Feet before meet

[NSFW/TMI warnings ahoy! Absolute filth ahead.]

Men are entirely unreasonable beings. Since my voyage of queer self-discovery kicked into fifth gear with my arrival in London, I have learned many things. But I think the thing I have really learned is that men simply refuse to believe that I don’t want to have sex with them.

I had stopped my Growlr app from sending me notifications for the last few weeks. My levels of tolerance for getting messages straight to my phone from “bareback cumdump bottoms looking for a hung top” while I was at work/on the bus/ watching Netflix had worn thin. But yesterday, I was feeling in need of attention, so I turned notifications back on.

There were a lot of messages, one from a man with a cute smiley profile pic. We chatted briefly and it didn’t take long before we’d exchanged photos, had agreed to meet up that evening and had moved the conversation onto WhatsApp. Initially, he’d been very agreeable when he asked what I was looking for and I said I was just after a kiss and a bit of a naked cuddle and nothing hardcore, he said “Same”. (I’d been doing something much more risqué the previous night – more of that in a minute, but yesterday I was in need of affection, and not sex.) “Same” was exactly the answer I wanted to hear. But things took a sudden turn when he said “I need to see your feet before we meet”.


But I’m a good sport. I don’t have a problem with foot fetishes. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I’m fine with having my feet licked or kissed. I’m also fine with masturbating a man with my feet. Far better that a man would want to do something weird to your feet than that wants to do something weird to an actual orifice.

So, I hauled my right foot into my lap, took off my sock and sent the man a close-up photo. “Cool. Other one.” came the message in response. Another foot. Another sock. Another photo. I really am very accommodating. I asked what he wanted to do to my feet and he said he just wanted to make sure they were clean as he’d once been with a guy with dirty feet. I didn’t really believe him, but I didn’t push it. The conversation went on.

Even though he’d agreed that we should meet at his place, he changed his mind suddenly and started insisting we meet at mine. I don’t like bringing new men to my lovely flat. My flat is my safe space. It’s decorated whimsically and Connorishly, lots of colours and throws and pillows and knick-knacks and books and One Direction paraphernalia. Men who are attracted to men that look like me do not like One Direction. I pine for a man who likes Julie Andrews and Niall Horan, a man who wants to watch old episodes of The OC on a Sunday morning while we paint each other’s toe nails. But those kind of gays like skinny men. They don’t like me. The kind of men who like me like rugby and motorbikes and superhero movies.

The last guy I had back to my place was the silent Swedish guy. My main memory of being with him is him kneeling up on my bed, while I busied myself with his willy. But I wasn’t thinking about his willy. I was just thinking about what he was looking at up there, whether he was looking at the large portrait of One Direction dressed as 1950s sailors hanging above my bed or at the huge special annotated edition of Little Women I had on my bedside locker. What was he thinking? Was he judging me? Of course, I never found out if he was judging me, because our encounter was so silent, but he hasn’t been in touch again and I’m presuming it’s because he didn’t like my decor and not because of my absent-minded ministrations to his willy.

So I didn’t want to invite foot fetish man to my flat. It just feels too intimate, too revealing of myself. And I didn’t feel ready for that. He got pissed off with me and the conversation ended, so I didn’t get my cuddles and he didn’t get to cum on my toes, or whatever it was he was planning to do.

I was ok with that. As I mentioned earlier, I’d got some the previous day and wasn’t desperate for sex.

I was back with the kinky deputy headteacher. It’s comforting to know someone always wants me. And he seems to. And he’s kinky as hell, and that’s exciting, and I’ve got to the stage where I can trust him.

I mentioned in my last post that I’ve taken to dressing more elaborately for work, with shirts and braces and ties and tie clips and I love it. Being undressed when you’re just wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and can be naked in seconds is exciting. But being undressed piece by complicated piece is exquisite. I recommend it highly. I think I now understand men’s love for women in elaborate, complicated and no doubt uncomfortable undergarments. There’s so much more unwrapping involved.

And yes, this guy’s flat stinks of poppers and yes, he did once try to put an actual dog collar on me and yes, he once put a mask on me. But, I looked around his apartment and saw a life. A note from someone calling him the best boyfriend. His sports trophies. The photo of his dead granny with her date of birth and death. The piano, with the sheet music for a Disney film in the music stand. What we do together is weird and I’m not sure why I enjoy it, but it’s certainly a part of me that it’s fun to explore and I’m glad he’s still interested. One of these days, we might even have a conversation, though that might ruin the magic.

Speaking of gay magic, last weekend was my first time at a gay club since arriving in London a year and a half ago. I’ve been in lots of gay pubs, but not a club, in spite of planning to at least a bajillion times. My people-phobia stopped me too often. But a colleague of mine insisted that I go with him and I’m delighted I did.

It’s a men-only (is that even legal?) bear-ish nightclub and I loved it. It’s like I imagined gay clubs were when I was a teenager and what they never turned out to be. Until now.

It’s a massive space – only in a city like London could you fill a club this size with this type of gay – and it’s a very sexual place, about half the men were shirtless. There was a lot of leather gear, men in sports clothes, men in kilts, men in all kinds of outfits. And it’s a place where men of all kinds of sizes are welcome. Strangers squeezed my ass. A creepy old man tried to come on to me. There were two dancefloors, one with dance music, and a somewhat more muscly, more druggy crowd and one with the best cheesy gay music ever, where the younger twinky types and the less muscly, flabbier men tended to be. I didn’t have a perfect night. I didn’t get kissed. I didn’t work up the courage to dance shirtless even though I wanted to. I got tired too early. But I haven’t known group happiness like I knew jumping up and down with fifty shirtless homosexuals who all knew all of the words to Call Me Maybe even though it’s 2018 and we’re supposed to have moved on as a culture. At the end of that song, I turned to my friend and said “I love being gay” and I really, really do.

Anyway, in other news, all the drinking that weekend didn’t impact too badly on this week’s weigh-in, another two pounds down. I think we can safely say that London Connor is back. 🙂

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