A man walks into a bar. Actually, a gay walks into a gay bar; he half-raises an eyebrow in recognition of the doorman (an early, welcome to the city shag); he walks to the bar past the crowds and waits with his cash out; he smiles and gets a wink back from the barman (a post-party threesome shag); he spies a familiar face on the other side of the bar, and quickly looks away to avoid eye contact (a desperate-one-night, very anti-climactic shag); with drink in hand, he moves through the bar, giving an awkward, half smile to a near miss (a close, but-no-cigar shag); circumvents a table of preying posers (a house of shags) and finally reaches his friends (shags of various shapes and sizes!).
I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this – what percentage of the clientele in any bar do you need to have slept with in order to reach the status of ‘tart’? I’ve never really though of my pointer being at the ‘open 24/7’ end of the swing-o-meter, but when you start to have nights out like the one just described, you do begin to wonder.
Maybe it’s an inevitable fact when you’ve lived in a city for a certain number of years, that probably more people have shaken your cock, than your hand. It’s also increasingly difficult to have that ‘virgin snow’ feeling when you go anywhere or do anything new because chances are there’ll be a face from the past that’s had your cock in it. I wouldn’t mind so much, either, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s always the shags that you most want to forget that pop up at the worst moment. One guy in particular; an anonymous Gaydar shag – and a very lame encounter – that took place when my defences were down one horny, very late night is one I always cross paths with. I particularly loathe these encounters when I’m walking along with another guy, and it’s clear he recognises me and is checking the new guy out – sometimes I’m forced to protest my innocence.
I find all this a bit worrying when I’m still only in my twenties – what would it be like if I’m still living here in my forties? Maybe it’s time to think about moving.
Virgin snow
A man walks into a bar. Actually, a gay walks into a gay bar; he half-raises an eyebrow in recognition of the doorman (an early, welcome to the city shag); he walks to the bar past the crowds and waits with his cash out; he smiles and gets a wink back from the barman (a post-party threesome shag); he spies a familiar face on the other side of the bar, and quickly looks away to avoid eye contact (a desperate-one-night, very anti-climactic shag); with drink in hand, he moves through the bar, giving an awkward, half smile to a near miss (a close, but-no-cigar shag); circumvents a table of preying posers (a house of shags) and finally reaches his friends (shags of various shapes and sizes!).
I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this – what percentage of the clientele in any bar do you need to have slept with in order to reach the status of ‘tart’? I’ve never really though of my pointer being at the ‘open 24/7’ end of the swing-o-meter, but when you start to have nights out like the one just described, you do begin to wonder.
Maybe it’s an inevitable fact when you’ve lived in a city for a certain number of years, that probably more people have shaken your cock, than your hand. It’s also increasingly difficult to have that ‘virgin snow’ feeling when you go anywhere or do anything new because chances are there’ll be a face from the past that’s had your cock in it. I wouldn’t mind so much, either, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s always the shags that you most want to forget that pop up at the worst moment. One guy in particular; an anonymous Gaydar shag – and a very lame encounter – that took place when my defences were down one horny, very late night is one I always cross paths with. I particularly loathe these encounters when I’m walking along with another guy, and it’s clear he recognises me and is checking the new guy out – sometimes I’m forced to protest my innocence.
I find all this a bit worrying when I’m still only in my twenties – what would it be like if I’m still living here in my forties? Maybe it’s time to think about moving.