Category: LGBTQ

Tis the season to feel proud

So its late Spring and throughout many countries in the world Gay (LGB&T) Pride season starts. I still remember my first Pride in 1992. I was 23 and I had just come out a few months earlier. I had made some gay friends and they took me to London Pride. Where I lived and grew up in a small town, there were no Gay role models at that time, there was no internet, no apps etc so as far as I knew I was the only gay in the village. It was the early 1990s and LGB&T people were only beginning to be accepted in society, although there was still a lot of homophobia around, and here in the UK, the age of consent for gay men was 21.

Now I recall my excitement and amazement at just how many LGB&T people there were, just how many handsome gorgeous men were GAY! My heart burst open with excitement of all the opportunities for sex, romance, love and pleasure that were now possible for me (I was moving to London later that year to study) Anyway, only two things really marred that day, the homophobia from the Police on the march, their aggressive stance and body language and how amazing that just a few years later the Gay Police Association would lead the Pride March. The other was the homophobia we encountered when we got off at Brixton Tube to go to the event in Park. The street was lined with people who spat and called us Batty men. The event in the park was amazing and was mostly hosted by LGB&T popstars and activists and it was FREE! None of these boybands and popstars charging £50,000 to perform.

Straight people often ask, why Gay Pride? Why do we need to do this? Well remember that there are still many LGB&T people coming out, coming out in small towns and villages where they feel like the only gay person in the village. Some still experience discrimination and prejudice and are rejected by their families for doing so and society still has stereotypical images and perceptions of who LGB&T people are. In many ways, Gay Pride challenges that and for the newbies it’s a powerful reminder that they are not alone, that they have a whole new family of LGB&T brothers and sisters out there, with so many choices and support if they need it.

We also need to remember that in far too many countries, our LGB&T brothers and sisters face persecution, death, imprisonment and don’t have Pride marches to go on. They don’t have the luxury of marching down the street with rainbow flags and crowds of people waving them on and celebrating with them.

So this Pride season march is for them, March for the ones who are just coming out. For the ones in the closet and afraid to come out. March to acknowledge how far we have come and how much work we have to do to help free our LGB&T brothers and sisters around the world who live under homophobic and transphobic laws, tyranny and persecution.

Have a happy proud pride season.

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June 1, 2015
The Oldest Profession

Something a little different this time if you are a regular to my column. If you are new – welcome! Whatever the case dear reader, want to know how I got started in ‘The Business’? Then read on. All will be revealed (and you might want to grab yourself a cuppa…).

The Oldest Profession
A True Story

I wander alone and untamed by my life’s experiences. Blindly stumbling into no-man’s land as my blood-red XR3i convertible chaotically cavorts through the dimly lit suburban streets.

It’s midnight and I’m on my way to my ‘other job’ – the host with the most in a brothel situated in the unlikeliest of villages in sleepy Cheshire, not too far from home but far enough to enable me to keep this a secret. I also work as an escort for an agency, that’s all in addition to my day job as an underpaid skivvy, or care worker if you prefer. I am also a nurse part time for the Health Authority and still earn only just enough to make my rent and put fuel in my car. So when this guy who runs the brothel called me on my work mobile to ask if I’d be interested in doing ‘massage’ for him I jumped straight in. That was several weeks ago and I am beginning to settle in now. It is a world away from the mundane occupations of nursing and care work and although my senses ring out with alarming and increasing regularity: “NO!” I choose to ignore the cry of reason as I hurtle towards my new-found family and let’s face it, right or wrong; I am behind the wheel of a fabulous car.

My new family consists of the best of society’s rejects. There’s Jason the ‘adult baby,’ Jonty the chef, Ben the other “boy” or host, like myself, Derek the milkman who doesn’t actually work at the brothel but he lingered so long once after delivering the milk that he kinda moved in. Oh yes and every brothel wouldn’t be complete without the ‘Madame’ who in this case is an older man called Roy. Roy is a dark and mysterious character with a certain charm to complement his sleazy undertones. He is bald with a long pointy face, crooked teeth and a crackly chest-voice which is mainly a result of too many Marlboro Lights.

The brothel is poignantly placed between a delightful village church and the local funeral home. Discretely nestled in the middle, the building is an old converted coach house with cobbled driveway, whitewashed walls and a stable door leading into the kitchen. It is charming.

As my mean machine pulls into the bumpy driveway my body thrills with excitement. I am distracted from the sickness in my stomach by this longing in my groin. It makes me feel alive.

“Oh hi Matt” welcomes Roy as the door to my exclusive new life opens and beckons me inward.

“Or should we say: C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-A-A-N!” Jason Teases as I walk into the kitchen in a vibrant bubble of nervous energy. ‘Christian’ is my alter-ego, we never use our real names in this business, it helps to keep a professional distance, or at least that’s the left-brain justification anyway. Pretending to be someone else makes us feel like we are stars performing for the adoring crowd – it’s a rush like no other. So I begin preparations for the rush of this evening as it’s a very special night. Tonight Roy is launching a social club at ‘The Cottage’. Punters pay just a fiver to get in and they have free food, wine, music and use of the play room. That’s where guys ‘play’ but it depends very much on your definition. The play room is fully equipped with a sex sling, massage table, latex gloves, whips, chains, cock rings and every size and shape of dildo you could ever imagine. Oh yes and of course there is 24/7 porn played on the TV which is suitably situated facing the table so the punter, sorry I mean client, has a good view when he’s on top of whichever boy he has chosen. The room smells of sex; a musty, pungent mould that cleverly works its way into my psyche, filling me with desire as it thrusts me sharply forward into this other world. The rush of adrenalin helps me to dance more effortlessly within the walls of this darker side to my nature.

I can be anyone I want to be – not everyone can say they have a true alter-ego, a whole other person living within them and living a completely different life. I can.

We are all still gathered in the kitchen as the clients haven’t arrived yet. There’s me, Roy, Jonty, Jason, Ben and a couple of regulars, Daniel and Karl, who always arrive early to try and avoid paying. They make out they are friends instead of clients and it pisses the boys off because Roy never seems to notice. Not that I’m getting paid tonight as it’s my first night in this role so I’m on trial. I have done massages for Roy before, he pays me ten pounds per punter and he pockets thirty five for himself. He says he will give me more when I’m more established. I must do my best because I need the money. I get just enough from the care work, nursing and escorting but I still need more to live on.

I love standing in the kitchen chatting. Jonty always has something on the go in the oven and the room is filled with the smell of security housed within the aroma of roast beef, potatoes or hot pot that gently rises from the range. As I stand here, with the glass of Merlot Roy gave me, talking to the guys surrounding me, I am comforted by the flutter in my abdomen and the tingling round my head and face: “This is how it’s supposed to be” I think to myself as I look on at my family – all guys together laughing and talking shit but knowing deep down that we are all meant to be here in this moment. Troubled souls who collide into this temporary fantasy, trying to get by the best we can.

“Shall we go through to the dining room boys?” Announces Roy as the timer on the oven pings the arrival of tonight’s feast.

We all top up our glasses and make our way to the small but perfectly formed dining room at the end of the hallway, to the right of the kitchen. As I sit at the table, adorned with shiny silver cutlery and beautiful candelabra as the centrepiece, I chuckle inside as I think where we would be if we’d turned left out of the kitchen – that’s the playroom, which leads onto the dungeon, bunkroom and dark room. If only people outside knew what goes on here. The place was raided once by the police but that’s another story.
As we all settle down in our designated seats – Roy at the end, Jonty at the other and the ‘boys’ placed on display around the table so all guests have equal access, the door bell rings and Jason rushes to answer it.

WOW! My heart leaps and genitals stir as in walks ‘the army guy’ Conner. He’s straight, apparently, but he makes a bee-line for me and plonks himself very close, so his thigh is touching mine. I calmly and politely say:

“Hi mate. Welcome to the Cottage”. My mouth dries, lips chap, heartbeat thickens and fastens and I desperately want to lean over and kiss him. I refrain.
As the evening progresses more clients turn up throughout the meal and are welcomed enthusiastically by Roy and insincerely by me as all I am now interested in is Conner. I dream about him asking me on a date, taking me on holiday and holding me in his big strong arms. I am suddenly aware of Roy’s unhealthy stare into my guilt. He’s spotted I am showing more attention to one guest and that is against the rules.

“Why don’t you take Damien into the play room Christian?” Roy bosses me as my hand lowers discretely under the table to stroke Connor’s leg.

“Erm, I haven’t finished my dinner yet.” I shyly say, noticing a familiar rampant thump in my chest. I feel consumed with guilt and fear, as if I’ve done something very wrong but desperately wanting to have some alone time with my new man.
“Anyway” Jason interrupts “Christian is far more interested in a certain army boy!” To my surprise, Conner, who has previously been very quiet until now, turns to me and says:

“So how about it then?” as he knowingly turns to Roy with a nod, as if he realises that as a paying guest he has the final say.

“Ok. Off you go then and suck his cock.” Roy flippantly says as he gives in.
Both Conner and I simultaneously rise from the table, taking our wine glasses with us.
As we both nervously stand outside Conner’s night-blue Ford Focus, occasionally taking a jittery sip from our glasses, Conner again tells me he’s straight and asks if we can sit and “talk” in his car. He didn’t want to go to the play room so I suggested we go for a walk instead and this is as far as we got.

“Okay” I say as he pushes the electric remote to open the doors. I land into the inviting leather bucket seats and wonder what he will say to me. Maybe he will take me for a drive, or gently kiss me or hold my hand. Maybe he will say that he wants to have a relationship with me. My heart is beating so fast now, I can taste his kiss already and the smell of his aftershave is planted deep in the pit of my secure dreams. He is wearing a trendy woolen jumper, grey with ecru stitching, dark grey jeans and I can just make out his leather belt with a huge silver buckle on it. His package is big, bulging and a perfect rounded shape, as I place my hand tentatively on his thigh, I notice his bulge moving. This brings a sense of warmth to my own loin and makes me realise that I must be very special to turn him on like this. He must like me.

“Wanna suck me off?” he says as he unbuttons his Levi’s. I ignore my sadness and sinking feeling in my stomach. I just go down.

“Oh man! Oh fuck!” I fill my emptiness with Conner’s manhood as he groans. He quickly adjusts the driving seat so I have more room to perform my duty. Although I can’t pretend I am not feeling used, I still have this exotic rush shooting from my perineum straight into my lips that are now vibrating around his desperate phallus. It’s like a drug.

“Oh don’t stop! Don’t stop!” He shrieks. God this is just like the movies. I never heard a guy shout so loud before. The girls he’s had must have been shit. I have a great technique you see, it’s kinda a natural gift I have. My ego takes over to remind me how great I am at this and I bring him to a magnificent climax as his hot creamy liquid erupts into me. For a split second I hesitate but then realise that I always swallow.

With the job done, I lean back into my warm seat and he says “Cheers” as he quickly buttons himself up. I hand him my card with my number on and say I’d like to see him again. Note to self… this isn’t a date: stupid! But I really would like to see him again so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose and he definitely had a good time so maybe he will call. I hope so. Conner says he will come back inside in a minute and I kiss his cheek, trying not to notice his flinching and I return to the family in the dining room. I wait alone as they must have all gone to the dungeon or playroom. He doesn’t return.

Fuck it, who gives a shit anyways? I follow the sounds of pissed giggling and innuendo and find my family all in the bunkroom getting it on. Now the bunkroom is a themed room, based on every gay man’s and some straight women’s fantasy – army barracks full of testosterone-fuelled men who haven’t had sex for weeks. It is kitted out with two plasma TV screens showing porn, two huge bunk beds with each level big enough for four people, camouflage netting on the ceiling and the walls have paintings and murals of army boots, semi-naked guys in army gear and the walls are also lined with green metal lockers on two sides. There is a table under the TV screens which is just like a picnic bench that you would find in a park, only it’s painted green to resemble the benches you’d see in a locker room or gym. The lighting is typical of the rest of the cottage – red and green. It adds to the ambience of sleaze, debauchery and public toilet sex. Works quite nicely I think.

As always, Roy is standing charge telling people what to do and who to do it to. By this point everyone is naked, there are a few new faces that weren’t at dinner and Ben is tied face down to the bench. Roy is stood giggling with a pot of chocolate body paint in his hand:

“Eat his ass Christian” Roy orders as he plasters Ben’s buttocks and fifty pence piece with the sweet feast. Not having time to respond, thank fuck, Damien ploughs in and starts to eat the brown substance from Ben’s hole. Not one of the guys has a bona and I wonder just how sexy this scenario is.

“We’ve all got brewer’s droop” Roy excuses as he sees me glancing downward as I mentally and physically scan the group for any sign of arousal. Yeah, Roy’s gatherings are often non-starters, so I’ve heard but I need the money and I need to impress him if he’s to take me on as a full time boy here. Just as I disrobe and throw my clothes down to the cold, green painted concrete floor Bill, the local farmer, walks over to me. He is forty two but looks about thirty with an amazing masculine physique. He has a perfect triangular shape from his shoulders to the waist and right now his cock is not hard but definitely, as a very pretty woman once said “has potential.” He winks at me as he walks by, turning his head to look at me as he passes. I know he wants me to follow him and without hesitation, after all this is what I am here for, I follow him into the bathroom where I lock the door behind me. Well I’ve already broke the rules once tonight so I know Roy’s gonna give it to me tomorrow anyways. We start kissing and I feel a turgid presence pressing into my own manly reminder. I drop to my knees as if on auto pilot and to my pleasure Bill pulls away, gently stroking my face and guides me back to standing. My body is warm and I never felt so much blood rush to my shaft before. I feel whole and strong as we both collapse to the floor of the bathroom, clumsily wedged between the toilet and sink. I am now on top of him gently yet passionately writhing against his tanned torso, my smooth chest tickling and giggling as his soft brown down brushes next to me. Fuelled by lust, loneliness and Merlot I am consumed with the heat of the moment as I find myself sliding deep into him. We do not speak. It just happens. Neither of us mentions the need for wearing a condom. He wants me and I want him – and now we have each other.

We emerge sheepishly from the bathroom after our heated liaison. Neither of us climaxed but it didn’t seem to matter. I want to hold his hand as we walk back into the bunk room but he goes over to join the others, occasionally giving me a cheeky glance. So I remind myself of my role here tonight and Roy must notice my flirtation as he leads me to the bottom bunk of the bunk bed and pushes me down onto the khaki mattress as he climbs on top of me. The other boys join in and we all cavort in a group sex act of plastic proportions. No one is truly aroused and I feel absent in my presence. I have naked bodies all around me; everyone seems to be touching me at the same time. Jason leans over me and whispers that I have a face like a porcelain doll:

“You look so perfect. I’m afraid to touch you in case you break.” He says as I hold him closer and he rests his head upon my chest whilst the others seem to fall silent as they limply stroke each other in drunken lethargy.

“I love you” Jason whispers as he squeezes tighter with his arms around my naked waist, snuggling his face further into my neck. A chasm of sadness opens up as I hold this broken little boy in my arms. I have only known him a short time, the few weeks I’ve been popping into the Cottage to introduce myself and do the occasional massage, but I know so much about him. He was put in a care home at eleven and was forced to have anal sex with the manager and the staff. He said he “loved it” and that he was the “slut of the home” but the cold blood running through my veins tells me that is just his way of coping. His other coping mechanism is embroiled in his life as an adult baby. Adult babies shave all their body hair, wear nappies, soil themselves and play with baby toys and eat rusks. All the usual stuff a baby does, obviously. Some babies will have ‘parents’ to change their nappies and take care of them. Jason has another baby friend he chats too on the internet and they are both looking for parents at the moment. Roy understands Jason and his needs so he is making a cot for him and has already decorated Jason’s room with Noddy wallpaper and mobiles. Jason feels at home here and loves being allowed to finally be himself now he is twenty eight. Me; I want to help him into therapy and ask him more about what exactly being an adult baby does for him. But I don’t do either.

As I lay here, in the dark with men all around me I cannot sleep. Jason is still asleep on my chest and I suddenly have the urge to run. Run anywhere. So despite being several glasses of wine over the limit, I gently slide my now cold moist body from under Jason and get dressed, grabbing whatever clothes are nearest. I let myself out, making sure the door locks from the outside and hesitate for a second or two. I fear that I am locking myself out of my home but still desperately wanting to run away.

I jump into the car and make my way down the by-pass towards the sleepy town that I now live in, remembering that I have work at eight in the morning for the care agency, an old lady I help to get dressed and make breakfast for. Although tired, drunk and cold with fear I am still charged with sex. I want sex and I want it now. I slowly drive down the by-pass and notice a lay-by with just one dim light reluctantly illuminating the darkest corner. I pull in with this thumping need still taking me over and turn off the lights and car engine. My eyes rapidly search into the darkness for signs of life, the glance of a stranger, the look of lust but nothing. I open the car door and swing my legs round as I unbutton my jeans and start to masturbate frantically. I can feel a sweaty, smelly sensation all over. I am blind yet fully alert knowing that if a passing police car saw me I’d be in big trouble but I am beyond caring and so I abuse myself until at last I am relieved of the night’s burden. Post-ejaculation paranoia takes over so I take the back lanes back home to avoid a possible run-in with the police. I stumble into the quant terraced cottage I’m renting and clamber into bed fully clothed, still wearing the ‘Slave’ T-shirt I quickly grabbed on my way out of the brothel.

It hardly seems a minute since my head hit the pillow for a drunken sleep when the alarm bellows in my ear. I stay in bed far longer than I should and am an hour late to get Annie up and ready. I’m not bothered because she lives alone and no-one will know I’ve been late. She’s a dolly mixture short of a quarter anyway. I pull up outside her cute little bungalow in a small village in Cheshire, very close to the medieval town I now live in and look for the key under its usual hiding place under the wheelie bin. It’s not there. I go to the back door which leads into the kitchen and there’s a woman of around forty stood there, staring at me through the window with glaring eyes:

“Yes. Can I help you?” She storms, eyeing me up and down with a cutting distaste.

“I’m the carer, come to get Annie up.” I say wearily through my dry lips and alcohol fumed breath.

“Well you’re late! And I’ve already got her up!” She snaps. She is intently staring at my white grubby T-Shirt with ‘SLAVE’ splattered across the front in big black letters as I try to jolly her up and say the office gave me the wrong time to come, unconvincingly.
I go through into the living room where Annie is nibbling on her toast with marmalade, the room smells of moth balls and piss. Annie is wearing a turquoise dress with horrid pink flowers on.

“Morning Annie!” I force as I make even more excuses for my bedraggled state:

“Ooh what are they like in the office Annie? They told me nine o’clock today and I’ve been on a night shift too.” Well let’s face it I have been on a night shift. She does her usual grunt at me and continues to fill her miserable face with her new servant’s morning offering and I tell her I’ll see her later.

The stern prissy women who I assume is Annie’s daughter continues to look at me as if I’m some alien from planet scum as I briskly walk passed her and swiftly exit back to my gorgeous car.

I’m back home in no time and safely snuggled back into bed. No fucking point doing this crap job anyways, I only get a pound per visit. I’m supposed to go back at lunch time but I don’t wake up till gone four. Whoops.

I stumble down my wobbly stairs in this old dairy house, situated next to the sub post office which is run by Hyacinth and Donald, the nosiest neighbours known to man. The stairs lead straight into the dining room which is so tiny it’s more like a parlour. It is an odd triangular shape with a brick fireplace and real fire grate. When I’ve got enough money for the coal, I like to spend evenings gazing into the flames, toasting bread and lazing on the mud-brown carpet. It is deep pile and very warm but it stinks of cat piss. It’s okay though and I love living in a cottage, I feel dead grown up.

I flick the play messages button on the answering machine as I walk towards the kitchen to make a coffee. There’s a message from the care agency I work for: “Hello Matt it’s Sharon, I’ve just had Annie’s daughter on the phone and I’m afraid she’s made a complaint…” I run to the machine and press delete with an incredible surge of “fuck it” anger. FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT! Trying to ignore this inner sense that I’ve let people down and distracting myself from the reality of neglecting another human being. Abandoning my feelings of guilt, I become arrogant, cocky and aloof. I go to the living room window and peer out through the small-town net curtains at my gleaming pride and joy sat opposite, parked partly on the pavement because the road is so narrow. Yes. She’s still there so everything must be okay. I take one last glance at my safety anchor, my gleaming XR3i Convertible before I ascend the stairs to iron my Nurses’ uniform, powder blue with white epaulettes, ready for the six to ten shift for my other ‘mainstream’ job.
And they say only woman can multi task.

© Matt Chase All Rights Reserved
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May 27, 2015
Mainland China and Homosexuality

Nowadays it is difficult for us not to mention China in any subject as it has a prominent role in the international arena. China’s economics has been dramatically growing, subsequent to the amalgamation into WTO in the early twenty-first century. As China began to have an impact on the world, western ideology and practice has also begun to influence the country. One can see, international organizations are swelling, here and there, in cosmopolitan cities such as Beijing and Shanghai, further propelling China to annex its name in the global community. With the Beijing Olympic, China used the platform to demonstrate the extensive pride of China to the global market. Making an impression to international visitors with several grand architectures such as the bird-nest stadium designed by Ai Weiwei.

For China to achieve its success today, there are many changes it had been going through. The culture and practice of China underwent a considerable adjustment following the downfall of strong socialism by Chairman Mao in 1976 and the policy of “4 Modernizations” by Deng Xiao-ping became effective. Unlike those days during the Cultural Revolution, Chinese people now have more freedom to express themselves; collectivism has made way for individualism. One of many entities to mark greater freedom of the Chinese people is “sexuality”.

During the extreme socialist era, people’s knowledge and understanding of sexuality by and large leaned towards heterosexuality, that is, intimate relationship between man and woman. Hence, the government attempted to criminalize homosexuality. Suiming (2005:120) wrote about this period saying, “Both [Mao Zedong and Chiang Kai Shek] considered it [homosexuality] as a sort of bad cultural baggage which should be jettisoned as soon as possible, handling offenders prison sentences or long stretches at reforming hard labor.” However, the alleviation of the said patriarchal custom and law came into scrutiny in the wake of Deng Xiaoping in power. Sodomy was abolished as illegal in 1997.

Chinese socio-cultural practice seems promising but not ideal. Chinese culture in its present day form is steep in Confucianism. The notion of sex as of yet emphasizes on married couples and significantly for the purpose of producing heirs. Beyond that sex is undignified. This definition venerates the conceptualization of traditional family. It is to say, parents anticipate their own children to bare off springs to continue the family name, or better known as chuan-zong-jie-dai (传宗接代). Gay people are pressurized under this culture apparently. Being out of the closet is intolerant with the majority of Chinese families. Chinese gay people create an escape with cooperative marriage, so as to appease their parents. The so-called cooperative marriage is where a gay man weds lesbian, merely in the name, or vice versa. Matchmaking websites and partner-finding applications, such as chinagayles.com, has been booming.

As seen, the upsurge of the internet, gay people have more ways to liberate themselves, albeit still under a strong patriarchal culture. They have the opportunity to get to know one another via gay websites and organize community events both in online and offline. Nevertheless, it is not at all a bed of roses. The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) is always impeding gay lifestyles, barring homosexuality-related media and its pertinent movement. Surprisingly enough, last year, according to the website “Queercomrade”, the movie Like Love was introduced for the first time to mainland Chinese LGBT-themed movie in mainstream cinema. This is relatively contradicting to what they have done to the LGBT community. This leaves many questions, one of which is whether or not the CCP, which directs the hegemonic culture, remains tolerant to gay culture and people.

This is a succinct information which may lead you all to comprehend the mainland China and its gay culture. I hope to write some more specific case in next issue. Happy reading!!! 🙂

Reference(s):
Suiming, Pan (2005). “homosexuality” Sexuality in China. Nakornpathom: The Rockefeller Foundation.

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May 25, 2015
Advice for fetish models and photographers into bondage

To run a bondage website or any small niche fetish site, it has to be something that you’re just dying to do and that you’d be doing even if there were no money in it. It really is a lot of work and I’m sure there are easier ways to make a living. It’s the kind of thing where a person has to be a little crazy and obsessive to keep doing it, or else after a few years you’ll find that it’s a grind and not much fun anymore and it’ll be time to look for a real job.

I certainly have some days like that where planning the next shoot and editing the next pictures feel like a chore but for the most part it’s great, and it has been extremely satisfying. These have certainly been some of the best years of my life and I just want to keep them going as long as I can. I only wish I’d started ten years earlier.

One other thing to consider is that if you’re running a fetish website as your full-time work there’s always that little question that comes up when you meet someone new, “So what do you do?”

When I was just starting out I gave vague answers about web design but I felt uncomfortable with the question, as I wasn’t sure that my website was really going to be successful or how long I’d be doing it. Now that it’s been online for twelve years I mostly just tell people the truth, that I run an adult or fetish website. Most of the time it’s a non-issue, but I’ve certainly run into people who’ve been uncomfortable or who have told me to my face that they disapprove.

And I’m a pretty sensitive person so even now those responses can sometimes rattle me a little, but it comes with the territory when you’re doing something out of the mainstream. And yes, my family and friends all know about the crossdressing and my website, with varying degrees of acceptance. I just find that keeping it all a secret makes me feel depressed and anxious so I find it’s easier to just be fairly open about it when the subject comes up.

Images courtesy of Sandra Gibson
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May 20, 2015
IDAHOT Day: No One Must Ever Know

“I want to be famous” he tells me. “And with looks and a body like that, my young friend”, I thought, “You could be famous in about two seconds!” What I said, however, was: “Famous for what?” meaning, for singing? for acting? for writing? for what? He answers: “So I can be rich” “But that’s a result,” I tell him; “It’s the result of DOING something or BEING something.” “I’ll get an agent,” he goes on, not answering my question, “and the agent will make me even more famous and richer.” Boringly, I implore him once more: “But you have to have an agent for writing, or for acting, or for SOMETHING. What will you have an agent FOR?” With two enormous, deep, soulful, sparkling dark-brown eyes that a Rudolph Valentino would envy, he just looks at me uncomprehendingly and changes the subject.

Now if this dialogue had taken place in Hollywood, or even New York, it would not have surprised me. In fact, this dialogue took place in a small village in Southwestern France, in French, and the young man, Philippe, speaks rapidly, forcefully, and remarkably unselfconsciously. His voice is husky, “with a sexy, throaty, buzz to it, and his conversation is rapid, sure, and peppered with trendy slang.

I’ve known him for about three years, having perceived him around and about the village. First I noticed him for a regal stance, a ramrod-straight carriage, an angular face with remarkable cheekbones, large, deep eyes, and a dark slender beauty enhanced by a superb, innate sense of movement. Later on I gave rides to him and some of his chums hitch-hiking from the village to one or other of the larger cities and towns nearby. Finally I got to know him better as the close friend of another youth who came from northern France to live in my house during a summer vacation.

The truth is that I lusted after Philippe since first seeing him. He didn’t look or act like any of the other village boys. He was taller, more stylish, outgoing, and talkative. Also very full of himself. Two years ago, a group of us went skinny dipping in the river, and I discovered that he looked even better naked than dressed in the baggy levis, loose t-shirts, and mounds of cheap silver jewelry so much in vogue then. I took photographs at the time, both color and black and white, clothed and unclothed. Never shy, he was more than pleased with the results of his modeling. Our friendship has grown slowly, and there’s a kind of jet lag between us culturally, educationally, socially, emotionally, as well as a considerable age difference. All those differences make our approaches and distances odd and fascinating, for him as well as for me. We’re very different animals.

Since I first met him, he’s been an apprentice to a baker, he’s quit school, he’s been in and out of the army, and twice already he’s been engaged to be married. Subsequent to a knife fight with an Arab buddy in the barracks, during which he was wounded in the knee, he was hospitalized for most of his military service. Endlessly bathed and tenderly tended by a brigade of military nurses in a hospital near Bordeaux who were only too pleased to nurse him back to health from a serious blood infection, he emerged with a slight limp which somehow makes his appearance even sexier. Released from the hospital, he spent his last several months in the military in an office shuffling papers, and his advisors are now requesting that he be awarded a full pension as a wounded war veteran. Philippe just turned twenty.

Having returned to the village four days ago after an absence of almost a year, I was pleased to see Philippe shortly after arriving. 1had gone out for an early jog, partly to fight jet lag; partly because if I don’t do it early in the day, I don’t do it at all, and partly because the morning was slightly misty and cool, a comfortable temperature before the heat of the day makes running a chore. Several kilometers out of town, a truck passed, and I perceived Philippe sitting on the deck, in the rear. He noticed me, as well, and we waved. I figured he’d stop by later in the day, but he didn’t show up until evening, just before dinner. I was very pleased to see him. He gave me a big hug and came into the kitchen where I was in the last stages of preparing a meal for Jeannette and Michel who were getting ready elsewhere in the house. I asked Philippe to join us, but he declined since he’d already dined and said he’d come back later for a coffee. He returned, almost on the dot of ten thirty, and we all sat in the living room while he recounted his life and army adventures during the past year. After an hour or so, Michel went home to sleep, and Jeannette, still suffering from jet lag, retired to her room. Philippe and I were alone for the first time in two years.

May 17, 2015
IDAHOT Day: What is May 17?

May 17th is IDAHOT day, International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia. So what’s it about, well it was created in 2004 to draw the attention of policymakers, opinion leaders, social movements, the public and the media to the violence and discrimination experienced by LGBTI people internationally.

Some of us are lucky to live in countries where LGB&T people are protected from discrimination in the law some still have almost full equality with marriage equality being the latest to be added to the list of victories for LGB&T people, however this doesn’t mean that we do not experience homophobia, bipohobia and transphobia hate crimes, language or attitudes. It means we have some protection in the law, yet even on social media sites such as facebook, twitter and you tube homophobic language is prolific and often unchallenged by people and often when people face reported it, it hasn’t been dealt with. We hear stories of young people such as Leelah Alcorn who still feel it’s better to take their own lives than be who there are. So we still some way to go to exorcising the demon of homophobia, transphobia and biphobia from society, however we do have rights.

We can do well to remember how hard we fought for these rights and how now we need to turn our focus to countries where LGB&T people are persecuted and face discrimination, even torture, imprisonment and death! Look at ISIS and what’s happening in Syria and Iraq, where suspected gay men have been thrown off buildings and if they survived that stoned to death. Stories in the media of transwoman being murdered in Brazil and Latin America. The list is endless, what do our LGB&T brothers and sisters in these countries need, they need the media attention of the world focused on them, they need politicians and international organisations campaigning on their behalf. They need us to spread the word, to campaign as well write our leaders for them to lobby and advocate for us on their behalf.

This is why IDAHOT day is so important its for us to remember how far we have we come as well as for us to work on supporting our LGB&T brothers and sisters elsewhere have a chance of those rights as well. So donate some money, better still donate your time with a local LGB&T charity to campaign and raise awareness of this issue to our less informed heterosexual families, friends, co workers etc.

Remember we are far stronger together and international pressure will help them and let them know they’re not alone.

Jakeb

For more information please refer to the following links:
http://dayagainsthomophobia.org/what-is-may-17th/
www.twitter.com/authenticgayblg
www.theauthenticgayblog.wordpress.com
www.youtube.com/user/NorthernFella
www.lgbtv.co.uk

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May 17, 2015
IDAHOT Day: Please Don’t Discriminate Me

Tomorrow, May, 17th, is the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia, so I open this note with a passage by John Locke from his famous book The Second Treatise of Government in 1690:

“The natural liberty of man is to be free from any supervisor power on earth, and not to be under the will or legislative authority of man, but to have only the law of nature for his rule. The liberty of man, in society, is to be under no other legislative power, but that established, by consent, in the commonwealth, nor under the dominion of any will, or restraint of any law, but what that legislative shall enact, according to the trust put in it.”

This passage clearly states that human beings are not under the domination of other human beings. We are free and equal in nature.

In contrary, there are rules that restrict the social lifestyle of people that are seen as deviant and sinners. And gay, lesbian, and transgender people happens to belong under this category. Homosexuality is label as out of place when a “real” women and a “real” man is the perfect relations for procreation, especially in my country. It is undeniable that a gender belief system still exists in Indonesia. This dynamic creates tension between men, women and homosexual groups when forced to adopt this system. A stigmatized person does not have power or ability to fight the gender belief system because of the hierarchical relationships between heterosexuals and non-heterosexuals. The homophobic social class manipulates the beliefs, perceptions, values and morals to meet their paradigm.

Now I live in France and there are many Indonesian gay people in here. I have asked many in a casual manner about their desire to return to Indonesia and from the bottom of their hearts they all said yes. They do not want to move to France in the first place as they prefer to live with their family in Indonesia. For them, surviving in a foreign country without social support from the family, a life, of course, is not ideal.

Sadly, the situation does not seem to allow them to return to Indonesia. The Islamic mass organization in Indonesia always depicts homosexuals as despicable and blasphemous peoples. Homosexuals did not choose to be born as a homosexuals. The situation is the same one with those who were born as a “woman” and “men”. Did they ask to their God, “Please make me as a woman”?

The presences of gay social movement is a marker that “we are here”. Social movement such as the resurgence of gay wrestling group all over the world. I would like to commend the efforts of Dédé Oetomo (Indonesian academician and LGBT activist) and Mami Yuli (Indonesian transgender) who have struggled to be a member of Indonesia’s National Human Rights Commission. Although they have not succeed but they fought for all human rights especially for LGBT. Being a woman, men, gay, lesbian, and transgender, for me personally, there is no difference. It’s not about labels. It’s about respect and contributions to society.

To close this little note, French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau through his masterpiece, Social Contract, said that every man must be free of any unimpeded, although in the end there should be a social contract. But it must be understood, and agreed together to create security, freedom and equality of mankind to achieve sovereignty. And also interesting to understand the statement of John Stuart Mill in his masterpiece, De La Liberté, that happiness will never be able to walk without the freedom of the individual, and to get it, we cannot impose a single model.

So STOP TO DISCRIMINATE LESBIAN, GAY, TRANSEXUAL, TRANSGENDER, INTERSEX, BISEXUAL, OR ANY SEXUAL ORIENTATION BECAUSE THEY ARE ALL HUMAN. WE HAVE TO RESPECT THEM AS WE RESPECT TO OURSELF.

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May 16, 2015
Travelling while Trans

“What are you going to do about the bathrooms?”

I recently travelled to Florida for spring vacation with my family. Florida is one of those states where a law has been proposed concerning the use of public restrooms, specifically targeting trans people. The idea of overzealous bathroom police has a lot of people pissed off and afraid and when a friend heard me talking about my vacation destination, he was concerned for my safety.

Truth is, I hadn’t thought about it yet. I was too busy catching up on work so I could hand-off to my co-workers. Once the topic had been brought up, however, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Along with those concerns about men’s restrooms, I started having flashbacks about uncomfortable and invasive past encounters with the TSA. My anxiety level increased as departure day approached, even though I was also looking forward to several days in warm weather without work responsibilities.

Travel can cause anxiety for a lot of people, no doubt about it. Concerns about having enough time to get through security, making sure your pockets are empty and your laptop is out, fears about flying, concerns about connecting flights… it goes on and on. For transgender and gender nonconforming people like me, there are added issues. Will security give me a hard time for having an ‘F’ on my ID while looking male? Should I take my packer out before going through security, so that it’s not perceived to be an anomaly during the full body scan? If they choose to scan me as male, will my chest and binder be seen as an attempt to conceal something? Will I be pulled aside for a pat-down, increasing my wife’s stress that we’ll miss our flight? Am I going to be harassed in the airport restroom?

As it turned out, all of that anxiety and preloaded adrenaline was for nothing. I spent a week in central Florida and passed as male everywhere I went, with the exception of my wife’s family who are still getting used to my changes. I heard my former name and pronouns more from them than I had in months, but everywhere else I was seen and accepted as a man. The peak moment of passing as male in Florida happened while we were visiting Gatorland. We were sitting in the stands for a ‘close encounters’ show where they have audience members help them with mystery animals held in wooden boxes. The first mystery animal was a tarantula, held by a reluctant woman volunteered by her family. The second animal was a rattlesnake and the handlers wisely decided to keep that one to themselves. For the last critter, something large judging by the box it was in, they wanted four audience members, two men and two women.

With two women and one man standing in front of the audience, they were pointing to someone on our side of the stands to be the second man. I looked up behind me and heard the guy say, “No, not behind you.” I looked forward again and raised my eyebrows, surprised and delighted. Turns out my daughter had been pointing to me behind my back. That’s how I became the second male volunteer to go down to the stage and help hold a very large Burmese Python.

My experiences in Florida, along with my experiences here at home, reinforced something I’d been thinking already: the people who will be hurt most by bathroom gender policing such as that proposed by Florida’s HB 583 or California’s “Personal Privacy Protection Act” initiative will be those who don’t pass well as male or female, depending on the restroom they are trying to access.

These attempts at bathroom policing are promoted as necessary safety precautions intended to reduce the potential for bathroom sexual assault. What they actually do is set up the very real possibility of assaults by self-assigned gender police against transgender people and other people whose appearance doesn’t conform to expectations based on their gender. Basically, these laws would validate and encourage transphobic bullying, increasing the violence and victimization of a sector of the population that already faces a high incidence of violent assault and risk for suicide and self-harming behaviors.

These laws aren’t protective, they are attempts to vilify an already oppressed group of people through lies and fear-mongering. The specter of the male who cross-dresses in order to access women’s rooms and assault those using them is a boogie man without factual basis. According to an article on Mic.com on that topic, no statistical evidence was found of a single incidence backing up those fears. Lack of factual basis doesn’t prevent people from whipping themselves into paranoid frenzies, however, and it’s a familiar tactic used by social conservatives to hold back socially liberal causes aimed at equal access and respect for all.

A brilliant social media campaign by some trans men and women used pictures of them in restrooms corresponding to their birth sex to illustrate a point: if laws are put in place decreeing that we must all use the bathrooms corresponding to the gender assigned us at birth, women’s rooms are going to start being occupied by men and men’s rooms by women. And I don’t think that’s what Joe and Betty Middle America want.

You may be thinking, “Hey, that initiative in California and those laws being proposed in other states, they’re not going to stand, they’ll get struck down, for sure.” You’re probably right and I contend that they are a serious problem regardless. Every time a religious leader, politician, school board member or other community leader proposes or supports transphobic laws and attitudes, these are the messages heard by my community: you’re not wanted, we wish you would go away, we don’t want to see you, we wish you were dead. People who are eager to justify their feelings of discomfort about trans people hear: trans people are the enemy, it’s ok to harass and bully them, they don’t belong in our community, we should do whatever we can to get rid of them. Even when these laws go no where, they have an extremely negative and tangible effect. They are evidence that a lot of people are eager to be hostile and punitive against people who are transgender or gender nonconforming in other ways..

As I continue my transition, I will benefit more and more from passing privilege, seen as a man and accorded the benefits typically given to men in this society. For me personally, passing privilege is going to mean my life gets easier in a lot of ways. Eventually, I imagine I’ll be more confident and less fearful about going to new places and being around people I don’t know. Though that’s good for me, I know my privilege isn’t shared by all. Though I might be able to avoid transphobic violence, I’m not going to be satisfied with having secured my safety until that safety is shared by all. I don’t get harassed now the way I did when I was seen as a butch dyke but I still carry those experiences, along with experiences of misogyny, sexism and homophobia. I am committed to using my passing privilege to help others who don’t have those advantages.

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May 15, 2015
4 Questions with Sandra Gibbons of Trannies in Trouble

SimplySxy: Can you describe what it’s like for you physically and what thoughts run through your mind as you’re being bound and gagged?

Sandra: For me, the element of bondage that turns me on the most is the feeling of being out of control or in a situation that’s potentially dangerous, or where I may be used sexually, or worse. But of course it’s all grounded in fantasy. I don’t really want to put myself in a truly dangerous situation or end up traumatized or injured, and of course if I do anything sexual in a bondage scene, my partner and I have probably gone over our limits and expectations beforehand and ideally I’m playing with someone I feel I can trust (of course, there have been exceptions).

So the thing about bondage, or the type of bondage I enjoy, is that it’s a kind of role playing, although there are ways to play that are edgier than others. I’ve certainly done a few play scenes aside from picture-taking where I later thought to myself, well, that could have gone really badly. But I’ve been very lucky in that I’ve never gotten into a scene where I felt like I was in real danger, and for the most part I’m very cautious and selective about who I’ll do this stuff with.

SimplySxy: There are a variety of binding, rigging and gag materials to choose from, such as nylon, leather restraints, leg-irons, duct tape, ball gag, duct tape. Which are your favourites?

Sandra: My favorite is probably duct tape, especially for duct tape gags that are wrapped across the lips and cheeks and encircling the back of the head, and with a big pair of panties shoved in the mouth first. This makes for a very effective and tight gag. That feeling of being “gagged” and of having your mouth stuffed and sealed up is probably the main thing that sends me over the edge. Being taped up and restrained with duct tape is great too, although obviously I use rope the most on my website, as that’s the default bondage material that most of us love. Leather gear is also great and can give more of a fetishy look.

SimplySxy: You look stunning in the pictures. Apart from the elaborate outfits and great set, what are the preparations required before each photo shoot session?

Sandra: Thank you so much. Taking the photos has definitely become a more involved process over the years. When I started out, I’d just get ready and kind of wing it and improvise as we went alone. Now I usually try to come up with a plan of what we’re going to shoot, quite often taking suggestions from what the model likes if I’m going to be working as the photographer. But there’s usually about a full day of preparation before most shoots, getting things ready, deciding on the outfits and coming up with some ideas. And quite often the idea for a shoot will be changed or even scrapped completely once we get going. A lot of it is a process and depends on who’s involved, what they’re into, how much they’re turned on by bondage, how intense they like it, and so on. I wish I could streamline things and make the process go faster but as the years pass it seems to be going in the other direction.

SimplySxy: Thank you for taking your time out Sandra and before we end off, what is your definition of “sexy”?

Sandra: Thank you again for having me, this has been fun! Well, I’d say for me “sexy” is that feeling of being weak in the knees when you realize you’ve gotten yourself into a situation a little over your head. And it usually involves a tight skirt, a tailored blouse (with a hint of spandex), five inch heels, stockings and a roll of duct tape.

Images courtesy of Sandra Gibson
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May 13, 2015
The San Antonio Power Jacket

A friend at dinner told me he was from San Antonio and then proceeded to tell me how boring it was there. In response I told him it was one of the most interesting places I had ever visited.

Startled and surprised, he asked me to explain, so I did, happily. As a young art dealer living in Boston in the early seventies, I learned it was worthwhile to take business trips away from Boston in the early Spring, because there was no early Spring in Massachusetts and Winter sometimes lasted until May.

Consequently, I took Spring business trips to Florida, Texas, California, and somewhere else which might be warmer and nicer than Boston in February, March, or April – which was almost anywhere.

San Antonio was a particularly lovely destination with an atmospheric old hotel I liked called the St. Anthony, and when you checked in at the St. Anthony, there weren’t many questions asked, and fewer to answer.

I knew the directors of two museums in San Antonio, so it was an advantageous place to visit for me, arriving with a portfolio of old master prints and drawings, along with a few modern works on paper, and several edgy newer works plus, startlingly at the time, photographs daring to attempt to pass as Art.

After a couple of days showing my wares around town, the work week was over and it was time to celebrate. I took off my three-piece suit, put on a pair of jeans and a pair of Western boots and set off towards a local bar which I’d located in a gay guide. Because business had gone well, I was feeling flush and in an expansive mood, deciding on the spur of the moment to take a hit of MDA, which we used to call “The Pink Pill,” to enhance the evening and to help overcome my slight nervousness about going out to a new bar in a strange town.

Arriving at the bar, called the San Antonio Country, there was a lot of frantic activity and some unusual sort of confusion, which I didn’t immediately comprehend. I bought a drink and watched what was happening for awhile, and it seemed to be some kind of rummage sale. Never having seen a rummage sale before in a gay bar, I decided to ask one of the locals what was going on. It turned out that a number of the fellows frequenting the place had decided they wanted to go on a ski trip. None of them had sufficient money to rent a vehicle large enough, so they arranged to hold a rummage sale in the bar to collectively raise funds for a trip to the ski region nearby.

Amused by the concept, I wandered through the tables which had been set up, looking at old shirts, old boots, magazines, and trivia which I found of little interest. In the very last row, however, a sparkling jacket hanging on a rack caught my eye. Originally a plain denim, Levi jacket, it had been lovingly tended and decorated over many years. The back bore a large letter C (for Claude, who had created this extravaganza) surrounded by jewels and a variety of artifacts, in addition to which the entire front, sides, and sleeves of the jacket had been decorated, fitted out, and encumbered with a vast array of pins, buttons, attachments, brooches, and every possible piece of bad costume jewelry imaginable. The left sleeve had a row of feathers sewn on in such a way that when you were leaning on the bar, the feathers didn’t get damaged. It was fabulous!

On the upper left lapel was attached a tiny bronze hand with a small clamp grasping bits of paper. When I inquired about the purpose of the bronze hand with the small bits of paper, I was looked at askance and told, with some attitude, that the paper bits were for giving out your phone number, in case anyone asked.

By this time the drugs had kicked in, and I was feeling ever more expansive. I asked to try on the jacket, and it fit perfectly. Needless to say, it was nothing at all like any Boston jacket I’d ever worn. It weighed about thirty pounds, and, because of all the jangling accoutrements, when I moved or attempted to dance, the jacket went into a rhythmic, noisy counterpoint of its own. I was totally enthralled and asked the price, which was a hundred dollars. Back then, that was more than three times the price of a brand-new Levi jacket. I contemplated the time and energy it would require to attempt to replace the adornments already in place and told Claude, the seller, that I would buy it. I vaguely recall telling him that it was an amazing piece of work, perhaps a masterpiece, and that it would probably end up in a museum. (At the time, the Metropolitan Museum was enjoying great success with its newly opened fabric and costume department.)

For a half-hour or so, I wore the jacket around the bar, enjoying the weight of it and the noises it made. Unbeknownst to me at the time, news had flown around the bar like wildfire that a crazy art dealer from Boston had paid Claude a hundred dollars for his Levi jacket and was going to put it into a museum. In no time, the jacket was gathering so much attention that it made me nervous, so I took it back to Claude and asked him to put it away for awhile, until I could work up to wearing it again.

After a few more drinks, I made another sashay around the bar, wearing the jacket comfortably this time, and I was cruised and approached more than at any time in my life. I quickly realized that it wasn’t about me, per se, but that the jacket had its own power, which an amazing variety of men responded to in different ways. At one point, two fellows were actually fighting about which one was going to take me home. This was a quandary unprecedented in my experience. While I was going a little crazy trying to figure out which of these two very attractive guys I should choose, the door of the bar swung open, and a stunning blond cowboy wearing tight jeans and a form-fitting shirt walked in, took one look around the bar, made a beeline towards me and asked simply: “Ya wanna fuck?”

May 10, 2015