I recently stumbled across a website dedicated to a particular type of British lad called Scallylad.net. For anybody not from the UK, ‘scally’ is a term often used to describe a narrow category of young male; basically ‘straight’, working class, attired in sports clothing and tacky jewellery (particularly chains), often unemployed/manual labourers, and into shagging, souped-up cars, drinking lager, smoking weed, shagging, fighting,shagging, swearing and shagging. I’m sure each country has their own name for these louts, who seem to always congregate at bus-stops or in shopping centres.

For some inexplicable reason, at least here in the UK, these anti-social lads seem to be increasingly worshiped by a section of the Gay Community and, indeed, themed nights have sprung up in pubs and clubs where you can go along and try to spot the genuine article among the kitted-up wannabes – there’s a whole niche porn industry cashing in on it too.

It is particularly ironic that these lads seem to be so idolised in gay culture now, when they would be the first to throw homophobic insults at you in the street, or worse. Actually, maybe it’s not so strange, a bit like fantasising about being fucked by the school bully, even after he had just tripped you over on the playing field, or was that just me?!

The one time I bought into the fantasy, it wasn’t quite the rough, nasty, fuck-fest I had in mind… the encounter happened a few years ago in my braver, less inhibited youth! I was walking home late on my own, and the worse for wear after a night clubbing, but still horny. The route I had to take home, back then, required walking for a bit along a particularly dodgy road, renowned as the main highway into ‘scally town’.

This one night, while on this road, I became aware that a very scally looking lad (in tracksuit, oversized trainers and cap) was walking parallel to me on the other side of the road. He overtook me, as I wasn’t so fast in my inebriated state, then kept looking back at me, which made me really paranoid, then crossed over so he was ahead of me on the same path, then stopped and leant against a wall, still looking back. My heart started pounding, but there was no other way to go, and I decided it was better to keep walking rather than appear scared and change direction, so I sped up, the adrenaline pumping through my body having sobered me up.

I was nearly level with this lad, trying not to look at him, but all too aware that he was staring back at me. I came level, all tensed up, just waiting for him to do his worst; then he spoke, but it wasn’t to ask me for all my money, just for a light – wow, the relief. I very obligingly lit his cigarette, happy to be unscathed and not in need of any stitches. Then he casually asked if I knew where he could get some lager at that time of night. I can’t believe how brave/stupid I was looking back, but I blame the combination of relief, adrenaline, alcohol, and hormones for uttering the words “I’ve got some back at my place…”

We got back to my house, which I was sharing at the time, so didn’t feel too vulnerable. We hadn’t talked much on the walk there; actually he was quiet, but I remember chattering nervously about a load of shit – he must have wondered what he was letting himself in for! I kept thinking to myself that he must be the strong, silent type and that only added to the expectation of some dirty, aggressive sex.

I was fuelled up on those porn DVDs I had watched of scally lads being rough and nasty with each other, of very animal, macho fucking and hard sucking, so I kept plying the lad with booze hoping it would lower his inhibitions, along with his tracky bottoms; After all, he so came on to me so he must have been wanting some cock, right?

Trouble was, getting him more and more drunk didn’t didn’t have the effect I desired; rather it opened up the floodgates and this lad found his tongue, not to shout sexual commands at me, or verbally lash me in a kinky way, but to reveal his deepest, darkest feelings! I mean, what’s the point in picking up a mean lad if he’s going to get all touchy feely on you?

It turned out he had all sorts of issues about being gay and in the closet, worrying that his Mum would kick him out if she found out, and none of his friends would want to now. He basically just wanted an understanding shoulder to cry on and to offload some of his grief. Normally I’d be happy to listen and try and give some advice, and I did my best, but it was so late and I had to accept that my fantasy encounter with a scally lad wasn’t gonna happen – the only thing I ended up using the tissues for was to dry his eyes!

I don’t really know where I’m going with this, so I guess you can draw your own conclusions. I just know that after that night, the whole scally-lad-as-gay-lust-object seems more bizarre than ever. But check out Scallylad.net if you don’t agree.