I like bars. But, you see, I do like a drink and chat. And even with their drawbacks, bars are one of our main social spaces as homos.

There are guys I know from bars and only from bars. We never or very rarely socialise outside them. Yet we know each other, or we know about each other. I think the gay male world is one of the few places where you can know a guy’s intimate details, you know, how big his cock is, whether he likes to top or bottom, what sort of men he goes for, any special kinks, does he like to get pissed on, or get turned on by leather, and still never know his surname, how big his family is, what his living room looks like or what he does for a living. 

But you will know what he drinks.

In fact, you can know all that about another guy without ever having talked to him or even had sex with him. You see, we do tend to talk to each other and about each other.

Every time I see one particular guy walking down the street, I think “There goes Mr Accident” after a friend told me of an unfortunate occurrence with him one night, resulting from a combination of too much lube, too many toys, and not enough douching. Nuff said. And I’ve never even spoken to this guy, and doubt I ever will. I don’t even know his real name. But I know about that unfortunate night.

You know the ones behave like dykes i.e. move their music collection and furniture in by the end of the second date and insist on going to the SPCA and getting a puppy together.

You know their opposite - the masters of the mixed-message : they are all over you, they chase you, they send you suggestive texts at odd hours, then, just as you think things are getting good, they disappear. A few months later they see you, their eyes light up, they explain how busy they’ve been, and then, they’re gone again.

You know the party-boys, the drinkers, the pill-poppers, the p-heads, the bitter cynics, the eternal romantics, the stoners, the predators, the parasites, the drunks, the hookers, the bears, the bores, the twinks, the twink-chasers, the daddy-chasers, the happy couples, the not-so-happy couples, the cock-teases, the sluts and of course the arrogant “I am so hot I wouldn’t let Dan Carter fuck me if he asked” gym-bunnies.

The funny thing with the gym bunnies is so many of them are of the “see Tarzan, hear Jane”  types.  They spend hours at the gym, they are pumped, they are ripped, they make the All Blacks look like the Invercargill RSA Ladies’ Senior Bowling Team. They open their mouths…and sound like they got rejected for Priscilla because they sound too gay. 

And then you see the serious leather guys, dressed in their dead cow, with their cigars and facial hair, piercings and tatts, talking about real-estate, recipes or the opera… I do recall years ago in the old University Club on Collins St in Melbourne, when I was 18 and fresh *wistful sigh* a this really hot guy saying to me once “The more leather and chains they have on, the more invisible lace there is floating in the air behind them”

Yet beyond all this, there are real friendships I have made through the bars. Even at times when I don’t know very much more about these men, I have had long intense and interesting conversations, often over months, taken up again every Saturday night, about life, love, sex, politics, travel etc. Sometimes these even move beyond the bar - that tentative transplant, like lifting a delicate plant and re-potting it, moving the friendship into another social setting. Will we still like each other if we meet in a café, or over a meal? Usually the answer is yes.

And we do tend to look out for each other. I’ve been picked up a few times off the floor when too many different substances in combination have had an undesired effect, and done the same for others too.

The most memorable one was downstairs in the Mineshaft in the 80s in New York. It had been a very long night of partying and sex, and things were winding down, when someone gave me something or other, and the next thing I remember is two huge leathered up muscle boys leaning over me, one fanning my face with his leather cap saying “Oh honey, are you ok? You don’t want to pass out down here!”

Fancy a drink?

I don’t think about why I am  gay so much these days, unless I have to. When I was an angst-ridden teenager, it occupied my mind considerably.

Why was it that I had no sexual  interest in girls, like the other boys did, I wondered? Why did I enjoy showers so much, all of us standing around in the communal shower room, talking and soaping up. Why did I keep thinking about guys all the time? Why were all my wet-dreams based around men, not women? What was wrong with me and how could it be fixed?

I was terribly confused, full of self-doubt, and sure there was something deeply “wrong” with me for all this. My family would reject me, if they ever found out, as would my friends. I would be an outcast, a weirdo, unloved and unlovable forever. And it took me a while to get over it, quite a while really.

But when I think back to before my balls dropped, I remember that even as a five-year old, while I enjoyed hanging out with the girls in primary school and talking, I also really enjoyed the few boys who were my mates. I wished they’d stop chasing that silly ball and come and sit and talk with me. I wanted to be “best friends” with them. I was emotionally attracted to them, in a sweet innocent childish way.

How I see things now is that, for me anyhow, being gay isn’t about sex, as much fun as that is. It’s about that emotional pull.

What makes me a homo is that I want to have my primary emotional relationships with other men. The sex is great, it’s fun, but it’s the icing on the cake rather than the cake itself.

I am gay because I love men. Not just because I fuck them. And from the conversations I’ve had with other guys I am sure I’m the only one at all.

And I think that’s a really important point to remember.

As gay men we want to love other men. We are attracted to other men, not just sexually, but with our hearts and our minds.

I’ve often been struck by the way young gay guys who are just coming out, when they are 15 or 16 or so, will say “I want to find a boyfriend !” They want a guy to love and to be loved back by. It is this emotional drive that , to me, really makes us gay. And I was certainly like that back then too. Yes, I dreamed of sex, but I also dreamed of love, with a man. I wanted a guy in my life, not just his cock.

What does our gay scene offer though?

Bars, nightclubs, fuck-clubs, saunas, sex, drugs and booze. All of which, I hasten to add, have their place. Trust me on that!

But we are utter crap at giving ourselves and young guys coming out a social environment where they can have a chance at meeting each other without the pressure of sex. And we are utter crap at doing this for ourselves as we get older as well.

It is as if the gay world has been stuck in this time-warp, all we do is go to bars and clubs or fuck clubs or the internet. And while exceptions exist, they are not exactly conducive to meeting like-minded guys who you might actually be able to think about forming a life with, through sickness and health, good times and bad. Yes, I know I’m generalising, there are gay bowling groups, gardening groups and so forth, but for most of us, I’d say that it is still the bars that form the centre of gravity, or increasingly, chat-rooms. But most of the chat tends to be about sex.

And the straights focus on our ‘peculiar’ sexual habits too. Putting things up our arses and in our mouths and so on. Yet really, how much time do you spend fucking in even the best relationship? A lot of it is about whose turn it is to cook dinner or why didn’t he buy milk on the way home when he knew he used the last of it that morning on his muesli, or being there by his side when he thinks everything in his life is crap. Relationships aren’t all flowers and fucking.

But it’s the love of men that makes us queer I reckon. To love, and to be loved by another guy. That’s the key for me. That’s what makes me gay: it’s all about love.

I’ve been thinking about cock a lot. Well Duh! I am a homo after all. And I’ve seen a lot of cock in my life. OK, more than just seen.

I mean, of course I like arses, legs, arms, chests, stomachs, armpits, faces, etc, but really, if a guy doesn’t have a dick, well, as they said in Sex and The City, I’m just not that into him.

But guys, never give your dick a name “This is my mate, little David” – it’s so straight.

And cocks are all so different. And I don’t just mean size. Some are aesthetically perfect, beautiful objects, that have just the right colour, size and heft (you have to hold it in your hand and feel the weight to really know how good it is) - they just look perfect on that guy’s body. A good heavy cock is a delight. And the arguments you can have over the virtues of cut vs uncut. Gives a whole new meaning to wearing a hoodie. Not to mention the debates on the merits of length vs girth. Hours of fun.  Most cocks are ok to good, which means they are great, even though most of us are insecure about our own.

Now let me add to your insecurity.

Let’s face it, some are downright ugly. And there is no rhyme or reason. I’ve seen some of the most beautiful cocks on some of the most ordinary looking guys, and some really ugly cocks on guys with gym ripped bodies and GQ faces. Life can be so unfair. And some of those dickshots on guy’s profiles online. Not flattering.

And how can you separate cock from balls?  So sensitive, such fun to play with, to fondle, to squeeze, to lick and again, so many shapes and sizes. Big and bouncy, low hangers, tight nuts, hairy or smooth or shaved, and happily  resting on your chin. Ah, balls. Love ‘em. And again, some are just objects of pure aesthetic delight, and some, less so…

The ugliest cock I ever saw was in 1985 (it is etched into my memory). It was in Turkey, and after a bus-breakdown in a small town I ended up sharing a room with another passenger on the bus. He kept making passes at me and I kept backing away. In the morning I woke to find him parading round the room with his underpants pulled right up the crack - he was trying  to get me to fuck him again, and finally pulled his pants down to reveal what I can best describe as a tiny frost-bitten rosebud. In Turkey, boys don’t get circumcised till they are about 10, and his had gone wrong: very, very wrong. I was up and dressed and out of that room so fast.

Size: ah well, there’s the perennial issue for all men, and especially gay men. Who ever worries their cock is too big? And I have to say, I’ve never met one that was. And I’ve met a lot of cock over the years. Have I already mentioned that? And most of us, whatever our ethnicity, are in the 5.5-6.5 inch range. They have even done repeated studies on African men that show that the super-size black cock is really just a myth. Or a piece of nasty objectifying racism, depending on your politics.

Some guys do have small cocks. And some of them can be really beautiful too, and fun to have fun with as well. I’ve had some great sex with guys who had little ones. But the anxiety and embarrassment that having a little cock can give gay men, an audience who are, like me, phallically appreciative, is not to be ignored. If it’s any comfort, the Ancient Greeks thought small cocks showed you were civilised, and big ones were marks of being like an animal. But who listens to the Ancient Greeks these days?

The tyranny of porn, where dicks are nearly all at least 8 inches or look that way, is partly to blame. And the fantasies we create in our own heads. And of course, most guys under-estimate the size of their own dick because we look down from on high, rather than being able to gaze with wonder and delight from the front.

Is there a way around size anxiety? I guess it’ll always be with us, some how or another.

But as much as I love cock, the main thing to remember is that there is actually a living person attached to the other end. So if when the pants go down and it’s not what you’d thought, remember what your mother taught you and be polite!  - there’s a guy standing there in front of you, naked and vulnerable, with a heart as well as a cock, and he surely deserves to be treated as well as you do, whether his dick is out of your wildest dirtiest fantasies or leaves you less than impressed.

A friend just rang and offered me a free ticket to tonight’s HERO Party, and I said “Hmm, well, I don’t think I really want to go. It’ll just be another Salvation”

“Me too” he said, “I can’t be bothered, that’s why I’m getting rid of the ticket”

What happened? Why don’t I care about the HERO Party anymore? I still like a good party, a big night out, but, HERO - meh.

It used really be something, the whole HERO Festival. There was a real spirit in the air, a sense of fun and occasion. But, back then, there were hundreds and hundreds of locals involved in making things happen, a few paid, most volunteers. And that created a real buzz, a sense of expectation: this was going to be OUR big night out.

Remember the grand opening in Aotea Square? That was an event. Remember the parade? That was an event. The mini-film festivals, all the other things, the magazine, just the general sense of build-up to a great time.

Today, well, the HERO Brand Management Group run it. I have no idea who they are. I have no idea what the HERO brand is about or why it should matter to me.

Yes, I know about the incompetence and financial mismanagement that dogged it in the past and why they changed the way they operate. Some very dodgy dealings went down which helped sour the whole thing for the “community” or those who had year after year put time and heart into making a great event.

But today, now, I just can’t be bothered. HERO doesn’t do it for me.

Does it do it for you?

This one I called “Did you read it? Did you Believe it?”  

That dumb “article” in the latest depress that hints, without ever saying so explicitly, that something is deeply wrong at the AIDS Foundation, again, It’s one of their favourite themes for some reason. The article is a mess of innuendo and non-sequitirs.

I must confess, I used to sit on the NZAF Board and was even the Chair, but that was a while ago. So while I’ve never been an employee there (though I have just started some consulting) , I do know it pretty well, and I’m happy to criticise it when it needs it, trust me, but this article was just rubbish. You do wonder if anyone at depress has any journalistic training, I don’t know, but I suspect not. Oh, yeah, just remembered, I used to work for depress… So you know, I’m sort of, impartial.

Let’s look at what they said. The Headline claims there are “Community Concerns” well, gee, there’s a piece of hard detailed news. Who is this “community”? They never actually seem to identify anyone, just “a number of readers” - that’s stretching it to start, I mean, do they have a number of readers?

Some staff have left - well, I seem to recall a number of editors going through the revolving doors at depress pretty promptly - does that mean they are managed badly and have deep-seated managerial incompetence issues? Or maybe people just find they’d like to do something else? Let’s face it, people move on from jobs all the time. NZAF has over 40 (I think…) employees around the country, so a bit of turnover aint that unusual. Gee, maybe some of them weren’t really that good at their work either - that’s possible.

The Chair resigned? So what? He was there for over three years, not a bad run really for a voluntary position.

Tariana doesn’t seem to like the NZAF. Well, she doesn’t like queers very much either from memory. She wasn’t in favour of the Civil Union Bill, said so at a talk on the marae at Auckland Uni. So to me it seems that in her eyes we’re not good enough to be treated like the rest of our citizens. And I for one am still waiting to see hard evidence that there is some hidden “Maori” epidemic of HIV out there, and no-one I know in the field seems to think there is or see any evidence for it. Show me the data, and then we’ll talk. Till then, I don’t think Tariana is someone I’d take advice about HIV from, really.

Apparently one of the “concerned readers” thinks that NZAF buying the building they currently rent is a sign of defeatism. It means, acording to this “reader’ they think HIV is here to stay which seems to send the wrong signal.

Well duh. Hepatitis is here to stay too, so is meningitis, so is cancer buddy. It’s part of the landscape now, barring some medical miracle, we won’t be rid of it, so we have to learn to live with it as best we can. Buying the building instead of paying rent seems like a pretty good idea to me.

And the worst possible sin - they were too busy to answer the carefully considered questions depress had doodled on a napkin before ringing up. Gee, don’t they know they have to drop absolutely everything when depress calls and wants some copy to fill their pages? Shame on you NZAF, for having other priorities rather than immediately answering their questions. The arrogance of you, to think that your work (you know, Safe Sex promotion, getting the Big Gay Out up, running a major NGO) could be more important than the needs of the “reporters” at depress. get your priorities right !

Now, I remember when depress used to be a damn good newspaper. It had strong community ties, it had real reporters working there even. So it’s a shame to see the way it is now. Filled with stuff off the net, and… a whole lot of NZAF ads…

What would happen if NZAF stopped advertising you wonder?

Rant over. But guys, you really need to lift your game.

And this was the Weekend Round-Up From Last Week post BGO

Seymour Butz Sauna Sessions at Urge were the place to be on Saturday night. Dirty hard great hip-thrusting dance music. The random DNA count on the floor and all around the place probably went up quite a bit. And a certain real-estate agent was seen early in the morning wandering along K Rd in nothing more than a towel (and I know he had nothing on underneath, trust me I know).

So what do you think of silky boxers with cartoon characters on them? I mean, are they a fashion statement, or a cry for help? Or does it just show a really rejection of the tyranny of fashion? Or that your mother still buys your clothes even though your 30? Because a certain gay Auckland journalist wears them, I know, I saw, at Urge

On Sunday, in spite of rain in the morning thousands of Auckland homosexuals descended on quiet suburban Coyle park on Sunday, to celebrate, um… well, to celebrate anyhow. Bears were bearish, hairy and sweaty and beery. Twinks twinkled, Dykes dyked, Queers queered and drags, well, dragged. I mean looked fabulous.

Hangovers from Urge and Family seemed to be a prominent part of the conversation.

Richard No-Mates stood around the GABA tent looking lonely for a little while then disappeared back to his empire. His minions skulked in and out as well.

A Sydney DJ on being introduced to the Prime Minister: “Hello, I’m Helen” “Hi, I’m Johnny… and what do you do…?”

A purveyor of illicit substances was seen chatting in a friendly way to Police, making one wonder just what sort of customers said purveyor has.

And a certain someone with a reasonably big bearish profile had to be held back from pulling out the special cookies as the PM’s cavalcade and Police escort hadn’t quite left the area…

The Leader of the Opposition hogged the GABA tent so the PM and party couldn’t get in - tch tch tch. They can’t be seen together it seems.

Apart from one broken leg, it seems it all passed off without incident.

Hot, humid, sticky - and I only saw 3 or 4 guys I can be sure I’ve slept with. But I got a few new numbers so hey, it was a good day, right?

Well, try and shut me up! It’s great to have another venue to let my deeply considered philosophical musings play in. I am sure you will all learn a lot. Now sit back, and if you have to, you may take notes.

I’ve been invited to come and play here, and I’m happy to do so. I guess I will be making weekly updates,  depending on how life is.

So thanks to the team at gaynz for the opportunity. First up I’m going to be posting a couple of older blogs I had on my other site, but then it’ll be fresh meat hereon in.