Tonight my cousin, one of the few people I am close enough to consider ‘a friend’ — and there aren’t many of those, as I’ve said before — called into question my sexuality.

Attractive but hairy and short cousin (definitely a Beta male, compared to my Alphaness): “Have you got a girlfriend yet?”
Seb: “No…”
Cousin: “I’m starting to seriously worry about your sexuality.”
Seb: “Just because I like musicals, and wear pink pashminas doesn’t necessarily make me gay. Just confident with my sexuality. There is a difference you know, big boy.”

I mean… what’s the rush? Sure, if you’re female, and you have some kind of ticking biological clock (why do girls run out of eggs, while men can continue churning out those wriggly little bad-boys well into their 80s?), there might be some urgency to the whole procreation thing; but as a man, am I meant to feel that every girl I meat (er, meet) is the partner I’ve so desperately been seeking to create my genetically-superior Uber Race? Okay, so I’m not blonde, nor am I blue-eyed, but Hitler didn’t necessarily get it right. Maybe that’s why he tried to exterminate my ancestors — he knew that from the ashes, a 6′5″ brutish beast would arise. A monstrous male so potent, so indomitable that he felt a world war was necessary to remove any chance of his blood line persisting –

But I digress. If my cousin is to be believed, I’m gay, so any chance of me making babies is pretty damn small. Sorry mum. Sorry ladies.

Now, I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of me on this blog. I don’t look gay. You’ve also heard me; do I sound gay?

So what’s the problem?

I certainly get on better with girls than boys, which is odd (and I don’t really know why — other than the things listed above, I don’t really share any common ‘female’ interests). Perhaps I’m lucky to have known a couple of girls that have appreciated geeky, cool things as much as me. They’re both in America now.

So, why do I get on better with girls? Why does my cousin think I’m gay? I think our long nights spent in tents, in the middle of cold, rainy fields, snuggling for warmth have biased him.  But no, seriously, it’s because… I’m girly. I’m camp.

I like musicals. I own around 200 recordings, from the 1950s through to today. I was listening to Guys & Dolls earlier, and then I sang along to Wicked a few hours later. My second trip to the USA was actually a 5 day jaunt to New York City where I somehow crammed 6 musicals in. Is that gay?

I have long hair (OK, it’s short right now, but it’s been long for years!) I have a pink hair brush too (a big, lovely flat brush that slides silkily through my hair). I have been known to tie my hair into pigtails, ponytails, pineapples. I remember the day I asked a girl in my class to show me how to braid my own hair (it never stayed in… apparently I didn’t do it tight enough). Does that make me gay?

I love the colour pink. I have pink shirts, pashminas, jackets, hats and scarfes. Whenever I go out somewhere, I think I should wear at least something that’s pink. But then look at this way: I love a girl that’s wearing pink. Baby pink, hot pink. Naked, with a pink blush covering her cheeks, her stomach. Luckily my ex-girlfriends have all been fans of pink too. Or quickly become fans…

Musical theatre is easier to defend — it’s complex music. I like complex. Simple is boring (this goes for people too!) The standard composition of verse, chorus, verse, chorus all but disappears in musical theatre; instead you are treated with themes and reprises. Characters can have their own chords, or even their own notes. The music itself tells the story of the moment, rather than the lyric — the lyric becomes more of a dialogue between the characters, often driving the story forward. Some musicals are almost entirely song-driven, so this is of course the case! The music leads you towards other planes of emotion — the sudden plunge of violins propelling you down a path, a sad path, a romantic path. An easy example here is ‘Something There‘ from Beauty & The Beast. The song is incredibly simple, and the lyric is mostly spoken, but the music is what really tells you what’s going on: they’re having fun, they’re rolling around in the snow, they’re getting more comfortable with each other, almost intimate. In just 2 minutes, you have a damn good idea of how these two (seemingly) disparate characters came together.

That’s what I like about musical theatre. It’s harder to listen to, and I certainly don’t get much work done while I have a musical playing, but there’s just so much more to appreciate! If you can see past the often overly-trite and simple story-telling from the lyrics, the songs take you on a ride, much like a very well engineered album by one of the greats (like Bruce Springsteen). Just try to remember that the lyrics have been shoe-horned into the music: the full orchestral music, as opposed to pop music where the lyric is what seperates a hit, from a truly great tune.

If you were wondering, before I move on from musicals, the title of this blog is a line from Avenue Q, a musical that you must ALL see! How can you resist a musical starring muppets? Muppets that have sex with each other, no less.

Now, I must remind you to cast your vote on the poll! You have until Tuesday. I would just like to thank the cruel bastards that voted for the Eastern Europe/Slavic option. Thanks. Don’t take advantage of my generosity next time!

Recently, my ego suffered a bit of a hit; I was dumped. My self-esteem, which has never been the greatest due to some bullying at school, was taken down yet another notch. It’s not something I should blog about though (those who follow my Twitterings will have some idea of what I’m talking about though!); I have never one to kiss and tell. Perhaps in a few years, when my feelings have been tempered a little and my nerve endings aren’t quite so raw.

I think the worst thing about being dumped is that it instantly brings back into focus all of the previous times you’ve been unceremoniously ‘let go’; no golden hand-shake, no pension — and most importantly, certainly no more sex.

I don’t know if it’s a ‘girl thing’, but when you’re dumped, why can’t the dumper tell you why you’ve been dumped? Why is there such a restriction of knowledge? It’s the unknowingness that is the most troublesome. When there are unknown factors, the human mind starts thinking; it starts formulating wild, implausible solutions to an unknown problem. Completely irrational scenarios are computed and rolled around in your head, each and every facet being analysed and fretted over — and then re-analysed and fretted over again!

I should probably be grateful that I’ve only been dumped and left in the dark twice. My first ever girlfriend (at the ripe old age of 18 — I was such a late bloomer) dumped me without even so much as a whisper of the reason. ‘It’s not you, Seb, it’s me.’  It was only a few weeks later that I found out she’d dumped me for a guy 7 years her senior; one that could drive, and shared her love of anime (I’d sell my soul to keep a girl I love… but anime? I have limits). At least I got a shag out of her before she dumped me, though… I guess I was too good to dump without one last orgasm. Used, and abused… my poor soul.

I want to tell you this story because on the flip-side, there’s also being dumped with too much information.

My next girlfriend was a great believer in full disclosure and as a result our relationship was passionate, if short-lived; like a firework! We’d not been dating for long, but I already knew every inch of her body; and she’d discovered bits of me that I didn’t even know existed. I was so blinded by the passion — the sex! My God, the sex! — that the lesbianism really was a curve-ball.

I knew she had a little bit of a history; those performing artist types always seem to have a history. Some were beaten and some were impoverished, and nearly all have experimented a little — or a lot — with the same sex. I guess it’s all about being dramatic and pushing the boundaries a little; exploring and poking at what really makes you you.

Looking back, I probably should’ve noticed, from the complete lack of boyfriends in her photo albums, that I was her first boyfriend. I was so blinkered and hormonal that when I added 1 and 1 together I somehow came up with 69. The fact that she was a Bible-toting and scripture-quoting strictly-religious girl also obscured her true sexuality from me. Christians are meant to be straight, right? That’s what the Bible clearly says! Looking back, we shouldn’t have been having sex before marriage either, hm…

But anyway, as I was soon to find out, full disclosure and a hedonistic lifestyle were going to quickly catch up with my poor arithmetic skills.

I was on my way over to her place for dinner. I had a lovely bunch of flowers and some bars of chocolate with me, for afterward (stealing a cube of chocolate from between a girlfriend’s lips is still one of my favourite ways to pass the time). I knocked on the door but strangely there was no response. I let myself in with my key (she liked it when I surprised her in the morning, before she was awake) and made my way to her bedroom.

It was then that I heard the whimpering. Quiet, measured panting, and whimpering.

I stood there for a while, transfixed. I put my ear against the door to make sure the noises were in fact coming from her room.

They were, and the panting was getting slightly erratic, and louder.

Uncertain of what to do in such a situation — this was only my second girlfriend, don’t forget, and certainly my first ‘no holds barred’ sexual relationship — I opted for the safe option. Going back to the kitchen, I called out her name.

‘Seb? Come in, we’re in my bedroom.’

I slowly pushed open the door. The image I was greeted with is still seared into my mind today. Two beautiful girls entwined in some kind of sexual embrace. The other girl was not quite as pretty as my girlfriend, of course, but she was still very easy on the eye. I couldn’t differentiate who owned each limb. My eyes danced, alight with delight, but not quite sure which body parts I should be staring at.

‘I thought it would be easier if I showed you like this, Seb’

Showed me what? That you’re still into girls? That you were never into boys? But you let me do things that no one should be allowed to do! WHY IS THERE A GIRL IN YOUR BED INSTEAD OF ME?

I had only recently watched The Exorcist, and watching this ungodly — but highly erotic — sex-act unfold infront of my very eyes, I was very, very tempted to bellow something sanctimonious at the top of my lungs. ‘By the power of Christ I compel thee to remove your tongue from that orifice!’

Being a red-blooded male, however, and not one to bite the hand that feeds, I decided to simply shut up and stare at their yummy, interlocked bodies some more. I’m told that I stood there for quite some time, licking my lips.  Sadly though, for them,  I actually turned and left them to it. I left her the flowers, but took the chocolate with — I was going to need some comfort food after that little event in my life.

To this day I still find myself wondering what my life would’ve been like if I had dived into that bed and been smothered with smooth, soft, lesbian kisses. You know that scene in American Pie where Jim is standing outside his bedroom, knowing full-well that Nadia’s inside, looking for action? That’s exactly how I felt, standing in the doorway, looking down at that landscape of lesbian limbs. Do I, or don’t I…

I believe I was her one and only boyfriend. She sampled the male race, and it was offensive to her tastes. Do you have any idea what that did, and still does, for my ego? I turned a girl gay. I think the only possible cure for that is to turn a girl straight, which I haven’t succeeded in doing yet — though that’s not for lack of trying.

Which reminds me, any gay girls out there up for a pleasant challenge?

But this story just goes to show that there’s a mid-ground between being told nothing, and being shown everything, OK girls? It also leads neatly into a rant on the hypocrisy and outmoded design of monotheistic religion…

Ever since I started writing here on this blog, I’ve been trying to work out the best way to tell you.

I alluded to it with numerous posts about musical theatre, and incredibly insightful articles on the inner workings of girls; something that a straight guy could never do, at least not with such alarming accuracy.

I even tried to tell you through my constant use, and love, of pink. My pink t-shirts, my pink scarves, my pink fluffy love-cuffs — I tried it all! Somehow… somehow you kept holding on, praying that it was all a ruse, a lie. He must be straight, surely…

I even thought it might’ve been the beard, so I shaved that off too.

I’ve told you tales of me waxing off my leg hair, and you’ve seen the photo of me with the handlebar moustache and hot-pink shoulder-padded jacket — that’s what I wear most weekends!

And then, of course, there were all those stories — the one about me turning a girl gay, or the next girl running off to become a priest. You didn’t actually think they were real? They were mere fabrications; figments of an imaginary world that I have lived in for the last decade. A world that I conjured into existence in an attempt to convince my family, my friends and myself that I’m straight.

Well, I’m not straight.

I’m gay.

Gay, like Boy George rolling up at Mardi Gras in a baby-pink Mini. Gay.

Time and time again I have sat down to dinner with my mother and father, unable to look them in the eye. ‘Got a girlfriend yet, Seb?’ followed by the words I’ve had to repeat each and every time, year after year: ‘No, not yet, Dad…’

Being a wimp — though, finally coming out must surely be the first step to getting some balls? — I thought I would post this entry, instead of telling my parents in person. They both read this blog.

So that’s that, then.

We have a family dinner tonight. I just know my father won’t be able to keep a straight face when dessert is served and I ask him to pass me the hot fudge sauce.

Now that I’ve stepped out of the closet, I’ve finally had a chance to look back INTO it. In doing so, I’ve had a shocking realisation: I have nothing to wear! All I have is that same outfit that I’ve worn on the rare occasion that I’ve been home alone, or to one of those  ‘Not-Straight’ nights at university.

So with the weather was nice, I thought it would be a good idea if I had a quick look around the shops for some clothing that states, in no uncertain terms, that I’m gay.

So far all I’ve found is this hot baby-blue jacket. Good idea? Bad idea? I think it accentuates my eyes, and my cheeky personality, but I need advice if I’m to succeed with this rather late-life change of plans

I’ll keep looking for more, but truth be told, I don’t really know what to buy. Does anyone have some shop names (or links?) that specialise in gay clothing? Or do I just buy all of the bright shades, some suspenders, and gel my hair into a wild shape?

Is this the stage where I have to decide if I’ll be a bear — one of those bearded, butch types — or a queen? Is there something inbetween? I really should have done some more research before I came out.

(Another entry, another podcast! Recorded all in one take without any kind of planning, so the voices you hear are ‘off the cuff’ — I’m particularly proud of my attempt at a crazed feminist. Hopefully there are no repeat or missing paragraphs. It sounds a little bit nasal and wet in places, but hey, I can’t and don’t want to fix that: excess saliva has always served me well in the past.)

Once upon a time there were was a seedy, fleet-footed fellow that only moved under the cover of darkness. Only after the sun had descended and the campus took on the dusky, dark-blue hues of night would he emerge in his long coat and broad-rimmed hat. His black leather boots moved with surprising grace, the slight squeak of foot against foot the only noise betraying his location.

He skirts the meeting point, watching his target nervously hop from foot to foot and light a third cigarette, its burning tip faintly outlining his hooded face. Eventually he approaches, sidling up next to the smoker. He grunts a quiet greeting.

‘Got the money?’

‘You got all the stuff I want?’

‘Of course.’

‘Even the ebony-and-ivory one?’

‘Does the Porn King ever fail to deliver?’

…

At university I ruled the roost. I was invited to all the parties and chicks clung to every limb. I was that guy on the white leather sofa, splayed out languidly like a snow angel, girls curled up in the spaces left between my arms and legs. Merely opening my mouth would cause those nearby to quickly hush and watch me; watch my lips, my teeth, the expansion of my ribs as I breathe in, preparing to speak.

‘The Porn King requires a blow job.’ A flurry of activity followed as the girls quickly clambered off the sofa onto the ground and two others standing nearby rushed to help.

I once lived a life of regal opulence. Hedonistic extravagance. Girls and boys available to me at any time for any need and every want: food, sex or even… conversation. I’d be given free tickets to the local cinema and I’d be rushed through the other entrance at nightclubs, the one without a queue. At restaurants I’d always get the best table, the freshest bread and it wasn’t uncommon for the chef to prepare a special dessert, just for me.

I felt just a bit like The Godfather.

Unlike the Godfather though, I hadn’t built an empire based on coercion, fear and racketeering; this was an empire built upon something far healthier: sex and satisfaction. Not the human-trafficking kind either: sex, gooey and juicy, safely condensed into an easily-transportable disc.

The word ‘pornography’, perhaps aptly if you’re a ‘moralist’, comes from ancient Greek literally meaning ‘the writing/recording of prostitutes/prostitution’. That’s not a good start for an argument in favour of pornography, but wait!

Historically porn has been outlawed for religious reasons — monotheistic of course: the Greeks and Romans loved sex and all the sticky extras it entailed — but more recently the anti-porn brigade has been led by the feminists: ‘Porn is degrading to the female form!’ they decry. At the same time they claim that we’re now grown up enough, as a culture, to grant women the rights they’ve for millennia done without: to vote, to display and do with themselves as they see fit, to sleep with whoever they damn well please — to be a separate race or species: women. For the longest time women have merely been an extension of man, their subordinate helpers, humans without penises. Feminists — and most sane people — argue that it’s time women were allowed to plant their feet on the ground, look around, and strike out in any direction

The argument is, of course, that the actresses in porn aren’t ‘being women’; no, they’re prostituted lumps of meat, their bodies sold for money to the highest bidder for the satisfaction of a paying audience that’s sitting in front of their TV or computer screen, fapping, flapping furiously. But… is there something wrong with that?

It’s the classic problem: how restrictive do you make laws? You can’t re-outlaw porn — it just wouldn’t wash without the stranglehold that religion once held over law-making. You can’t point your finger at the mischievous boys and girls and say: ‘You behave and keep your clothes on now, y’hear?’ The cat — the pussy — is out of the bag.

Perhaps a better question to ask is: why is porn considered to degrade women, but not men? Is it because the woman always ‘receives’? Is it purely because women have been on the receiving end of male leadership and ownership since the dawn of time? What about gay male porn? Are there masculists out there campaigning for the rights of men that always ‘play the bottom’ in porn? Another case in point: I had to look up ‘masculist’ to see if such a word even existed. That’s how foreign the concept of ‘male rights’ are in today’s society.

It’s a shame that women and men must resort to starring in pornography, and no doubt it’s hard and unsatisfying work wrought with risk. In all but a few unfortunate cases however, it was their choice to take part — perhaps they like sex so why not be paid for it? It’s a lot safer to have sex on a porno shoot than with some random guy or girl that you meet at a club — for a start, you have a camera crew and director watching to make sure they don’t stick something in the wrong hole. That’s probably a better problem to address: the current urge for ‘modern women’ to screw anything with a pulse just because they can, but that deserves a separate topic of discussion.

It boils down to this, feminists, priests and conservative law-makers: is it possible to have too many human rights? Do you somehow pretend to understand more about ourselves than us? Ethics — the ability to decide what is right and wrong — is fundamentally personal. You can’t tell someone the right answer for any given situation: to retain the human right of free thought and self-determinism they have to decide for themselves. Instead of trying to govern our actions, educate us fully and hope that we come out the other end wiser and relatively unscathed.

As a race we’re great at getting through things if we know what we’re getting into. When we are blinkered by lies and propoganda, when we walk into a situation without unbiased information, when we are unable to see both sides of an argument due to outside influence — when we lose our ability to make rational and fair decisions, then we’re in trouble.

No picture of me in a doctor’s jacket again! What a gyp! (Note the interesting derivation on ‘gypsy’ — never knew that!) You must be so disappointed in me yet again. But in my defence, this week’s been a really unpleasant mix of heat, humidity and stiflingly oppressive stillness. The only breeze is that which has been stirred up by the feeble fan that’s currently keeping my feet cool. So you get some angstily-answered questions this week and a re-used picture of me that you’ve probably seen before. If you’re not interested, go and watch my video blog from yesterday. Or go ask me a question!

Every question this week has something to do with love or sex or relationships!
(Sorry, I know it’s a bit over the top… but yes, now you know what my eyes look like… yay!)

Dear Sex-pert Seb, [This feels more like a tabloid each week, excellent -S]

I want to do something for my man which will make him smile every time he thinks about it… and I don’t mean baking an amazing cake! I mean something naughtier.

As someone who is obviously experienced in naughty things, what can you suggest?

- Sexless in Seattle

A juicy one to start with. It probably comes as no surprise to you, me being a man and all, that the only real thing I’ve been able to focus my thoughts on over the last week, during this heatwave, is… sex. I’m all hot and sweaty and so my thoughts inevitably drift to when I was last hot and sweaty. Not being the kind of person to do any exercise outside of the bedroom, my mind wanders to all of the beautiful women that I’ve made love to.

You came to the right person: Sex-pert Seb! I’ve read a lot of girl magazines (Cosmo, Marie Claire, etc.) over the years (I told you, I’m inquisitive) and consider myself a bit of a guru when it comes to this particular topic. The suggestions tend to vary from downright-weird to the hmm-that-sounds-quite-nice-actually but they nearly all revolve around one thing: oral sex (or cooking for him, misogyny be damned!)

There are a lot of variations, some more difficult and/or degrading than others — I’ll give you an easy one to start with: go down on him while he’s asleep, in the morning. It’s a very, very good way to wake up, I assure you.

For more information, search the Internet for the many guides on the topic, but here’s SexInfo101’s to get you started: Fellatio I – Basics.

Geek Master S,

I write to you in greatest secrecy because… because it’s about a girl that I like. But she’s a geek, so she might be able to find this if I give you too much information. Anyway, there’s this girl I like, but I don’t know how to make her love me! Or at least for her to take me seriously! She’s more of a geek than me. She likes all sorts of weird stuff like comics and TV shows with vampires in. I watched Buffy though, and that’s alright, but the rest… I dunno.

Anyway, my question is, how can I be the guy she wants? We are good friends right now, but sex/relationships seem like the last thing on her mind, but I must make her mine!

Live long and prosper (that’s what you geeks say right?),
Clueless Wannabe Geek

Ah, young padawan (that’s a trainee Jedi, from Star Wars), you have much to learn — but it is a good, ripe topic worthy of your focus! The geeks will inherit the world, if they have not already done so, and it’ll be a better place for it! Fortunately, I’m about as big a geek as it gets, so I’ll try to impart some useful knowledge that’ll hopefully a) make you a better person (more of a geek) and b) get into her pants.

First, you need to at least be interested in her and what she does (this is good advice for any girl, incidentally). If she likes vampires, you better start liking vampires, or at least try to read the latest Twilight book. Or invite her around for a Buffy/True Blood marathon. If she likes comics, ask her which super hero/universe is a good one to start with, and go buy it! For bonus points, accompany her to some kind of comic/geek convention and dress up according to her wishes.

As long as you’re interested, she should fall into line pretty quickly. You don’t even have to be an alpha geek yourself, she’d probably be more than happy with someone that doesn’t hush into silence her latest thoughts on the ‘continuity of Star Trek: The Next Generation episode 42′.

For more information, I have to refer you to my own awesome Geek Guides: Why geek girls are awesome (well duh), Geeks make good lovers (this is why you want to make her yours, trust me…)

Sebby-poo, [I got called this for a short period at school by girls. It was not a good time in my life. -S]

I think I’m gay… I like girls. I don’t know if it’s a problem per se, or if it will become a problem later on… but right now, I’m just a bit confused, you know? Is it a phase? Should I tell someone to get it off my chest, or will that only make it worse in today’s day and age? I guess that’s what I’m doing now by telling you?

I suppose I’m looking for advice, if there’s anything I should know. Some background info: I’ve had a few boyfriends but nothing long-term. I’ve had sex with one boy and it was… nice. Nothing special! I recently kissed a girl at a house party… we were drunk… turns out she’s liked me for ages though… and it did feel nice, leaving me wishing something more had happened!

Help me! Am I gay or straight or just…

- A Confused Girl

Well this one’s tricky and ‘are you gay?’ is a good place to start. Sexuality has always been a contentious topic: is it genetic? Nurtured? Instilled by popular culture? The prevailing theory at the moment is that it’s a big mix of nurture and nature — your genetics and hormonal balance might play a big role in it, but so does your upbringing and experiences. No one really knows to be honest (no doubt we’ll learn more about it in the next few decades now that homosexuality is becoming ‘OK’ in modern society). The only real measurement of gayness is: do you feel more attraction (in the full sense — mental and physical, ’till death do you part) to other women? If so, then you’re gay.

But that’s OK!

It’s quite important to remember that being gay does not lock you into various stereotypes and mannerisms. You don’t have to cut your hair short and adorn yourself with tattoos. You don’t have to slap on some lipstick and make out with other girls in clubs (though you can do either if you like). You already have a potential girlfriend lined up, which is good; she can show you the ropes, and you won’t have to wander into the treacherous and seedy world of ‘gay bars’ to experiment. Talking of experimentation: who knows, it might turn out that you’re not actually into girls after all. Perhaps you’re simply curious about things, or you’re out of a disaffected relationship with a boy!

Most of all, don’t worry. Being gay is more socially accepted now than ever before! That doesn’t mean you’ll fit in everywhere, especially in mature or religious communities, and you must accept that their point of view on homosexuality is as valid as yours, and a lot more entrenched. Life as a lesbian might not always be easy, but the important thing is that you’re happy and able to be yourself.