be scratching their heads or banging their fists on tables wondering why I'm willing to do this now. Well reader, you already know the answer to that and while I'm not ashamed of why I'm doing it, I'm certainly not looking forward to again disappointing these 'innocents' in the game of my life.

On a happier note, this is the first time I've sipped the love drug and managed to find a way to keep costs down. As it turns out in going from the Big Apple to the Windy City, I'm actually saving money. Plus - shhh - I think I prefer Chicago to New York, maybe because I know it better or maybe because I've got more friends there or maybe just because.

Can I have your flat?
Ever since I announced my plan to stay on in America and venture west to Chicago all my London friends immediately started to ask the same sort of question - what about the flat? Not, we'll miss you, why are you going etc no - just can we have your flat. A few even asked if they could have my car. Charming. And then there's the queue of North Americans who'd like to call my home theirs for a few months (rolling eyes). Not exactly feeling the love.

A new degree of insanity: pushing my boundries

2010-07-15T06:50:00.000-04:00

I can report to you today that I failed to get that question from yesterday out of my head ('what am I still doing in New York?'). The more I thought about it, the more I looked around the more New York was becoming just a city, in the same way London has. I don't meant to say I'm bored of it, because I'm certainly not. But it's not enough on it's own to sustain me.

I'm a romantic at heart - and so I rarely allow myself to indulge in any serious, intense, passionate love affairs (which is why I moved to England). My heart is itching to give it a go, to dive in, to take risks and do crazy things that at my advanced, unknown age, have become incomprehensible. But I have already taken a great leap - I left London. That, for me, was massive. Anything else is really just an extension of that.

So, in what is being presented as officially a selfish move - after all, it's really all about what I need to do, to find out and also is oddly going to save me money - I am quitting New York for, wait for it, Chicago. Yes, Chicago - round 2. It was due to have it's repeat since I always come back to a city at least twice. And as I'm on round 3 with now slightly freaked-out M1, it all makes sense in a crazy sort of way.

It's a big gesture and a big risk. My heart has been warned by my head and by M1. There are no guarantees. But the choice is either try or regret. Try might lead to something; regret leads to nothing. If I'm wrong, I'll be a little hurt and God, will I laugh at myself for making such a foolish 'mistake'. But if, just if, I happen to be even a little bit right, I will be tasting something so wonderful it far exceeds any hedonistic pleasure I have found or could find in London, New York or anywhere else.

It's not easy to deliberately fuck up an interview
Yesterday I had that infamous interview for the job I don't want. I trid to prepare some sort of 'fuck up' strategy but nothing really came to me and in the end I couldn't help but try a little. As luck would have it, the moment I walked in I thought, 'Oh, no - this is not for me'. Then, as I got to talking to them, the annoying thing is I started to like them.

I was amazed how much easier an interview it was overall compared to those I've had in the UK (especially for law). I was never really nervous, perhaps because I didn't want the job. Of course when they asked me if I could do something I always said 'Gosh, no - never done that before!' but there were only one or two questions like that.

Finally, I was asked why I left London. It was weird to speak with such finality since, in reality, I haven't really made that call yet. So there I was stumbling through that question but then I thought about all that has happened in the past 8 years and it out it came - I said I was tired of the struggle, the bad wages, being a foreigner, freelancing and otherwise fighting daily battles for nothing. And in that moment I realised I really am thinking of calling it quits, regardless of happenings in Chicago. Of course, I left out my strong desire to wake up each morning with M1's cock in my mouth - that would not be appropriate for an interview any where, except maybe a whore house.

So what am I still doing in New York?

2010-07-14T09:07:00.000-04:00

Two Ex-Gays and an Ex-Ex-Gay
I've heard from two Ex-gays in the past 24 hours and this makes me feel bad as I was supposed to join their ranks this summer as you every well know. It's not my fault though – M1 is no ordinary gay and a chance with him is not to be passed up. Any straight man would surely agree (well...).

I still find it odd that two men I both gave it up the bum to on several occasions are now married, with children and living in suburbia. Is that an indication of how bad I was? I shagged so badly I turned them straight? Well, it's one theory any way...

So what are you still doing in New York?
It was like a scene out of a rom-com. I hopped off the C train and arrived at the Soho Grand where I met my Ex-Gay English-turned-American friend for a drink in the bar. Being the first live person I've spoken to since M1 left he got an earful pretty quickly (the two strong G&Ts certainly helped). As I spoke to him there did seem to be something missing from the story but I couldn't put my finger on it, until he said:

"So, what exactly are you still doing in New York then if he's in Chicago?".
Of course I had my well-thought out reply: "I'm taking it slow. I'm trying to not put too much pressure on. I don't want to smother him do I? Space, time - it's the right thing to do".
Ex-Gay said: "Don't play games!"
Idignant me: "I'm not! I'm trying to be practical and cautious - for both our sakes."
Ex-Gay: "Well, maybe it's not a game but you're being too artificial. If he's into you and you're into him then what's the point in waiting for some set date in time when you think it will be the moment to make the next move."
I said to the Ex-Gay: "Yes, I'd agree with you if we were back in the UK or Europe but this is America and you should know by now, Americans don't think like that."
Ex-Gay: "Nonsense. You've got it all wrong. I give you another two weeks at the most. There's no way you can be into someone and just sit here lingering all summer. What are you doing anyway? Enjoying yourself? Seeing other guys?"
Me: "No way, I don't want to see other guys. I want him. So I guess I'm just going to work and do whatever it is I came here to do...(pause) - Okay, so you're kinda right... I was thinking how lonely this will all seem if I haven't got anyone to share it with. God I'm getting old!"
Ex-Gay: "No, my friend you are not getting old. You're just in luuurve!"

Semenex
I ran out of Semenex about 24 hours ago. This miracle drug I discovered while listening to a Savage Love podcast was meant to increase my payload when I climax. I was never entirely sure that it did but then following a double wank the other day I started to think it might have actually done the trick. Now I have to rely on natural remedies - first, wank less often (groan - as if it's that easy), more exercise and, apparently, intake more fluids (suppose that makes sense - what you put in is what you get out).

Artificiality breached
In the spirit of not being artificial, I did call M1 last night... all I wanted to do was talk so when I got his voicemail I pretty much said just that. It was one of those rare moments where my voice aloud actually sounded like the one in my head. Guess what He called back. Funny thing that.

I'm starting to get a little annoyed with myself on a point - I seem to insist on acting as though he isn't into me despite knowing that he is. I mean, he can only say it so many times right? I think I'm relishing in the tragedy and drama a little to much. And as I bid adieu to today's post that question is still lingering in my mind... what the hell am I still doing in New York?

All that glitters...

2010-07-13T08:34:00.001-04:00

The Temp Agency
I had forgotten the joys of being a temporary. One of those people that appears for a few days, tries to dazzle everyone in the office with their brilliance in hope of an extension or even a proper job. I had last experienced the whoring of temporary admin work in the mid 90s (I refuse to acknowledge my real age despite this admission). In my day a lot of it was still paper based - time cards were faxed, pay cheques were actually cheques and your details were kept on a little index card.

Ah yes, and the tests. Filing, alphabetising and numeracy were all on sheets of paper then the computer skills tests (always they asked 'Do you know how to use a mouse or are you still on DOS?') were all the same no matter where you went. I could be stoned and pass them (frequently I was I'm sure - after all, it was the 90s). Today it's all automated, internet, at home, blah blah blah. But you're still a whore to the system, still have to pretend to like your recruiter and pester them daily 'til they're desperate to get rid of you and finally send you on an assignment somewhere fairly horrible where they treat you with a mix of disdain and admiration for doing the work they can't be bothered to do.

I've got my email and mobile next to me, just waiting for that call. Some aspects haven't changed a bit.

All that glitters is not gold
The longer I am away from London the more I see it's faults. Mind you, having lived in many cities and several countries I've long since ceased to see any one place as perfect. Still, for too long I have claimed to be the quintessential central London boy. I wouldn't have thought any one or any thing could take me away from the Big Smoke. I couldn't imagine I'd want to leave for any reason.

The trouble is, in a different environment, I'm starting to see it for what it is. Materialistic. Expensive, yes, but only because we're forced to live on slave wages. A hassle - oh what a hassle everything is. And then there's Chicago, where I spent 3.5 years - foolish boy I was I did not note these were the most stable years of my life at that time and possibly remain so. I had a good job, a decent flat, friends and it was easy to travel to all the places I liked - Buenos Aires, London, Paris, San Francisco.

And, on my doorstep was M1. Always I was stalking, chasing, or otherwise thinking about him. I remember being on his perch one day in May 2002, just before I left, talking to a friend of mine who was staying in his guest room, confessing my love for M1. It was obvious to the friend, but M1 had heard my pleas 6 months earlier and rejected them. And then friend was not convinced M1 was good boyfriend material.

I remember the final plea just days before I left. It was in my apartment after a great dinner at a placed called Tsunami in my neighbourhood. I held him a second too long. We kissed on the lips. He giggled nervously. I said something nonsensical. It was left at that. I told myself I was wasting my time.

Life has to take a certain course, we have to follow the path God sets out for us and, occasionally, travel down the path we feel is right for us. I guess it all leads back to where we should be, where we're meant to be. I chased after the beautiful sparkling things but all that glitters is not gold and now, have I come 'home' - no, home - to find that is true?

I've learned now that love is what matters. A city is just a city. A job is a job. A man keeps you warm at night, a man loves you, a man gets you up in the morning and sends you for that run when you'd rather just stay in bed. That's what life is and you don't actually live, not in a meaningful way, until you have someone to share it with at the end of each day. (Note, the ones grimacing and rolling their eyes are single, jaded and/or in their 20s).

Hello?! Is anyone up there paying attention?!

2010-07-11T22:32:00.000-04:00

As I sweated through the night, tossing and turning from the affects of my fuck-flu, I decided I would have to box-up and put away my feelings for M1 and carry-on with my summer plan. I woke up in the morning I forced myself not to mope nor wish it was just a little bit different. I can't do anything about M1 for now but I can get on with the adventures of New York. And the absolute number one thing I must not do is leap on the next airplane to Chicago. Not because of (yawn) the silly 'rule' of not wanting to seem 'too' keen, rather simply to give M1 the space I know he needs to think about things.

None of this is easy to do. I want to agree with Dan Savage when he says that it's never the right time except when you find someone and then it becomes the right time but I don't - too soon after a break-up cannot be the right time to take up with someone else. I'm in this to be with him for the long-run - and it's a slow game to achieve that.

So, again, despite the desire to be done with New York, I will be patient. I will do what I came here to do (what is that again?).

Hello?! Is anyone up there paying attention?!
Barely 30 hours after M1 has left, my heart still tender, fuck-flu still wreaking havoc on my stomach and I get the news I didn't want (nor did I make an effort for!) - a job interview. A proper job, a great job...if only I had any intention of staying in New York. A week ago this was the plan. Today it is not. No way.

Now I must think of a clever way to fuck up the interview. No, thanks to my dumb luck, despite continuing to make little effort I will get the offer. So somehow I will have to turn it down and still manage to get some short term work out of the recruiter. Oh M1, so wonderful you're back but can these things never be better timed?!

Life would be so much easier if I could just fall for a guy that I was actually attracted to (well, ticked that box with M1). Oh yes, and he'd be available, live in the same city as me and want me as much as I do him. Alas, the list of guys who've fancied the pants off me but received mere indifference from me in turn is longer than time. Love is like a war with many battles and victory never comes easy.

I'm here - today, tomorrow, next week, next month, forever

2010-07-11T08:19:00.000-04:00

It could never be this easy for M1 and I to come together again/for the first time. No, of course not and I knew from the moment the spark relit the flame what the problem would be: A2 - M1's last relationship.

I liked A2 so much. I'd never seen M1 so at ease with himself and so affectionate with another person. What halcyon times those few days I spent with them a year ago when they were together and I had someone and the world seemed to completely right itself a la Gwen Stefani's 'Cool'. Now I am angry with A2 for hurting someone I care about so much. I can't forgive him - how could anyone give up on something so good? (is that what someone is saying about me to my own Ex?)

I saw it from the first email: A2 has broken M1's heart. Such eloquence and passion in his writing. In Chicago those first moments in bed were all about our ex lovers and the perils of Facebook and contacting the people we once loved but now want to despite. From the moment M1 arrived in New York, there was enough A2 talk to make me realise I wasn't bagging this one right now. I want him but I want him to want me too (and right now a piece of him wants A2 still). Despite that, I had to make an effort for the future.

I know now that he cares, he cares for me a great deal. With those feelings so apparent I told him that I'd like to date and to move to Chicago for a few months in order to make that happen. Beyond that, all I could do really was stand there and say to him, I'm here, I've been here, I will be here tomorrow, the next, a month from now, whenever. I'm just a guy who wants to to love him with all that I have. But I can't do anything without a big gesture from him (he gave so many and yet I need one more - that's the damaged goods I bring to this relationship).

Fucking Flu
As M1 left in the morning I was feeling rather poorly. I thought perhaps my body was sulking, then thought food poisoning before Ask Laura, my excellent advisor on all relationship matters, declared I was suffering from the affects of excessive shagging. Fucking flu. Apparently sufferers can only digest so much spunk in a short period of time. I hope the cure isn't pussy juice.

So, is this it?
I committed a heinous act. Jew No 1 and Jew No 2 were dumped by text message. I have grounds though - I have fuck-flu and could not possibly give them a face to face interview and felt to weak to answer the phone. It's not as if we'd slept together or had any commitment (after all, I told them both I was waiting to see what was happening with M1). Still, while I can possibly justify it, I feel like a turd.

It's been a mere three weeks since I left London and already I am faced with several prospects for the big, impactful event of the summer. Is it M1? This would seem the most obvious. Or, is it simply the realisation that I don't really hate America after all - in fact, as it turns out, I am tired of London (despite Samuel Johnson)? Is it my inclination to chuck-in my big career change to focus on something else? Or maybe, just maybe, three weeks and one day into New York the biggest event is yet to come?

Dickmatized...

2010-07-09T11:43:00.000-04:00

You didn't really believe that was it for me and M1 did you? No, neither did I. I have never really given up on the man that makes me feel as live now as ten years ago.

M1 broke my heart not once but twice. I wasn't perfect though - I thought I was there when I wasn't really. I thought I made the point clear despite using subtleties. We are older, wiser and come to this latest attempt with war wounds but we still care for each other. If love isn't enduring then what is it?

Okay, I admit it - I'm a little 'dickmatised' at the moment because we are also exceptionally sexually compatible (I can't believe I ever thought that was impossible in a relationship). I love how his cock tastes, its perfect size and it does what I want it to do when I want it.

Yes dear reader, he broke my resolve when he came in and insisted on a kiss despite my efforts to do otherwise. He ignored my 'here's a set of keys' brush off. When he held my hand in the taxi to Midtown, I felt a warmth I'd not felt in a long time. When he randomly grabbed me on the High Line and kissed me for all and sundry to see, I was at a loss for words. As he held my arm while we walked up a busy New York street I never felt prouder to be displaying my sexuality and my man for all to see.

So we don't have much in common other than generous hearts, mutual affection and a tendency to over-think but opposites attract and while he may not love me yet but he will.

It's all over for me and M1 (right?)

2010-07-08T10:26:00.000-04:00

In as much as I love M1 it is easy to resent him when he's being a dick. As is apparently standard procedure hours before a visit. It's a good defuser though - after all why would I chase after him under these conditions?

M1 is going to reject me again, except that I'm not going to give him the benefit of that. There are too many men in New York I could have. And some of them are even single and good looking. If I go to Chicago this year it will be for me, myself and I.

Meanwhile M1 wants to play cold and no one does cold better than me. He's got a bed and a room to himself. He's got a set of keys. He can do whatever the fuck he wants but he can't do me. I'll be a good host and he may come and go as he pleases and when he goes on Sunday let him stay gone. Maybe the big event of this summer is the absolute and final burial of my feelings for this man.

And so it seems I have been right all along - love, is not enough

The importance of good neighbourly relations
Late in the day I received a disappointing text from Jew No. 2 saying he would be working late and drinks were off. Such is life with investment bankers, as I remember from the late 90s when they were my beaux of choice. Two messages came in. One to say he was working late and then second later to say he really does want to see me again (to dispel any ideas I might have gotten otherwise...I guess?).

I read this as I was sulkily braving the five floor walk up to my apartment whereupon I learned there really is a God after all. He's called my neighbour and on seeing him I was snogged almost immediately. Sadly not by the hot neighbour but his enthusiastic dog who managed to leap up and stick his tongue in my mouth (sadly the most enthusiastic snog I've had in ages). Still, it's a promising sign for things to come (from the neighbour).

The Graveyard of Exs

2010-07-07T14:41:00.001-04:00

It's barely ten in the morning but already I have pretended to do some work, gone for a short run through Central Park, stripped down to my jock strap and paint half the living room of my still rather miserable Upper West Side apartment. I happily drank a rather cold bottle of Heineken while performing this final industrious act (it's hot and I had nothing else in the fridge), I was thinking about my lovely Exs and one thing struck me straight away: they all have dogs (and partners). That's what I want; some lovely man waiting for me in my lovely apartment each evening with our happy little dog that goes woof-woof and whatever else. Why can't I have that?

The graveyard of Exs
New York is the place where almost all my Exs disappear to (I thought they went to hell). I met up with one of my flirtier Exs last night for an early drink at my humble apartment. His man is apparently mighty jealous of me. Why, I don't know – after all Flirty Ex dumped me a long time ago. In fact, I'm getting a lot of this jealousy business from my Exs beaux lately. I can't understand why these guys are so insecure. I'm perfectly harmless (well....).

I love my ex beaux. Most of them are far better now than when I dated them (as you've heard me say before). But the ones who still want to sleep with me are a source of confusion. In fact they are bad for my self-esteem because they'll fuck me but they won't date me. I'm just not good enough to be taken seriously.

Dan Savage is very good at pointing out that where you've got certain patterns in your dating history you can't ignore the common denominator: you. So, if they all like to shag me or get shagged (lets not get too bogged down in detail), then it must be something I'm doing, or not doing. The question is, what exactly? And then, do I really want to stop it? After all, this could be a subconscious decision on my part to avoid commitment. Me? Nah, surely not...

I may need to take a break
Before leaving London I was struck with a memory of American men not taking a fancy to me. I spent the mid 90s in Los Angeles where I turned few heads at the gay bars and at best got the leftovers at the end of the night. So as I prepared to cross the Atlantic a few weeks ago I thought I wouldn't do well here. I was wrong.

After Flirty Ex left last night, I decided to venture out, first to my newly discovered local gay bar. It proved to be rather dry – small, dark, grungey and containing only a smattering of local, unimpressive homosexuals. This was not New York's finest. Despite not feeling overly up for a night out, I couldn't stand listening to myself act as though I were in London – I came here to explore, to do things, meet people, seek adventure. So, a strong vodka cranberry later and I was on the express train to Chelsea.

I started at Gym Bar. It was nothing special though I did manage to catch the eye of one or two sports-minded gays. Or perhaps it was the strong margaritas that made me see heads turning because no one actually approached me and I, perhaps thankfully, did not make any efforts either.

Stepping out of Gym Bar I spotted a place called Better Burger and thought to myself 'oh really, we'll see about that'. Armed with my book and my scepticism I ordered my veggie burger and 'air cooked' fries and took up residence on a stool looking onto the street. I was happily taking in the scene when I noticed in the reflection there was a very pretty someone who had sat down beside me.

Feeling brave (see that last margarita above), I managed a decent opener. As I looked at him I thought he was a bit out of my league but I played the role of cute, charming and exotic and maintained some subtle persistence. I discovered he is 29, a banker, single and Jewish. He held my attention when he started to talk about books, the time he's spent in London, a general need to be cunty but a desire to attempt friendliness, and champagne & cocaine fueled weekends in Provincetown – I love a man of culture. Turns out he liked me too. After an hour of chatting over by-then cold fries we strolled out together and exchanged cards to arrange for a drink tonight. When I was daydreaming about my summer in New York and all the men I would meet, guys like Jew No. 2 were exactly what I had in mind.

East Meets West

2010-07-06T13:51:00.000-04:00

M1 arrives in just over 48 hours. I'm still gutting this flat, repainting, cleaning and trying to make it presentable. There is a bit of reward in my efforts – I keep finding coins scattered about the flat, so far to the tune of over $100. But one thing I found this morning that I wish hadn't appeared was a spot on my face – not a massive one, but a spot nonetheless. That won't help me charm M1 now will it?

All this seems like too much effort for a man who is going to mess with my head, give me lots of good sex, lure me in then end up leaving me and not wanting more. Despite being almost certain we still can't make it happen I continue to hope for it with all the remnants of my heart. Because of this residual hope, I can't do anything until I sort out M1. Even applying for jobs is rather awkward because, of course, what if I decide to make my way to Chicago. But I'd be shocked if he said 'yes' to whatever it is I'm proposing. Slight problem there too as I'm not sure what I'm proposing yet. If he actually said yes though...

My current plan for the summer post M1's visit is to meet as many new beaux as possible, all in vain hope of finding a 'the one' to take back to London (or settle down with here). Still, I have to go through the motions with M1 first as he and I are bound to do. Besides, it's rare I sleep with someone I'm actually attracted to. I can even shag him without having to take a viagra to keep my hard on. If that isn't attraction, I don't know what is.

East meets West
After a sweaty session in the gym yesterday evening, I made my way to Townhouse, an 'upscale' gay bar on the East side. It's quite a journey from the west to the east of Manhattan. As soon as the cab (and it had to be a cab – trains from West to East are complicated) pulled up on the other side of Central Park I felt like I was in a different place. It was the first time I'd left the Upper West Side in days and I already missed the buzz, the endless bars, restaurants which in the East side are replaced with refined looking buildings, respectable doormen, ladies with not so much as a strand of hair out of place and dogs that don't misbehave.

Similarly, Townhouse attracted a respectable crowd of men in their 40s and 50s. They all wore chinos or proper, beige trousers, polo shirts (with a t-shirt underneath of course) and looked very American. The space itself was an oasis of cool air and space. Plenty of seats and prompt table service. I could hardly find fault. I was pleasantly surprised to see a large gathering of gays without the usual debauchery.

After two drinks there I was feeling rather tipsy (thanks to the hot weather I've all but stopped eating so can't handle my liquor). I took my date for the evening to my favourite oasis of calm where East really does meet West. The Four Seasons Hotel on 38th Street – like all Four Seasons properties it was simple, calm and serene. The service discreet, professional and just right. We enjoyed Singapore slings at the bar along with a cheeky glass of dessert wine called Santa Julia from Argentina that I shall not soon forget.

Later, I returned to the West side and found myself walking up the last few blocks to my flat on Amsterdam Avenue, stopping for a soya cheese pizza at one corner and an organic ice cream at the other thinking, wow, I live here – in this place where everything is on my doorstep. Fuck London. I'm a New Yorker now.

Boyfriend wanted: nice guys need not apply.

2010-07-05T15:14:00.000-04:00

I met a boy on Saturday night. A lovely, lovely beautiful charming, Jewish boy. I'm calling him a boy because he's something like 27. I am a totally younger man magnet now. He claims to have loved my body – my arms and my chest. Fancy that! It's no wonder I realise now that I don't really fancy him. He's a darling but...yeah, he's just too nice. I don't go for nice guys. I'm looking for a bit of a cock who'll fuck with my head. I deserve what I get too for being so foolish.

I was exchanging text messages and emails with M1 the other day (in preparation for his visit in a few days). He said he didn't know he was my favourite beau. Like how could he not. After all, those two days I spent with him I always dabbed (just a hint) my good cologne on my neck and chest before bed and I wore those hot new Emporio Armani pants. That got me thinking. Though...M1 is not just a beau or an ex, he's more than that. So what do you call a guy you crave now as much as a decade ago? I know what you're answer is but I'm not prepared to go there yet.

For good measure I sent a few messages to M2 as well. After all he is the other guy I fancy the pants off who doesn't seem to fancy me back. Yeah, I really do deserve what I get.

Oh say can you see...anything?

Sunday was American Independence Day. I spent most of the day trying to avoid the heat which was up to 38c at one point. That kind of heat is no longer just unbearable; it is oppressive and shuts down all my systems. It is why I was forced to seek refuge in my local Starbucks and do the very cliched act of opening up my laptop to write in the wonderfully air conditioned cafe...along with everyone else.

In the evening my friend Stubby and the Jew came over to watch the fireworks from the rooftop of my apartment with beers and pizza on me (they didn't think to bring anything being American). The only flaw in the plan were all the other, much taller buildings on the Upper West Side. We ended up hearing the fireworks, seeing the smoke and even the odd reflection of colour on the clouds or some light off windows afar that were higher up, but we barely saw any actual fireworks ourselves. All we had of fireworks was what was launched by the roof top a few streets away. And, similarly between me and the Jew, there was hardly any fireworks at all.

The highlight of the evening was watching a guy in a neighbouring flat bare ass naked. We stared at him for ages as he walked around his flat in absolutely nothing. We never got a proper full-frontal but we did see his smooth, fit chest. And then, because God loves all his people including horny gay men and their straight female companions, he slipped in a porn DVD and had a little wank. Now that's what I call a happy ending.

I Love New York

2010-07-04T11:35:00.000-04:00

Welcome to New York

Finally, I arrived back in New York after 10 days of travelling around. And I got to see my new flat for the first time. God bless the location, upper west side, with so much to see and do. This is what I love about New York. You step out into the street and you've got everything you need – great restaurants, dry cleaners, show repairs, corner markets, banks, the gym. I dare say you can spend an entire weekend not having to be more than four blocks from your apartment.

My first 24 hours in my new apartment have been a whirlwind. It was a little horror – never in my life have I seen such filth. It took me and two Mexicans about 4 hours to make the dirtiest flat in history even remotely habitable. The things I have seen during those first few hours will shock me for eternity, especially the dead mouse we found under a book shelf which had obviously been there for a very long time indeed. I immediately painted the hallway back to it's former white (it was covered in brown, grey and black smudges) and have resolved to get another fag in soon to complete the make-over.

After that cleaning mission and a bit of unpacking, I was dressed and ready for my first big night out. First at a local favourite – a Thai place called Land. The food was delicious, served quickly and the bill cheap. We were then off to an exclusive party on the rooftop terrace of the Empire Hotel, a real 'it' spot. The trouble was I was expecting South Kensington but got Piccadilly Circus (as in Tiger Tiger). And these kids were super young, some surely not over 21 so my gal-pal and I were feeling like geriatrics. Some things sound better in practice. This was one of them.

The next morning I was tossing and turning and had to have another wank, despite attempting to not wank for the next few days (I guess I'll start tomorrow instead). Then it was time to hit the pavement and discover the neighbourhood. Shoes, shorts, sunnies and I was out the door, straight for Central Park, my dream running spot, for a good four mile tour of my new home.

After sorting out a new bike I then found myself cycling through to mid-town with surprising ease. It turns out cycling in New York is no worse than London and, other than the even crazier more law-breaking cyclists here, I feel perfectly at ease in the flowing New York traffic. Inf act, I feel perfectly at ease in New York. So glad I'm here. Fuck London.

My Mr Big
I saw my Mr Big after my first session at the gym. He was in his late 40s with grey hair and the most piercing blue eyes. At least 6 feet tall (as all New York men seem to be), decent body and (thank you communal showers) a big cock that he was waving at me. I didn't really wave back (not my style) but I sure enjoyed looking and later chatting in the steam room (no, just chatting). Turns out he's ex- Navy and lives locally. No wedding ring for once.

The trouble is...M1. I don't want anyone if I have a shot at him. What's that saying, don't settle for second best, put your lover to the test – wise woman, whoever she is. I can think of another one – I want you, but I want you to want me too (otherwise all this is pointless).

Funnily, I was briefly surprised by Mr Big's American accent, then it registered where I am. Of course he asked me where I'm from – in Britain I sound foreign and in North America I do too. I've been back and forth too much and now I don't sound like I'm from anywhere. Still, what I see is a liability is really a great card to trade on – these Americans can't get enough of my 'English' accent.

And what next for me?
Never one to be lonely I end this with the blow dryer doing it's very best to make me pretty for a night wondering about in the Village to see what I find. I always manage to meet the most fascinating men around Christopher Street and so that is where I'm heading. If I'm going to make new friends and contacts in this town I have to be bold. And have good hair.

Excess baggage

2010-07-03T20:35:00.000-04:00

Despite insisting I was leaving everything behind in Chicago I had more carry-on baggage than my suitcase. What was missing from my carry-on was the duty free gin I'd only just paid for an hour before stepping onto the plane – I as told I'd get it at the gate but I never saw that bottle again.

When I arrived in Ottawa M1 was still on the brain. I tried to dash it from my mind, insisting my friends take me out for enough dinner, drinks and pretty faces for me to forget him entirely. The problem is, when you’ve just come away from a situation like that you naturally want to talk about it, not bottle it up. So as much as I bottled it kept sneaking out. At dinner, I made a couple of passing comments. Then, at our first drinks stop, I was confiding in my new best girlfriend (acquired hours earlier from the US Embassy). She made some good points about 10 years being significant and got to talking about love of course. I think I've started to understand what it really is. Of course I’ve loved M1 over the years, even if I can't quantify why but to think he might not be in my life forever is intolerable. Then there's the passion – it's so rare I meet a man I just want to bone and bone and bone again. It may not be love, but it sure is lust.

Trying to wash that man out of my hair

I spent the rest of the eve of Canada Day queueing to get into the Mercury Lounge, apparently the place where all of Ottawa was going to be that night. Judging by the queue I would say this was no great exaggeration. After over an hour we finally got into this place which, like all places that are built up, was nothing more than a bar with some gays in it.

Shagging someone new is one way to get over someone old. So several drinks later and with some particularly aggressive manoeuvring on my part, I managed to pull one of my typical ‘easy’ guys (as in not super attractive and fancies me more than I do him). Around 3am I found myself back at his house snogging. Or trying to snog I should say.

Turns out it ain’t as easy as that. This guy just didn’t compare with M1 and, anyway, I didn’t really want sex. But the clincher was when I found a few pieces of loo roll in his crack. Like how does that happen? I knew it was time to go back to A&A's to wank myself to sleep and hug the pillow like it was M1 (without the drool, sleep talking and snoring).

Oh Canada!
After getting back around 0430, I passed out until 1000 and then decided to acquaint myself with Ottawa the same way I do any new city and indeed the same as I have done on this tour – I got into my running kit and hit the pavement.

Ottawa is a very small city and, like most of Canada, filled with trees, green space and generally is just well organised. I crossed the river into Quebec, continued along the river looking at Parliament and the Supreme Court and other significant buildings that I’ve known of and seen pictures of since I was a child but never managed to see in person until now. I found that the Queen was in Canada for the celebrations (being also the Queen of Canada) and was happy to look out and see her, my dear neighbour from London. I meant to ask her if she could just check on the plants for me when she gets back but I forgot. I'm sure she would have said yes. After all, what are neighbours for?

Chicago, Illinois

2010-06-30T10:05:00.000-04:00

I disappeared for two days. I blame love, or the pursuit of it at least. I'm in Chicago, the one city I swore I'd never return to (I had four big leaving parties to make the point) and yet it is the one place I keep on coming back to. I never feel more at home in an American city than I do in Chicago. I love its easiness, simplicity - the very things I came to loathe after over 3 years in this town.

Several love affairs have blossomed in the time since I left the Windy City but there is one that endears and is the only one that could ultimately bring me back here. But sitting alone in a bar in Bucktown I started to ask myself if this is something I could do again. Is the potential love of M1 that I've wanted for so long enough? Is that enough with so little else for me to call Chicago home again? Or do I choose my busy solitary life/struggle in London?

I shout: 'Fuck! How did this happen?' (as everyone stares) because this was not part of the plan. Yet I know I can’t really say no and I won’t make living in London more important than him. Then I consider the possibility that he'll get a response to some internet personal and meet someone else and then I'll have to let him go. Again. But this time for real. No, that will never happen. He doesn’t know it but I’m actually a patient man. I know somehow, someday it will all work out.

Until then however, I am off to Ottawa today, the Canadian capital and a place I’ve never been to. So entirely appropriate that it should be Canada Day tomorrow. I love Chicago and have had fun with M1 – Ottawa and Canada Day is the perfect way to put that all behind me.

Things I love about America:

Washing machines that actually get your clothes clean
Tumble dryers that actually get your clothes dry
Toilets that actually flush and can be flushed over and over again straight away
Parking lots that actually have enough room for your car and space to turn around
Cut cock – god bless blow jobs under such conditions
My Exs – they are all so good to me (unlike when we were together!)
Pancakes for breakfast
Actual table service – glasses of water on arrival and the bill when you’re done without having to beg for it (okay, I don’t like the fake cheeriness but I can almost live with it now)
Getting the girl at the till to pack your shopping into carrier bags - I never understand why the nice Indian people in Sainsbury's just sit there waiting for you to unload all the shopping out of the trolley and only then start scanning then watch as you spend ages bagging it all up.

My LA Story

2010-06-27T18:49:00.001-04:00

On my first full day in LA I went for a mandatory orientating jog around West Hollywood before continuing on to the gym which proved one of the more amusing aspects of my day. Never have I been in a room full of so many people so very pleased with themselves. The self-importance was also off the scale – several wearing baseball caps (that vile American accessory) that covered their faces, a few with sunglasses on (IN THE GYM WHILE THEY EXERCISED), a few reading what could have been scripts while on the treadmill and, of course, every other person on their mobile texting and emailing away. It was all I could do to stifle the laughter.

It may not be cold enough for snow in LA, least of all in June, but you can always find plenty of flakes in this town and so it was a small surprise when my umbers dwindled down to just me and Dude, a native Californian who I befriended when we were both new to London over 13 years ago (he’s been back about 10 years).

Dude and I were talking about my miserable career prospects back in the UK. I explained I can’t get a job to save my life at the moment.

Dude: So what differentiates you?
Me: Bah, nothing – I’m not that good.
Dude: Terrible attitude! That’s not possible!
Me: Okay, I give great blow jobs.
Dude: Not possible!
Me: I beg your pardon. I’ve never had any complaints.
Dude: What about all your international experience for starters?
Me: I guess.

Dude then tried to convince me of the importance to show willingness to grovel, sacrifice and do anything to prove myself if I want to get ahead in my career. I yawned, gagged, rolled my eyes and fidgeted before saying, ‘I work to live, I don’t live to work’. This resulted in a very puzzled expression on my friends face while he tried to process what I’d just said. I think I’ve become too European in my mindset but why would anyone want to define himself by some office job? Writing, that’s something I would make a sacrifice for, maybe even grovel (not that I’m good at grovelling after all, if I was I’d be in a relationship).

The Man in the Pink Shirt
I was walking down Santa Monica boulevard with Dude last night to satisfy a craving for another fish taco. Remember, walking IS criminal here (but not in West Hollywood apparently as there were several of us social misfits promenading). We stopped at the taco shack that I have quick come to love and as we were nattering away my boy-dar went off – I could see out of the corner of my eye a man in a pink shirt looking at me. I gave a quick, acknowledging ‘I might be interested’ glance and quickly returned my gaze to Dude before he took stock of what was going on. Acting on impulse, I repeated the gesture two more times and was met with a small smile on each occasion – I had my prey and needed to just move in for the kill.

I didn’t though. I couldn’t be bothered. Suppose I did go up to him and start chatting. He would either same something stupid as LA people and gays in West Hollywood are wont to do, which would disappoint me greatly or we would somehow by some great miracle be perfect for eachother…except that he lives thousands of miles away from my temporary home and several more from the home I’m meant to return to this Autumn. So, despite Dude’s prodding, we grabbed our tacos and parted ways. I arrived back in the flat to have a few more drinks, happily listened to my crap music, then dance around in my boxer sorts and (cringe) sent text messages to the man in Chicago.

A little too comfortable
On the first night I was weary of sleeping in my Ex’s bed, less I should somehow pick up a whiff of his scent and manage to find it arousing. I didn’t of course, in fact I slept rather fitfully. Last night, however, tipsy after a significant quantity of champagne and that one extra vodka cranberry that I didn’t need, I had no problem stripping off naked and diving into the bed. I was so comfortable in fact, at some point in the night I woke up hard as a rock and managed to knock one out (I tidied up with some handy tissue and didn’t stain the sheets – that would be rude). So much for being uncomfortable.

In the coffee shops I’m known as Bob

2010-06-26T13:51:00.000-04:00

I'm writing you from the bed of my ex boyfriend. Thankfully he is not in it with me although I am almost as uncomfortable alone in reality as I am with thoughts of him here with me (yuck). Now why, why can't I just feel that way about the Big Ex / M1? Why must he be different? God I’d bone him in an instant. But mostly I’d just like to wake up next to him. Yes, the secret is out – I’m a big softy. I like a bit of a cuddle and a dab of romance and domestication.

I’ve been in LA for all of about 15 hours now. What do I make of the City of Angels? Well, firstly, in all my time living and visiting LA I’ve rarely encountered any angels. Of course, Lucifer was an angel at one time wasn’t he? Unlike San Francisco, Los Angeles is all sunshine and warmth. As are the people with their insipid smiles and nauseating sing-song way of speaking.

Still, if there’s one thing I like about Los Angeles, it’s driving. This is a city that was made for cars. And not just the roads and motorways, but the radio stations (I can always find a good car tune on the radio in LA), endless free valet parking (oh, don’t forget the inevitable tip) and, of course, drive through everything from dry cleaning to banking to and endless supply of yummy junk food.

Despite all this wonderful drive-thru convenience like Londoners, Angelenos all profess to being so very ‘busy’. So busy they don’t have time for me and you. Yet, there seem to be a great many idle people here. As I observed them all yesterday, running around in their gym clothes with lattes and small dogs attached to them, I couldn’t help but wonder, does anyone actually do any work here?

Fat (but fit) in LA
Los Angeles always makes me feel at least two stone overweight and horribly unfit (mind you all the junk food I consume while here doesn't help). Maybe it’s all the people walking around in their gym gear – it’s like they all spend their lives at the gym. Admittedly this would explain why there are a disproportionate number of fit bodies in the place.

Not one to be out of step with the locals, soon after checking into my Ex’s pad, I went off to his gym on Sunset Blvd. If being fit is in, I don’t want to be out. I travelled on foot however as it was not 10 minutes away which caused much curiosity. Several times I was stared at and cars even slowed down. Pedestrians are a very rare sight in LA.

So there I am at the gym to end all gyms. There were macs for accessing the internet, Kiehl's in the showers (secured or I would have pinched) and countless people just doing things. It was most certainly a gym for the fit and I felt horribly flabby after 5 days of not really working out. Like my Ex who has gone from stone to stick I think these people have made deals with the devil (are those still available?).

And then there’s Vana White. I caught her on telly for first time in years - she looks just like she did over 25 years ago when Wheel of Fortune started up (I remember). That's not just from wondering around LA in gym gear as most people here do. She’s sacrificed several Christian children to maintain herself.

My name is Bob
I’m a tea drinker myself, suffering from a mild allergy to coffee but when I’m in America coffee seems most appropriate. Some of the best coffee to be found in America is Peets Coffee. My brother introduced me to it in San Francisco in Market Street in 1997 and that is still the location I most associate with this premium supplier of lattes in America.

For some reason however, when you go into a Starbucks, Coffee Bean or Peets in this country the girl at the till always wants to take down your name so the fag schlepping the coffee on the other end can shout out your name when the $4 latte in question is ready. Well I’m not one to know service people on a first name basis (or on any basis for that matter) so I started giving them fake names. Eventually one stuck and at the various coffee dispensers in America I’m now known as Bob.

The search for Jane Juska

2010-06-25T11:45:00.000-04:00

If gay were a country, San Francisco would be its capital. So, if you can't pull here you can't pull anywhere. I found my boy in less than 3 hours of touching down. He was the cutest boy I've seen in ages. He was so dark I wasn't sure if he was some sort of Mexican or Indian and when he spoke he was obviously American - Californian, an accent I always recognise and have a certain affinity towards.

Enrique, 24, an actor in training, and the young man who served me the best veggie burger I’ve had in longer than I can remember. In an attempt to Americanise myself I went for the direct approach and asked him for a drink before leaving the restaurant.

As luck would have it he said yes and later that evening I found myself at a great bar on Market Street called Black Bird. Spacious and stark, the walls were lined on one side with various old editions of the San Francisco newspaper with headlines like the death of JFK, the great quakes that have struck this city and the murder of Harvey Milk. We were there for two hours but I never quite worked out if it was a gay bar or not – if it was, then it was unusually chilled and if it wasn’t then it was wonderfully mixed. That’s the beauty of San Francisco.

Where oh where is Jane Juska?
The next day, after a long run up and down Market from Castro to the port and back, I enjoyed a hearty American breakfast in a greasy spoon. As I tucked into my breakfast burrito I caught a glance at the local news. Now what is it exactly about women news anchors in America – all that make up and big hair and bright colours and exaggerations, does anyone take them seriously?

I then caught a BART train to the East Bay to explore Berkeley and attempt to find Jane Juska, one of the Bay Area’s two great authors in my opinion (the other being Armistead Maupin – if you haven’t read every one of his books you don’t know what you’re missing).

After a few hours walking around Berkley, I decided to rest my feet and dive into my book. I was enjoying a cheeky scoop of ice cream outside Berkeley Library having a cheeky scoop of ice cream when a tramp with his shopping trolley of possessions crawled by. I heard a thud and saw his cart hit some hole and it was tipping over. He was struggling to pick the thing up from its 45-degree angle so I naturally went to his aid.

We got it upright quick enough and as he packed up the bits that tipped out he said to me: 'Where are you from? You can't be American since you helped me!'. I said Canadian instinctively which elicited a cry of 'Viva Canada!' from the tramp. He made me laugh and I was glad I helped him. After all, who knows where life will take us and our friends – it could happen to us too.

The next stop on the ex-boyfriend tour
As soon as I get out of bed (I’m hiding under the duvet for warmth – San Francisco being the coldest place in America on any given summer’s day) I shall be preparing to catch a flight to San Francisco’s inner-state rival, Los Angeles. My host in the City of Angeles (I don’t think I’ve managed to encounter even one in all the time I’ve spent there) is the boyfriend before last. As luck would have it he is away and I have his West Hollywood shag pad to myself (fully stocked with champagne) which I’m told includes a gym and roof-top pool. Sometimes the best boyfriends are ex-boyfriends.

The start of the ex-boyfriend tour

2010-06-23T04:54:00.000-04:00

After two days of walking all over Manhattan in my shiny shoes I have learned my lesson: my feet will not last forever all in the name of feeling fabulous. Never have they been more sore other than running a marathon and I do regret bringing 10 pairs of shoes I can only but admire from their boxes if I intend to walk around New York this summer and save the $2.25 subway fare.

Despite being an old man, I attempted to secure shared accommodation as a means to an end (my motivation getting a kick up the arse when my father called to suggest I consider staying with him in Buffalo if I was unsuccessful in my search).

I had three to view: one I cancelled (couldn't be bothered), the second was in an excellent West Village location but too dark, dingy and dirty and the third was really a one bed flat where they made the lounge into a bedroom (like the South Africans do in London). And my 'roomies' were all terribly young so you know what that means - they'll want to talk (I hate talking), they'll want to 'hang out' with me (don't like that either) and they'll come home late, make lots of noise and never clean up after themselves.

No, I decided I could not do it. But neither will I move to Buffalo. So it's time to look at studios. Ah, I knew it couldn't all be easy: housing is every New Yorker's drama.

The ex-boyfriend tour got off to a good start yesterday with lunch at the Bryant Park Grill with one of my old beau from LA who is a personal favourite because he was brave enough to date me when I was a mere 21 and he 30. Married now we've only recently made contact again thanks to Facebook. He's as charming and funny as ever and I find him very relaxed and easy. I don't wonder why it didn't work out as one might suppose I do - I know exactly why (see above - I was 21!), but a small bit of me wishes I'd met him later in life. Still, like most of my old beaux, it turns out they make better ex-boyfriends than actual boyfriends for one reason or another.

Today I am temporarily abandoning New York for San Francisco. Amazingly it's a 6 hour flight which makes New York almost the half-way point between London and San Francisco - I always forget just how big this country is compared to my little group of islands. Thank goodness for upgrades - mine just confirmed so I'll be having breakfast, wine and then a snooze while the vulgar proliteriat battle it out in economy for the last bag of peanuts and beg for water.

In the City on a Hill I have two goals: walk the trail of Tales of the City and meet Jane Juska of A Round-Heeled Woman fame. While in San Francisco I'll be having dinner with one of my old admirers from the Chicago days who has gone on to be a minor celebrity in the theatre scene (and he's another one of my beau who has long since settled down).

This is a city that has always captivated me and was on the short list of places to disappear to when I decided to escape London (along with Buenos Aires and Hong Kong). It's like a smaller New York with a west coast feel and a bit more charm. I've been at least a dozen times but I still don't feel like I know it. On this trip, with most of my friends there away for one reason or another, I intend to get stuck in and make it my own.

I'm in love...

2010-06-22T06:29:00.000-04:00

...with the City of New York. I declared my passion on our first date but it was a whirlwind affair. In the span of a very short day I managed get a contract mobile sorted out in 20 minutes, order something not on the menu at a random restaurant in mid-town with a simple 'Of course, no problem'.

On top of this, I didn't suffer my usual waves of nausea from the phony, OTT 'friendliness' of American service because (I am told), this is New York where people aren't into all that excessive chirpy bullshit. It's like America but without the typical American rubbish (oops, 'garbage' I mean).

The amazing part of my day was being able to open a bank account without an appointment, several pieces of paper and my new debit card was made for me on the spot - ON THE SPOT. Again, 30 minutes max - and the man had the nerve to apologise for taking so long. Never one to gush, I had to tell him it's every other bank I've ever been with that should apologise to me.

Imagine doing all of that, hassle free, in London? Sorry but not possible. Every step of the way it would be 'computer says no'. And speaking of things that are apparently impossible in London, I had to get on the subway at rush hour to make a wasted journey uptown in hopes of finding a flat. Got on the subway at rush hour, platform full and temperature rising. I see the train and think to myself it's going to be boiling in that tin can with wheels. But, to my amazement, I stepped into a totally air conditioned carriage which didn't stink of BO and I could actually breathe. Somehow what can't be done in London can be done in New York.

It may have only been a day but I have already decided I could get used to this. I could be a New Yorker. London, I love you - I do. But New York, you're a breath of fresh air. Now, if I could just find an apartment...

Americans don’t like whole sentences

2010-06-21T08:47:00.000-04:00

Americans don’t like whole sentences. I don’t think they consider it impolite either – perhaps a result of Scandinavian influence (I’m told it’s normal in Norwegian to go to a bar for example and just say ‘Beer’). Whatever it’s roots, I do find this one of the most difficult things to tolerate. Take for example this scene from the business class cabin yesterday:

Stewardess: ‘Customs form?’
Me: ‘Oh yes, please thanks’.
Stewardess: ‘US Citizen?’
Me: ‘Why yes, I am thanks.’

It really winds me up!

Notwithstanding that, the rest of the flight was good and the whole trip uneventful. Even security wasn’t a drama for once. I was looking forward to seeing the new AA lounge at Heathrow and it didn’t disappoint. Finally, an American carrier makes an attempt to come up to international standards. It won’t last but I’ll enjoy it while I can.

I’ve been in America for 12 hours now and have slept for about four. When I stepped into the open air last night I instantly began to sweat like a whore in church – I went from 5c in the morning yesterday to 32c and humid in the evening (and it was dark before 9pm on the longest day of the year which was strange).

This morning I tried to go for a run (meaning, I thought about it but didn’t do much else). It is just to damn hot as I discovered during a quick stroll through the neighbourhood that is my temporary situation. And what a neighbourhood it is too – Brooklyn, definitely not my scene. Very South London. So I came back to the flat, had a glass of wine (it’s lunch time in London) and last night’s left over phad thai while I placed some trades (to fund my forthcoming alcoholism) and searched for accommodations. Ah yes, that one thing I had sorted months ago has fallen apart – a bad infestation of something called bed bugs which is apparently a serious business here in New York and something to avoid at all costs.

So it’s a move from the Upper West to the Upper East. Mind you, saves me a little cash and keeps me on the other side of the park from an ex who thinks blow jobs are still available (they aren’t…well, not really….).

The thing is dear friends, and this is our little secret: even though I’ve only just gotten here I already rather like it. But no, I will return home in September. And not just to pack up and move here. No, I’m too old for change. Besides, I don’t believe in ‘love’.

And now for another glass of wine.

The final 30 Hours of my London life

2010-06-20T00:47:00.000-04:00

It’s now 11 hours ‘til take off and I’ve been up since about 0300. Could not sleep. Second night in a row. I was up at 0400 Saturday. I blame the trip of course, which feels more like a move naturally. The early starts have proved useful though - I’ve accomplished much in the past 24 hours including:

- Trying to find a new flat in New York – ah yes, what a joy it was to wake up to this email from my landlord in New York saying the flat is infested with pests and she may have to shut it up entirely meaning I need a new place. God bless craigslist.org where at least I can search for a new place from the comfort of my bed.
- Waxing ‘everything’ - the pain, the pain but oh the results, the results! Only, while I visually like fair-free balls in the middle of the night when I went to scratch them as every man does out of a need to connect with our hanging glands, I noticed the missing hairs and missed them in some sort of nostalgic way
- Banking – I’ve never withdrawn £3000 in cash before now and then managed to cycle over to the Post Office to buy travellers cheques. Oh I remember the das when that would have gotten me nearly $6000 but today it was more like $4500 (this place is going down the pan)
- Clean flat and carpets – I picked up where my daily left off (which seems to be at the beginning – you really just can’t get the staff these days) and made the flat smell, and I think look, clean for my tennants. The carpet cleaners, late as usual, took care of their bit somehow managing to make the stains in the lounge carpet look worse than before.
- Selling anything that I can get cash for – that included my bike, oh my most treasured form of transport but my least loved item of value. This bike was a poor replacement for the one I had stolen last September when I was generally down in the dumps already. It cost me £35 this week for a new wheel. I couldn’t afford that £35 on top of the £20 for breaks 3 weeks ago. I wanted my money back. I got it. And then some. Plus there was that mysterious Apple powersupply that I didn’t even know I had. Well for £20 somebody else has it now.
- Visiting – the biggest battle. From South London to East London to South London again and over to Southwest London, I managed to see the VIPs in my life and tell them that: a) I’m straight now, b) I’ll surely be back from New York soon and c) I’m not getting back with M1 / The Big Ex no matter what
- Obsessively checking the status of my upgrades. As in I must have logged into the AA website about 20 times in the past 24 hours to see if I'm confirmed for JFK and SFO
- Repacking – not to be confused with packing which is a completely different thing. Repacking involves talking to oneself - negotiating with oneself in fact, to plead or cajole into leaving behind all those 'But what if...' and 'I might want something...' items that really don't need to be packed.

Now, 10 hours to go and all I have to do now is finishing the repacking, go for a run through the Park for the last time, magically find time to go to the gym, clean the fish tank, buy stamps, shower, shave, get my hair done (have to look pretty for the flight) and be ready to leave the flat at 1300 sharp. Ooops, that makes it more like 7 hours.

Next stop, New York. I’m practicing my American accent as I write. Hee-hah everyone and have a nice day, I’ll see you in the US of A.

Scraps of Love

2010-06-18T02:27:00.000-04:00

Two days to go. The PC laptop is sold, the new credit card finally arrived, and I even managed to win £10 in the lotto (note to self - must be more specific when praying for lotto wins).

I managed to sit an exam yesterday and have a drinks party that went terribly late and resulted in much wine consumption but, thanks to the London custom of coming with a bottle, hardly any reduction in my wine stocks. Up early this morning with a reasonably clear head under the circumstances (thank you Granny for the hangover prevention tip of taking pills and lots of water before bed). As I got ready for bed I called my nan for a drunken chat (we both enjoy me calling up a little tipsy). I discovered my nan once worked in a brothel - so it seems we share a common history. But I'll save that for another day.

In the morning I took my other hangover cure - a short but sweaty run. Passed several England flags flying above the Regency conversions in Pimlico and was a little sad - I fear I am not going to see this place again, or that I am leaving it on a more permanent basis. I love London, I love England - this is my home. But there is something leading me away from here. And now I don't know if I am looking for an excuse to stay in America or a reason to come back to the UK.

I know now that M2 will never snog me, though occasionally he shows some warmth (and a cock shot). M3 has clearly decided to go back to his current partner so I'll not be seeing his lovely cock again. M4 likely thought my idea of flirting rather frightening (these City lawyers - so serious). That leaves the New Boy who I'm seeing on Saturday (the night before I leave - long term prospects rather limited then) and then there's M1, aka the Big Ex. I must be out of my mind to even consider Round 3 with him. It cannot and will not work. That's what I'm telling myself anyway. I know what's going to happen though because I cannot leave a door unopened. I can't help but at least try, even if it means destroying the remains of my heart just to say I feasted on the scraps of love from his table.

And with these thoughts, I look around at my luggage and passports (I have a few) and close my eyes, hoping to find on the other side of the Atlantic whatever it is I'm looking for.

The men, the woman and the River

2010-06-16T14:39:00.000-04:00

Four days to go before New York and what's what? I'm sat in my lounge with four almost packed bags (I'm sure I could get it down to three), still on the wait list for an upgrade (but see three free seats so finger's crossed), trying to hawk the PC laptop (yes, after 3 weeks, I finally gave up and have gone back to a Mac), desperately awaiting the arrival of a new credit card to fund my first few weeks because..., still no job (but I'm going to apply for a few more tonight), and I'm thinking about an ex-boyfriend (from my gay days), wondering about the nut job I'm leaving behind here and the pretty boy I happened across yesterday (but I'm still straight - just...curious?).

I spent the first part of the evening of day 5 on my straight date with the pretty and fun brunette I met at the drinks function last week. As a first date I took her to Fortnum & Mason's wine bar (apparently not the appropriate choice of a straight man). Dating a woman is totally different to a man - the dynamic was new territory for me. It seemed to be more of me talking than her. Normally the 'him' would be sorta bouncing back and forth with me, pushing out key facts and highlights of his brilliance. But this girl was actually interested in ME and LISTENED. I was really unclear about flirting - she giggled a lot but I thought as a straight man there was little flirting for me to do. Despite this, I enjoyed the date, thought her very cute but kept wishing she had a cock.

As I was beginning to stroll through Green Park I called my good mate to give him my report. That was a mistake. He was pissed and with some of my other mates, all of whom insisted I cross the River and join them at the Royal Festival Hall. I begged, pleaded and then succumbed. A few quick stops on the Jubilee line and I was there, reporting on the progress of my heterosexuality as the sun set and then on to Ping Pong for a light supper.

Over the course of the dinner I found myself in an email exchange with the Big Ex, the one I would quit London for. He's addictive. He's bad for me. He's one reason why I gave up on men. And yet, I can't help myself. We'd passed a few messages back and forth over the previous days which started with me finding out he is single again and him learning the same of me. Before I knew what was what, plans to stay with him in Chicago and for him to join me in New York were in place. It seems the flame I thought I'd long managed to smother has reignited itself. It burns slowly for now but in the span of a few days it is clearly back, thankfully only lingering in the background for now.

Later, as I was crossing the River back to civilisation, I called the pretty boy I'd happened across earlier in the day. Nice voice. Good talker. The conversation bounced back and forth and it was easier to flirt. Hmmm... This straight business is going to be hard.

An evening with an ex-straight, an ex-gay and the STD testing clinic

2010-06-14T17:37:00.000-04:00

6 days to go. Dinner with an old love interest in Covent Garden. I wore my West End (fitted) suit with the black Ted Baker shoes, new Pringle pants (just in case) and blow dried my hair (but I'm not gay – I’m just flirting).

First however, a stop at the STD clinic. My third time this year - but not because I'm a tart; I've had my reasons. This time I want to make sure I’m all ready for New York and whatever adventures are on offer. After waiting in the posh reception room with some types that looked too City-ish to be in a place like that my name was called.

Got a male doctor - hate male doctors. They make me nervous asking all those sex questions. Like they need to know all this shit. They just ask to see if you’re someone they’d consider shagging. Gay male doctors. Hateful! This one was particularly bad. Verbatim conversation:

Dr: So why are you here?
Me: Well, I'm going abroad.
Dr: Right.
Me: Erm, and I just want to be sure I'm healthy.
Dr: Because…mmm?
Me: Well, I might become sexually active.
Dr: Are you at the moment?
Me: We'll, no...but I do have a date tomorrow. And sorta tonight too – but I’m never sure with him.
Dr: Why’s that?
Me: Well he’s an ex straight and I’m now an ex gay so…
Dr: Right. When did you last have sex?
Me: (Thinking...). Ah yes, last month.
Dr: What sort of sex did you have?
Me: Erm...ordinary sex.
Dr: No, I mean anal?
Me: Oh, yes.
Dr: Active? Passive?
Me: Yes. Yes.
Dr: Wore a condom?
Me: Yes.
Dr: Both of you?
Me: Yes.
Dr: Oral sex?
Me: Yes
Dr: Give, receive, swallow?
Me: Yes, yes.
Dr: Three yes's?
Me: Yes.
Dr: Mutual masturbation?
Me: Oh...I don't remember that. It was rather dark...

I remember in the 90s these used to take a month to come back - now its instant, no more drama, no more sleepless nights. Well, not quite - a long lecture from both Dr and nurse was enough to put me slightly on edge especially when I recalled the drunken snog with a poz guy I've known for years (he was bleeding from the lip). And then the nurse giving me the ‘don’t swallow’ lecture, as if I ever do…Well, anyway, of course I passed this test and was then free to drink and flirt as before. Just in time for my 'date' - and, for New York of course cause ex-gay or ex-straight I’m determined to shag like a monkey in heat.

Good ex-boyfriends and Bad ex-boyfriends

2010-06-06T07:23:00.000-04:00

Good ex-boyfriends disappear off the face of the earth
Bad ex-boyfriends show up on your doorstep when you're looking your worst
Good ex-boyfriends offer to let you sleep on their sofa the next time you're in their city
Bad ex-boyfriends invite themselves to stay in your small New York apartment
Good ex-boyfriends flirt
Bad ex-boyfriends look at you like you got fat or something (even though I didn't!)
Good ex-boyfriends don't get better with age
Bad ex-boyfriends look hotter than ever - and constantly show you

Musings from my man flu haze

2010-05-31T15:22:00.000-04:00

Sex and the City 2

The venue, the Chelsea cinema on the Kings Rd - same as last. The shoes, outfits - not the same but just as fabulous. And me with three gal pals – together, each a character from the series. I planned my outfit in advance - like the opening night of the opera, a job interview or my first time in first class. Everyone else did too. It was, again, almost all women but for the odd (and I do mean 'odd') gay man. Unlike last time I'm single and I'm sick. Day 1 of man flu and I was feeling mighty sorry for the onslaught that would follow.

That night I managed to sit through two hours of the girls wearing strange outfits (this time all of them), posing and sashaying around New York and Abu Dhabi, occasionally having a serious moment. And, in between those serious moments, with my cold medication wearing off and sat with two women who are sorted and one woman who is closing the gap, I looked at myself and saw what was what – I’m nearly 34 and life is at a stand-still. I’m not moving forward. Going to New York is only putting on hold the urgent need to revisit my life plan.
Well, I promise to sort myself out in New York. But first, I need to get rid of this man flu.

Day 4 of my Man Flu. I’m convinced I’m dying. I’ve ordered my last meal of pizza and ice cream, brought to me in a 1994 Red Rover by my latent homosexual best mate. My old pussy is in the bed with me fussing and stirring every time I move. My temperature goes up and down and the kettle is on non-stop. All the while I’m trying to get out of bed and pack for New York while occasionally revising for law exams, surfing the net for easy shags (which turn out to be easy wanks for one) and wondering if I should shower, shave or do any of those ordinary things well people do.

I escaped ever so briefly to continue the packing campaign (with less than 20 days to go it is now a campaign). The shopping essentials included:
• Tea from Fortnums
• Deodorant from D R Harris and Trumper (couldn’t decide on one)
• Porridge from Tesco (I like the Value range)
• Hob Nobs from Sainsbury’s (double Nectar points and 2 for 1 offer)

Having purchased bag number two (of four) from Argos I then set to work packing the latest items. Yesterday was toiletries and shoes day. What a sad, gay sight it was. Enough toiletries to moisturise and tone the entire British Army and enough shiny shoes to ensure disco never dies in any part of Manhattan this summer.
Well you can take the boy out of the gay but you can’t take the gay out of the boy. Hmm... no, that’s not quite right, is it?

Top 10 Things to do in New York (in no particular order)

2010-05-27T09:35:00.000-04:00

1. Shag a woman (not an American one though)
2. Shag several men (Americans ok here)
3. Learn to play tennis
4. Go to the Hamptons
5. Run in Central Park every morning
6. Lunch every afternoon
7. Finish writing my latest novel
8. Stay up late
9. Don’t ‘fall in love’ - but do have a summer fling
10. Do come back to London in 3 months – and fitter than when I leave

Men under 30

2010-05-27T09:31:00.000-04:00

When I was in my 20s, I only dated men older than me. In fact, that's been going on since I was in my teens but I don't want my parents to have minor heart attacks if they're reading this so lets leave it at that.

Something happened when I turned 30 however - the men my age or older started drying up. I suppose most of them settled down (or up if all went well) and the ones that are still on the market are largely my cast-offs from the 90s. So, inevitably it happened - I started meeting guys under 30.

I didn't think it would ever happen to me - I'm never been attracted to youth and spent my younger years itching to be older. I presumed 20 somethings went after 40 somethings over us 30 somethings who are still getting established. Well, I was wrong. I'm a young man magnet. I've not been with a man over 30 since I split with my ex. I can't decide if I like it. The lack of reliability (they don't have diaries), the overly-energetic sex (well, that's a good thing really isn't it?), the stuff they don't know, the stuff I don't know (Lady Gaga had more than one song?), the late nights, the parents (they can't sleep over). It's a lot to handle. But then again, my only other choice is married men and I'm rather bored of them. They act like sex with men should be like their porn videos come to life (no you crazy mutha fucka, I can't do all that crazy shit you're talking about - I only have one ankle left).

10 Reasons I don't Like 'Him'
1. He's not actually cute - he's just got style and a bit of sex appeal
2. He's not actually gay - he just wants to be
3. I'm only interested because he doesn't show any interest
4. He has no concept of money management and I don't either - that does not bode well
5. He's a dreamer - so am I. Again, that does not bode well.
6. He has no bum - I can't be with a man who hasn't a bum
7. He is cold - I can't be with a man lacking passion
8. He's bad news
9. He reminds me too much of the Other One (as a side, must not start thinking I like him too just because he's single, I'm single and we're both going to be in New York)
10. Do I really need 10?

So much for not drinking. I went to my local association's monthly meeting. As Secretary I am tasked with recording the minutes of these meetings. The trouble is the wine is always flowing long before we get started so inevitably everything drags on and my ADD kicks in. I try to not drink - especially now when I'm desperate to lose a stone for New York - but a half glass becomes a whole and a second glass and a third and then... well then I'm writing blog posts feeling rather tipsy. I don't know why Conservative politics and booze go so well together but, someday should I lose my faith in this Party, I will persevere because I know that no matter what, somewhere in London each night there is a Tory Party event where the booze is flowing. God bless us.

So you're straight now? (part 2)

2010-05-22T14:15:00.001-04:00

Now just 8 days to go. Fitting that I am about to leave the flat to go watch the England v USA game - for those of you that don't know (as in Americans), it's World Cup season for football (or what you know as soccer). Some might think I'd be backing the USA - fat chance; I'm an England fan 'til I die.

And now that I've gone straight it seems fitting that I should watch all this from the comfort of my local. Did you do a double take? Yes, shocking I know but I am now four days into being a heterosexual. I have joined the handful of ex-gays that I already know and am embracing the straight man within (instead of my usual habit of embracing the straight man I've just had sex with).

The reorienting comes at a perfect time really since I'm poised to start almost anew in America in just a few days. It is, of course, shocking (that is what I do isn't it?). Why am I doing this you ask? Well, firstly, I never really gave it much of a try and I hate to miss out on trying things. Secondly, I'm bored of men. Seriously, seriously bored. It's all cock, cock, cock and bum, bum, bum and fuck with your head and act weird / indifferent most of the time. I'm bored of it all. Women are so much easier to relate to, are more loyal and they have exotic parts and regions I've never explored. It's exciting. I'm excited (in a heterosexual male sort of way).

Speaking of detoxing, I'm 3 days into my (healthy) crash diet. So far no obvious signs of weight loss. The timing is excellent after a very intense week with a great many fellow solicitors and some random foreigners from my university days (way back when). I have consumed more alcohol in a week than I do in a typical month. Approximately 5 bottles of white wine, 6 gin and tonics, 6 pints, 2 bottles of prosecco and a bottle of red wine. And, of course, countless late nights and early mornings. My goal on this bran flakes, salad, water and pills diet is to lose a stone by next Sunday when I board the plane for New York.

Today's Anglo-American language lesson - I realised I could not possibly ask anyone in Manhattan if they could direct me to a good tea room (especially now that I'm straight).

So you're straight now?

2010-05-21T04:10:00.000-04:00

So posed the question by a friend last night when I said I wasn't going to a party because there would be an excessive number of homosexuals in attendance. I got to thinking about that question later and wondered if, in light of how many straight (and married) men I've slept with lately, I can now claim to be straight. Hmmm....

Found myself at the Quaker's House on Euston Road yesterday. I was there to attend one of my final lectures as a law student. We were joined in the main hall by a pigeon periodically walking and flying about the large room and making Personal Injury a little more interesting (and potentially offering a real-life example of a PI claim).

I was particularly enjoying the cafe which served all organic food, had plenty of soya products, was environmentally friendly and even included free wifi. The trouble with places like that is they tend to be the very places where Liberals gather to plot the overthrow of young Conservative governments (even though we don't actually have a Conservative government at present but a Coalition with their own kind).

Speaking of Cafes, I saw the Tea Party movement in America has made some seriously progress recently. I like these guys. A grass-roots group of ordinary people who want to get heard by their government. And they happen to be conservative and Sarah Palin is one of their heroes.

Yes, I love Sarah Palin too. I can't help it. Maybe it's because she looks like a naughty librarian or maybe it's actually her politics or maybe I'm just always going to like anyone who the majority would like to destroy. Whatever it is, I loved her book and she's endeared herself to me even though we've yet to meet (we will).

New Yorkers won't like this Sarah Palin fascination much. Mind you, I'm not convinced they will like me much at all. Perhaps that's the point. Last night the Australian in my bedroom asked me why I was going to New York. I attempted to avoid giving my stock answer to every question ever posed to me ('It's complicated') and instead offered three bullets:

- I wanted to take advantage of my last summer as a student before I dive into a demanding job and never again have time to take long voyages all around
- I needed to get away to do some writing, reading and just have a block of selfish time
- London and I are presently out of love with each other - why, I don't know but in leaving I know we will miss each other and my homecoming will be oh-so-sweet (or maybe I'll find true love, fame and fortune in New York and I won't want to come back...)

Do let me give you my card

2010-05-19T17:12:00.000-04:00

I've had my Smythson calling cards for 6 years now. They always command attention for their elegance and simplicity. God bless Smythson, but at £1 each I'm sometimes rather disturbed they're mostly given out at the gym or drinks parties after I'm really quite pissed and not seeing the man in front of me for what he is.

That's why for New York I opted to be as mass-produced as the American nation and ordered my cards from something called Vistaprint.com. Frankly the cards are just as elegant for being simple and no one will ask where they were printed (unlike a Londoner).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I nearly ran over Clare Short on my bike yesterday cycling like a mad man, half dressed in my cycling gear (no lycra) and favourite Hugo Boss suit 'willing' myself not to break into a sweat as I dashed from the dregs of East London into the City for a lunch hour political meeting.

I had RuPaul's 'Cover Girl' on my iPod (how did THAT get there?!) and it reminded me of a hilarious music video I saw earlier in the year, which I must share: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1OCn4TClNc.

It was a glorious moment of me in my lovely suit, RuPaul and the weather and we were near St Martin's - I didn't want to ruin it with Ms Short's blood in the streets so even though she was in the bike lane, against my instincts, I swerved to AVOID hitting her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I've dared to switch from an Apple Mac to a PC laptop and am suffering for it. It's been 15 years since I last tried to perform such a heinous act; I thought things had improved. I was wrong. A week later and I still don't have all my old Palm contacts synced to my Outlook and then into my BlackBerry (don't try to switch from a Palm to a BlackBerry either). Not having my diary and my contacts in sync is like trying to shag without my testacles. I feel so...well, out of sync actually.

I'm so strange

2010-05-19T15:06:00.000-04:00

Decided to crawl out of bed late today - nearly 0700 - and do something scandalous: I crossed the River to run through Battersea Park. A brave thing as it means dodging a number of cyclists happily breaching the Road Traffic Act and decency by riding on the pavement, going the wrong way on one-way streets etc. What a happy sight it was for me then to see the police out in force on Battersea Bridge giving out verbal cautions to the lot. I made a point of stopping to thank each of the PCSOs for trying to put a stop to reckless behaviour (then, minutes later, I was nearly mowed down by two cyclists speeding down the pavement of a narrow street).

During the run my thoughts drifted to my work placement at a City law firm last summer. I catch myself thinking about that placement a lot lately, mostly because they didn't offer me a job at the end of it and I've never quite recovered from that. Naturally, once another job comes along you forget about the one you didn't get. Trouble is another job hasn't come along. Mind you, I've come close a few times - enough that I should have forgotten about the City law firm, but I haven't. I can't accept that I'm not perfect - I continue to attack those two weeks in my mind, over and over again, looking for things I could have done differently, wishing it had gone differently. Oddly I never reflect on my last relationship in this way, except to remember the good times and laugh at our millions of moments spent being silly. Perhaps I'll find a way to apply that way of thinking across the board.

I had one little piece of good news this morning: my upgrade to business class has been confirmed. I won't have to suffer in the slums of third class / steerage all the way to New York. Not that I would have allowed that to happen. I can't even recall the last time I went trans-Atlantic and boarded to the right. That's for normal people and if there's javascript:void(0)one thing I know, I ain't normal. No sirree, I like my flat bed, extra luggage allowance, champagne, magazines, fast track, lounges and separate check-in and boarding. I'd rather live without food for a month than suffer in Economy (and so I shall it seems).

I'm so strange.

30 days 'til New York

2010-05-19T05:03:00.000-04:00

Woke up at my usual 0530, lounging in bed with Radio 4, tea, laptop... watching the markets, checking my balances, and somehow convincing myself despite the figures I will manage to have enough cash to get out of the Big Smoke and find myself in New York this summer.

It's odd isn't it? I'm odd. I once was American and yet the thought of going to America excites, inspires and sends shivers of dread all at once. I'm not sure what awaits me in the place of accents I can't stand, where people say 'How are you?' and 'Have a nice day' without a shred of sincerity. Still, the guys can be really hot and it's New York after-all - practically London but with more English people, a tacky number of American flags and Yellow Cabs in place of Black Cabs.

Later, at the gym, as I bent over to tie my shoes and found my face nearly in the crack of a naked man on the other side trying to bend over to... well not sure what he was up to... I got to thinking how nice it will be to be in America, land of lots of open spaces... yeah, and then I realised what I said there.

Despite being surrounded by the usual primate-like melange of fat people, men with more hair on their backs than their heads, and far too many noodle-like uncut cocks, I managed to meet a hot guy yet again (I always meet men at the gym). This is always perplexing - I tend to think me naked is not a good marketing tool, at least not as an opener. Evening time, well dressed, hair in place, shaved etc - that, to me, is when I'm at my best. But perhaps I'm just being a little too gay about the whole thing...