Flatsharing

Things are tight in the Outcapers household this Christmas after a spate of DIY and too much fun so it feels like a sensible and practical move to rent out my spare room.

I did this earlier in the year and it didn't go well. Steve's nipple rings, tattoo and fabulous range of weekend wear weren't apparent as he sat sipping a coffee as we chatted about working in the City nor was his ability to lose jobs and the boyfriend who much preferred it round ours.  A friend suggested that Steve possible appealed to my "inner peacock" - but the day to day reality is I'm a bit conservative. A lasting lesson in the kind of guy I shouldn't share with.

So the ad is up and I've photographed the flat with the determination of a high end estate agent. Good old Grindr - have already rejected one chap who came round based on the rather alarming picture of him that popped up the other day.  Onwards.

My big fat mess

Ever have to fake amiability when all you really want to do is curl up under the duvet shed a few manly tears and think "what a fuck up"? That was me last night with former work colleagues Karen and Trish swinging my legs in a Soho tapas bar looking at pictures of Trish's new baby and feeling so low I let Karen choose all the tapas. 

Being the dumper

What a fuck up - the ex and I broke up over two years ago and as the dumper I have inflicted a suitable amount of pain on myself. The lecherous Vauxhall flatmate (two weeks), my brother and family (two months) and the sweet but ever so slightly OCD flatmate (two years). This dumper had to quit the house and in my case was never really allowed back in.

The dumper who moves out gets the crap bits of furniture you both knew neither of you really liked. The dumper who moves out gets all his University text books and photos really fast and is still waiting to receive the antique Chinese porcelain bowl chosen on an important birthday years ago by his brother.

Making the call

So almost a year on from the handover of stuff which wasn't really a handover I finally picked up the phone to the ex this week. The ex is a lawyer and knows how to hold his own in an argument and I got a commitment to not commit to anything.

Getting a grip

R of course knows all of this and has been through all the stages - my latest admission of having achieved nothing by trying to be decent got short thrift and there it was in black and white. The man I adore whose goodbye gesture yesterday morning was the finger and who never chews his food was deeply upset. I was being managed by someone who I last spoke to in February re the delivery of a set of belongings which would finally close a painful page in my life. My conversation with R was short and almost tearful - "deal with it".

Manning up

As a child I have an abiding memory of my first rugby match - another eight year got tackled and threw the ball at me as he lay on the ground.  I threw it back at him - humiliation. It wasn't like it was a conscious decision I just wasn't that interested and give or take a few horrors I've managed to avoid making a prat of myself in sports with any kind of technical factor since I left school.
But I digress. That doesn't mean I want to look like a shrieking wallflower but I do have shocking coordination so I was slightly anxious about the deep sea fishing trip while we were in Cuba. There we were in the middle of the Caribbean with two swarthy, taciturn sailors trawling for barracuda.

R (bastard) knows about these things and had already established a rapport with the swarthies.  I'd already been caught taking too many pictures of R fishing which the swarthies had wanted to look at. Thankfully I'd had the foresight to get rid of the naked pictures also on my camera or we might have had a man overboard situation. 

R caught the first barracuda in excellent fashion and then it was my go. Chief swarthy strapped me into a harness for additional control (a harness!) and off we went.  I was struggling with the idea of pulling in the fish and then reeling like mad as you let the rod drop - it felt like it was going to be confusing and I managed to unscrew the handle of the rod for starters. 
I took ages and made a prat of myself but I caught the barracuda and then another. The adrenaline was pumping and maybe it was that second rum and coke but I felt a particular affinity with my hunter gatherer ancestors.  Check out our final haul.

Look but don't touch

R and I had both flitted to the sparse section in our Rough Guide covering Cuba's gay scene and worked out where on the Malecon - Havana's promenade next the sea - the local guys hang out.  After dinner in the Verdao district and several mojitos too many we were emboldened.

A basic open air cafe perched beside a petrol station was pretty much it.  The crowd was young and a little bit desperate.  There were several older European guys chatting to some of the kids - bit predatory and we moved to a spot where we could watch but not get overly hassled.  We were already being devoured by a 40-something munchkin whose eyes pretty much said where's the knife and fork.

Extraordinarily everyone around us was using sign language - an attempt to avoid detection and persecution? A means to communicate in a clandestine manner across crowded spaces?  My mind raced across the desperate possibilities as the hand gestures became more obscene.

Or maybe they were deaf.  Yup - we had found ourselves within a niche (within  a niche) within Cuban society.  The 40-something munchkin could get by without hearing aids but hated wearing them. The rest of the guys were completely deaf.  With negligible Spanish ourselves we had some of our longest conversations. I'd like to take a picture of you and put it in my pocket and go back to your hotel for a foursome came across loud and clear.

Travelling

I've just come back from two weeks in the Caribbean which I think sounds incredibly bling and a tan in November is just great. I have friends who keep a holday spreadsheet of what they would've done differently so here are my starting contributions in no particular order.

• Why do I always pack a smart outfit in the vague assumption that there will be some sort Ferrero Rocher based event at the local embassy in which I willk thank God for the crumpled chinos.
• Too many books as usual 
• Burning lots of new tunes onto the MP3 was a good thing - more of that
• Stop living the guidebook - the world changes after publication
• In love with new North Face rucksack (with wheels) but it was pretty obvious that I'd bought it in Selfridges the night before we got on the plane

Naked drinks party - RSVP

A man with too much time on his hands had sent us an invite via Dudesnude - we'd been selected to join a gathering in North London on a pending Saturday afternoon. Initial reaction?  Blind terror moving to fascination and then acceptance. Emboldened by two pints in a local pub we presented ourselves on a miserable autumnal day. 

Whatever your assumptions you have to say that the organisation was blinding.  We'd been give one of two windows in which to arrive as the host did not want to be bothered by endless arrivals as he tucked into the buffet (sorry).  Despite the fact that everyone was starkers for the first five minutes you still felt like the only naked man in the room - weird.  Not just that but I was horribly aware of my penis' ability to demonstrate exactly how I was feeling despite the way I was nonchalantly chatting. R had to go and hide behind the dining table until things calmed down.

It was the waves of the thing that were so extraordinary,  You'd be talking to someone and then suddenly the room would go quiet as people began to fumble. Ten minutes later drinks would be recharged and the conversation would go on.  We left at sixish as the drinks breaks seemed to be getting shorter and the room thinned.  We have been invited back.

Ich bein ein Berliner

Part of the last crazy catch up couple of years has involved sampling all aspects of this gay world we live in.  Folsom Europe being one of them.  My oh my - even the admission to work colleagues of a weekend in Berlin felt like the ultimate sordid secret.

We'd deliberately chosen a hotel close to the centre of things - ridiculously expensive and full of elderly Americans loitering in the hallway - noted for next time.  Berlin was great - the man who got in our carriage on the underground one night pushing a trolley containing a vast boom box (and who then got everyone in the carriage dancing) summed up the anarchic feel of the place. 

As for Folsom... well we crammed our entire Berlin sightseeing into two hours on Sunday afternoon - very bad.

Meet the parents

We hadn't introduced any other parents into the mix since the disaster in February (see my first posting) when my father decided that a seizure might liven things up.  Last Friday evening saw another attempt with us hurtling Northwards with R at the helm glowering at me as I desperately sent my last few texts to friends before we hit a world without telephone masts.  It felt like I might not come back - R's Dad has a lot of guns.

As we headed up the drive I swallowed the inclination to see what happens if you open the door and roll out of a speeding car.  Not only was I meeting R's parents for the first time but I was the first boyfriend of R's they'd ever met.

R's mother rose to the occasion and greeted me like a long lost relative.  R's father looked at me like the dodgy boyfriend of a beloved daughter. 

Supper was delicious and wine oiled the wheels but as bedtime loomed the hanging question of where we were going to sleep felt like a giant neon elephant in the room - pirouetting. Finally R put us all out of our misery and asked the question.  His parents had risen to the occasion.  Not only had they prepared a double room but also R's old twin room and the choice was ours.  Muttering something R hurtled for the stairs without a backwards glance.  His relief when I finally tracked him down was palpable.

Grow your own

A country show in Central London - who knew!  Emboldened by the fact that things weren't dead in the new garden after six weeks and assaulted on every trip to Homebase by acres of Jamie Oliver seedlings I gave it a go. 

The tension was palpable as we hit the exhibition tent and I half expected to see Miss Marple emerge fro amongst the fuchsias.  The cute guy next to me was arranging a rather tiny courgette - "it's a climbing courgette - a trombocino - what's yours?" he asked waspishly.  Other than the fact mine was pretty sure it was courgette and even better - yellow I didn't have a clue - bastard. 

Three hours later I'd won £3.23 in prize money and R's blatant use of glittery red accessorising pom pom had secured him a second in the tomatoes entry.  It was one of the best days ever and the trombocino? Disqualified.

Darkness visible

I've always been fascinated by leather. 

This (latent) facoination wasn't helped by an enocunter with a guy several years ago who who invited me to come with him to a leather club, changed into leather chaps and dragged me off into a corner.  Head explodes.

R has never been convinced by gratuitous purchases and was resistant to my attempts to introduce leather kit into our relationship and house what looks like abandoned horse tackle. Dressing up with a two hundred quid price tag? Bugger off.

Things reached a head one weekend when we decided to visit aforementioned club. Bypassing the queue to change and wearing black jeans and boots we thought we'd blag it with a black bin bag tucked between our legs holding our t-shirts and coats..

Nightmare

The rage from the other (dressed up) punters was palpable.  The bag ripped spilling clothes onto the floor and we scurried off into the night.  Key learning points - never attend a leather night in a leather club in a pair of dark blue Gap jeans.  R hissed that he would never go back - that lasted approximately three weeks.

Break up

Two weeks of talking and tears, confusion and fear.

After five months R and I had to move forward with our lives. After years of agonisng R had decided to tell his family that he was gay and with the release that kind of conversation brings wanted to move forward with his life - with or without me. 

We had always been clear that my relationship breakdown was my issue but it was a frightening leap into the dark with no guarantees of what the future might hold. 

The reasoning behind my decision isn't for here but finally one Friday in early September it was over.

The next day I met R on the roof of the Trafalgar Hilton for drinks.  A new chapter.

Pleasure and pain

R was in the car beside me and we were heading out of London for the first time.  I was going to show R my much-loved cottage and the journey flew by as we counted down the strawberry sellers by the side of the road heading further and further west. 

Finally we reached the village and a day in the garden followed attacking the over-grown mess that is a Cornish garden within 24 hours of abandonment.  Supper was simple - a good roast chicken and a bowl of strawberries in the summerhouse with lots to drink.

We'd been naked now a couple of times before but not like this.  We took advantage of an abandanoed mattress and had sex on the summer house verandah.  The sounds of raucous Saturday-night laughter from yachts down in the estuary gradually gave way to quiet as we ducked and swayed under a a great dancing Cornish sky long into the night.

The next day we drove back to London - we were way behind schedule but I didn't care - at keast not at first. I felt free and terribly happy.  The full impact of what I was doing became clearer as London grew closer. I was supposed to be meeting my boyfriend of nine years from the airport and we were late.  Not only were we late but he had landed and was calling to find out where I was.

R was unceremoniously bundled from car in a parking bay on one floor of the arrival car park (a boarding school goodbye with the associated ache) as I drove back to arrivals and met my boyfriend.  I felt the guilt must've been written all over my face and I remember being asked why the passenger seat was so far forward a seemingly innocent question which felt laden with god knows what implications.

The next day the tension of that journey manifested itself in the fact that I couldn't walk.

So now let's rewind 2 years

I'd come back from a business trip to Scotland.

Home early and disinclined to start supper I was trading messages on a gay chatline. For once there was a guy who sounded utterly normal midst a crowd of desperate sounding married  men home alone and boys fantasising about dressing in ladies knickers.

We exchanged voice messages and agreed to chat. He was reserved and cautious but with a modest charm that I thought was lovely. We continued to text after we spoke that night, presenting silly caricatures of each other in a half-hearted attempt to put the other off. The next morning I texted as I walked to work "beautiful sunny morning warming my face" - his response "simple pleasures" struck a chord. We agreed to meet for a beer.

Two days later there he was outside Sainsburys.  We sat in the sun outside a local pub a drank pint.  God knows what we talked about but this felt like a big deal for both of us.

At last my own gay blog

I've wanted to try this for a couple of years since a rather dramatic break up with all sorts of discoveries (some extraordinary some just awful) along the way.  Meanwhile I meet R and we begin a series of adventures that um, just keep happening.

It's not great when your boyfriend sees your Dad having a seizure on the loo

And its not great when he put up with your seizure a week earlier and you know he's still having flashbacks.  Park that one for a sec and let's focus on Dad.

Only 12 hours before R met my father and stepmother for the first time.  Things went well, we all drank too much and R and I had lots of sex in some part (at least on my side) loving the sheer teenage pleasure of doing it in your parents' house. 

The next morning as we lay in bed (R no doubt contemplating the next stage in his family intro fest) a rather desperate shout from step-mother alerted us to poor Dad's seizure on the loo.  Such is Dad's strength that R and I were called into action.  I deftly pulled up Dad's pyjama bottoms as R entered the bathroom and the three of us enjoyed a rather awkward embrace.  Half an hour later we were hurtling towards the hospital.  Thankfully Dad was fine- this has happened before and we were all home for lunch, R meeting my gay step-sister and partner along the way in intensive care.

So one week earlier.  Vauxhall on a blind date with another couple. Never one to turn down the opportunity to try something new and always keen to maintain an edginess I know I can never sustain I enthusiastically agreed to buy the white powder being offered to me.  Why clarify the purchase when proffered an opportunity to snort something up your nose...direct from the bag...in some quantities. 

I remember little of the next three hours other than that I was some sort of bit part player in the Matrix hurtling through an other worldly London with brave warrior R and a rather dashing figure in green who looked like a paramedic.  So there we are - my first exposure to Ketamin,  I hear there's a song called K-hole by the Pet Shop Boys - not brave enough to listen to it yet nor watch the rather embarrassing video on You tube R wants me to watch of someone gently quivering, locked in their private world.