Warning: this is one of those NSFW posts.
Note: I know that straight people get all judgemental about the world of online dating. Given the story I’m about to tell, I suppose I can understand why. However, not being on Grindr or Manhunt or Gaydar makes you strange as a gay man. It is by far the most common way to meet potential partners in the gay world. Especially once you pass the age of 24 and stop clubbing seven nights a week. I know multiple people, gay and straight, who have met their husbands online. And it’s certainly not just weirdos and ugly people. I know attractive people who meet men on the internet. I know people who exclusively use these apps and sites for one-night-stands. I also know people who genuinely use the sites just to make friends and to get to know more gays and who have no interest in the sex side of it all. Straight people, older people and people who end up marrying their secondary school boyfriend don’t know this world and tend to presume it’s awfully perverted. In spite of what you’re about to read, it really isn’t and there are plenty of very, very vanilla, innocent, normal partnerships formed through online dating.
I’ve put myself back out there. In a big way. On the niche sites. The ones for fans of the “larger man”. Because those are the places where I get interest. And I’m an actual Superstar. On one site alone, I have 105 followers. Over 50 men have messaged me in the last week. And that’s just one of three sites. They adore me. I’m the Lady bloody GaGa of the chubs and chasers scene.
And yes, I wish the people panting after me weren’t fat fetishists. But it is amazing to be a celebrity. I’ve been answering messages, but avoiding the “next step” in all cases. Too scary.
Until last Thursday. Last Thursday, I took the “next step”. I agreed to “cam” (i.e. video chat) with a Polish man. He was hot. And he was a whole continent away, so nothing could possibly go wrong. He was clearly very excited by my body. Very excited indeed. And I enjoyed the encounter. And then he started begging me to eat. Begging. He’s obviously a “feeder”, one of the many, many men on the internet who derive sexual pleasure from watching other men eat and gain weight. (I’ve stopped being amazed at how many people have this fetish, but I was telling a friend of mine about it the other day and his jaw dropped and I remembered that this isn’t a typical sexual interest.) I agreed to eat, reluctantly. When I went to the kitchen, there was nothing ready to eat there. Nothing but a jar of forest fruit jam. So that’s what I grabbed. And I went and sat in front of my computer and gorged myself on jam for this nice Polish man. And he got as excited as you can get, if you know what I mean.
Jam is not sexy. And it’s hard to wash off. I had a shower, but I kept discovering sticky patches on my body all night long. The next day, I got a lot of messages from that man. He was looking forward to another cam session. I have to admit, so was I. Eating isn’t my thing. But this guy wanted me. He wanted me hard. He sent me videos of himself while I was sitting in work, which I immediately hid in fright at the idea of who might see them. He kept messaging me excitedly. And he was hot. He wanted me. He called me “Daddy”, which was new for me. And kind of exciting, even though it’s not really my thing.
I loved this. I was wanted. I was desired. This is not a feeling I have every day. I fucking love being objectified. Love it. I was so happy at the thought of it that I gave money to every single beggar I passed on the street.
I was determined not to have a repeat of the jam fiasco. So I went into Tesco to find an alternative. At first, I looked for a spray can of cream and couldn’t find one. So, instead I got custard. The gloopiest custard I could find. If there is a food that’s easily sexualisable, it’s custard. I also bought a chocolate cake.
I went home and we cammed again. It was lovely. And when he demanded that I eat, I was able to get down on all fours and eat the chocolate cake like a piggy. And I was able to smear my face with custard. And when he asked me to burp on camera I could.
I kind of get why this stuff is sexy. But it’s not really me. I don’t think I’ll ever get back in touch with this Polish guy. The next step is to actually meet someone.
But being wanted is hot. Being desired is lovely. I’m feeling all floaty just thinking about it.
And I’ll take the next step soon, and actually meet someone. I promise.
For the last two months, something’s been bothering me that I thought had the potential to affect both my sex life and my actual life forever. I found a hard area on my right testicle and convinced myself that I had testicular cancer.
At first I didn’t want to do anything about it. Eventually, I made a doctor’s appointment with the college doctor, which I “accidentally” slept in for. I made another appointment and cancelled it. Finally, after about seven weeks, I went to see a doctor today.
I prepared as I would for a date, scrubbing myself well down below and putting on my best underpants. It’s not every day I drop trousers for a gentleman.
I sat in the waiting room and all I wanted to do was bolt. In fact, I did leave once, started walking home, and then went back again. I didn’t want this news. I just didn’t.
The doctor was kind. He had a feel around. He poked. He squeezed. He had me cough. He squeezed some more and rolled them around in his hand. It was quite nice.
And he declared me to be absolutely fine. My testicles are normal.
I handed over €60 and left happy.
So happy. I don’t have cancer. It was an amazing feeling. I put on the High School Musical soundtrack and started dancing through Rathmines. I went into the Shopping Centre and I impulse bought two novels and a pint glass. I’m calling it my “I don’t have cancer glass”.
Thank goodness. I’m keeping my balls. It’s a good day.