Americans at the Backstreet

I met C. for the first time on Friday 26 April at the East End gay pub The Glory. He was visiting the country with his boyfriend A. – also an American – staying with friends we had in common. It was C’s first time in London – a treat he had given to himself as a 30th celebration.

Short and muscular, with a big, round and tight ass (thanks to many hours spent on bikes, or maybe just his genes); blonde, with a spatter of fuzz across his cheeks and upper lips; blue eyed and with a white smile, plus that friendly demeanour that most Americans have; he was one of those guys you immediately felt an attraction for, a mixture of sexual appeal with desire to cherish and protect.

At one point of the night, on The Glory’s basement dance floor, he told me he would really like to visit a leather bar, maybe the Eagle in South London, during his holiday. Instead, our friends ended up taking him to Soho, to Ku Bar and then Heaven.

I had plans on either going to the Backstreet or the Vault on Saturday night – was going to toss a coin and let it decide my fate – but then my mood just wasn’t a match so I stayed home. But on Sunday I woke up feeling great, refreshed and well up for visiting the Backstreet for it’s “anything goes” Unzipped.

Then it dawned me: maybe C. would like to join me? I’d heard from our friends that he hadn’t gone to the Eagle and that his boyfriend A. was leaving a day earlier, flying back to San Francisco, but C. had one more night in London. And the Backstreet is the oldest leather bar in London…

So I proposed a plan: “meet me outside Mile End tube station and we’ll go in together. You can go naked, or wear your underwear, leather, Lycra, or a football kit. Anything fetish.”

“I don’t want to do anything that will make me uncomfortable,” he messaged back.

“Don’t worry, we’ll just have a beer and chat! It’s more for you to see the space – have the experience before you fly home.”

Our friends took a picture of him just before he left their flat. He was smiling in the photo, and they were as proud of him as parents sending their kid off to his first day of school.

Took me 20 minutes to walk to Mile End. He stood by some bike racks, looking slightly forlorn. We hugged and I gave him my disclaimer, again: “It’s a small bar, not crowded. But it’s friendly, feels like a NYC bar from the 70s.”

We paid our £8 to get in (which entitled us to one free drink) and joined three guys in the changing area getting naked. We stripped down to our underwear (baby pink for him, bottle green for me) and handed in our belongings to reception. A smile played on his face – a smile of incredulity and amusement, of doing something for the first time.

Inside, quite a few daddies already sat by the bar or wandered around – nearly all naked. We exchanged our tickets for pints of Boddingtons and I gave him a quick tour of the place, pointing out the Tom of Finland posters, the hanging boots, the cages, the barrels; then the smoking area at the back, and how amusing it was to only be a few feet away from Mile End Road’s sidewalk.

This being my fourth visit, I was not only feeling a bit like a regular, but also recognised many faces. There was D., who I’d chatted to twice before, and also R., the guy who I’d played with the last time. I felt slightly apart from these guys, not only because of my underwear, but because of chaperoning C., who confessed he had never been to a club like that (“I’ve never seen so many arses in my life!”)

We found a corner and stood around having a nice chat about our lives, our relationships, while also checking out the guys and reminiscing about gay clubs and pubs we had visited or heard about. He seemed nervous, he said his boyfriend was mad at him for coming and made him promise “no penetrative sex”. Staring into his eyes as he talked, I was suddenly struck by how similar he looked himself to a Tom of Finland character.

The first guy that stood out for me was a guy I hadn’t seen before, a dad in his seventies with a massive cock, white beard, baldhead and a leather strap on his left wrist. He took an interest in C. and we eventually ended up chatting to him.

His name was E. and he liked to stroke his massive cock as he chatted to us. He had a cheeky smile, was a musician and knew the bars of NYC and San Francisco well (he confirmed to us that the Backstreet looked very much like old school bars in America.) At one point, while C. and I sat on the benches facing the bar, he came to stand next to us with a skinhead in tow and proceeded to fuck him while trying to catch C.’s eye.

All guys were over 40, apart from a beautiful boy with dark hair,  a muscular guy in his 30s who walked around non-stop, trying to find something or someone, but clearly not doing very well at it and, of course, C.

I pointed out the boy to C. as I’d learned that was his type, and his mood perked. Then more guys started to arrive, more action started to take place around us, and C. visibly relaxed. He suggested we move around, stand in different places. We even joked about the cages and I challenged him to go inside the main one – which he did when he found the door open, putting on a little dance routine inside (the skinhead who’d been fucked by E. stood beside me at this moment and joked that someone should lock him in there.)

The newcomers were younger, and good looking. Slim guys wearing baseball caps and jockstraps. “I like him,” he said, pointing to one of the tall guys. “I’m going to go say hello.”

While he struck up a conversation with the young ones, I sat beside D. and had a chat with him. He mentioned that the American had been there the night before and that he’d say hello from me next time he saw him. Then C. returned to my side and I introduced him to D. It now felt like we were chatting to quite a few people in the venue, reaffirming my feeling of the place being extremely non-attitude.

C. and I took our drinks into the main area and stood by some barrels, watching one of his new friends, a baseball cap-wearing stud, kneel down and take a daddy cock into his mouth. C. told me that this guy and his friend, both in their 20s, were Polish. Behind us, in the shadows, stood the muscular guy who’d been walking back and forth throughout the night, searching but not finding anything, also watching proceedings. When C. rejoined his Polish friends, I stayed behind, eyeing with more interest the muscle guy.

To my delight he stared back at me and so I squeezed my cock through the fabric of my underwear. He continued to stare so I moved closer. His cock was semi-hard. We squeezed each other’s nipples and ran our hands down each other’s bodies. I kneeled down and took him in my mouth, conscious that C. might suddenly return and find me giving this guy a blowjob. I was feeling done with the chaperoning.

I got his cock nice and hard, deep throating while holding on to his muscular legs, also giving some tongue attention to his shaved balls. He lifted his ass more and more, urging my tongue to slide further down, then suddenly turned around and offered me his whole ass. I slurped at his hole, which was nice and clean, but also pretty well used (from being fucked earlier in the night? Or often throughout his life?)

When I stood up, he kept himself bent forward and guided my cock to his ass after I’d fingered him for a little bit. I hugged him from behind and revelled in running my hands all over his muscles and squeezing his nipples while my crotch rubbed against his ass. My pint of beer stood unmolested on the barrel to our left; a few guys stood next to it watching us, with many more engaged in their own activities further away.

I thrust my cock harder and harder between his legs, giving his ass some nice slaps, but also massaging his back and holding his shoulders. He jerked off to my thrusts for a bit, then slowed down to grab my cock and guide it to his hole. Without any PreP, without a condom… I pushed in.

I could see C. chatting to the Polish boys on the other side of the space, maybe oblivious of what I was up to. I enjoyed the feeling of my cock inside this stranger – but it didn’t last long. I warned him I was going to cum and he said so was he. I blew my load inside him and we slowed down. He shot his load on the floor then turned around, sighed and gave me a quick kiss before moving off.

I leaned against the wall and grabbed my pint for a refreshing drink. It was the first time I’d shot my cum inside a guy’s ass. Totally irresponsible… unsafe. But I hadn’t been able to stop myself in that moment.

As I stood there enjoying my buzz, a dad stopped by me and grabbed my cock.

“I just came,” I told him. He smiled and leaned down, taking my cock in his mouth. He slurped and licked, sucked all remaining cum, plus gave my cock a complete tongue wash. I massaged his head and drank my beer while he worked on me. “Thanks mate,” I said when he stood up again. “No problem,” he smiled.

The night began to unwind, it was close to 10pm. C. brought me to the Polish boys and introduced me to them. They were gorgeous and sexy, and seemed to enjoy C. a lot. We joked around for a bit, imagined what it would be like if we did a marketing campaign to bring more young guys to the Backstreet (“You’ll be my poster boys!” I told them.) We decided to leave together and then decide outside what to do next. The remaining daddies who were sat at the bar waved us a cheerful goodnight.

All dressed up, walking up Grove Road, I told them I was calling it a night. The three of them decided to grab some drinks at the nearby Co-op and continue their acquaintanceship at the Polish boys flat, with the promise of safely putting C. in a bus afterwards so he could return to our friends’.

The next morning, I found out from C. that he was “in the doghouse” with his boyfriend as the hours spent with the Polish boys (as I imagined!) turned out to be very passionate and sexy…

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The Bunker and the Backstreet

East London has a leather bar, the Backstreet, just next to Mile End tube station. They used to have themed naked nights called “Buff” on Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays, which I visited a few times last year (and thoroughly enjoyed).

A few weeks ago, I did a Google Search to check if they were still going on and found out that “Buff” had moved to a brand new sex club, The Bunker, just by Old Street tube station (a venue which was once East Bloc.) Not only did they have the naked night, but nights dedicted to suits, skinheads, sports kits, jerk off sessions and more. I even mentioned it to my boyfriend (who then surprised me a week later by visiting the Bunker before me, for its “business suits” night, which he found very empty and action-free.)

Luckily for me, the Backstreet retained its naked nights, now called “Unzipped”, with its Sundays changed to an “every thing goes” evening (6pm to 10pm), much like what the Vault 139 have done with their Saturday’s (“All or Nothing”). I made a mental note that I must visit the Bunker one day but, beforehand, I decided to visit the Backstreet again (for my third time) to see whether the night would be as good as my two previous visits.  I chose to go on a Sunday too, which I’d heard from regulars was a popular night.

Coincidentaly, I got contacted by this Scouse Daddy I met four months ago at The Vault 139 (on my last visit) who asked if I’d like to spend a few hours with him on Sunday. This Scouse Daddy has a massive cock and I thought to myself that it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get nicely plowed by him, get all loosed up, before showing up at Backstreet for more action. We agreed for me to drop by his place at 2pm.

On that Sunday morning, I douched myself before leaving the flat and crossing Victoria Park, towards Scouse Daddy’s flat on the other side of it. Just as I spotted his building, he texted me: “Dorian, are you still in bed?” I responded with a photo of his building. “Call me when you get downstairs,” he messaged.

He buzzed me in and received me at his front door with a kiss. We hadn’t seen each other since Christmas (when I’d spent an evening with him where he got stoned and offputtingly abusive.) I’d promised myself I wouldn’t see him again, but he’d been messaging me fairly often since then and, now, here I was again, relenting and giving him one more chance.

We settled down on his settee, glass of white wine in hands, and chatted, then kissed, then cuddled, stroked each other, and relaxed. I took one of his hands and kissed it, then flicked my tongue from one finger to the next, before sucking on them – which he loved.

He ordered me to go into his bedroom and look for a jockstrap he always made we wear during previous visits. I found it under his bed and returned to the living room, where I stripped off and got into them (keeping my T-shirt on as he likes to see it fall over my ass as he fucks me). I also brought with me a pillow from the bedroom, which I could kneel on and feel more comfortable as my tongue worked over his cock and balls through his white briefs… then over his flesh once he pulled them out.

Like before, I tried to take on the whole of his cock while he grabbed my ears and face fucked. This was something I knew he really loved. My hands stayed busy holding his legs, moving up and down his back, gliding up his stomach for the soft coat of hair on his chest and his child-like nipples.

“Do you want daddy to fuck you?” and, as always, I nodded a yes. But he kept his cock and balls in my mouth, making the oral session last as much as he could before he had to blow his load.

We took breaks, cuddling on the settee and telling each other our fantasies, while he smoked and laughed. Then he’d get me down on my knees again, to work on his cock, or spread his asscheeks and rim his ass. Sometimes with music on, sometimes with a video playing of fighters beating the shit out of each other (another thing he really loves to watch while getting serviced).

Finally, in the bedroom, he poppered me up and made me lean over a nightstand and spread my legs. He dreams of the day he can shove his cock straight into me but, for now, he must spread some lube and be gentle, as he’s too big and I’m still too tight. I hadn’t been fucked since November – the last time we saw each other – and I felt some discomfort and pain. He let me open one of his poppers but they didn’t seem to make a difference, though luckily the discomfort subsided.

Of all the times I’ve seen Scouse Daddy, it’s always been about serving him and making him cum. He’s never shown interest in my own orgasm, which has been OK, but I was particularly moved this time when he said he’d like me to cum as he fucked me. But despite getting into the swing of things, feeling his cock cut me in half, I couldn’t get hard. Finally, he pulled out and said he was going to wash his cock. He came back impressed at how clean his cock was (and I can proudly say my douching now is always very good and I never leave a trace!)

I got back on my knees for the final session, licking hard his balls as he jerked off until he shoved his cock in my mouth and shot his load on my tongue – an ashen tasting load, which I put down to the amount of rollies he smokes. Then I got him to lie down so I could straddle his butt and give him a nice back massage, all the while leaning down to nibble on his ears and kiss his neck, take in the scent of his thick beard.

It was now 6pm and I’d been with Scouse Daddy for four hours. We kissed goodbye and I set off for the Backstreet.

The Backstreet

The Backstreet

I noticed with some amusement gay guys checking me out on the street and even giving me double takes. What is it about the face of someone who’s been fucking for hours?! Do we send out signals and vibrations that others pick up through our animal instincts?

On my previous visit to the Backstreet, I stopped by the nearby Co-op and got a snack, to kill time until 6.30pm. I did the same this time, though it was slightly chilly to sit in Mile End Park. Then I walked into the Backstreet, following a guy who had arrived at the same time, with none of the trepidations from before – none of the anxiety and fears that used to hit me when it came time to pay visit to a sauna or sex club. I truly felt like the kind of gay man I only ever dreamed about one day becoming.

I paid my £8 fee (a price drop since the change from “Buff” to “Unzipped”), got a large bag to put my possessions and got naked. Part of me was hoping to run into the American – this extemely hot, bearded guy I first hooked up with at the Vault 139, and then on my second visit to the Backstreet. But he wasn’t inside (and he sadly wouldn’t show up that evening.)

Some guys were sitting by the bar, including a daddy in a black lycra outfit which made me think of superheros. Further into the shadows, by the barrels, I saw other daddies, all naked or in their jockstraps. As it’s customary, most guys were standing alone, silently checking everyone out, who arrived, who walked past. Conversation only came via some of the regulars chatting to the friendly bar man.

One daddy asked me why there were some guys dressed up (as the above mentioned superhero dad, but also a guy by the bar in football shorts and t-shirt). I told him it’s now a night where any outfit goes.

Then one dad in black shorts stopped in front of me, smiled and leaned forward for a kiss. He had a white goatee, soft white hair, beautiful eyes and smooth – almost clammy – skin. He urged me to squeeze his nipples hard as we kissed softly. He kneeled and took my cock, gently sucking and stroking it. Guys watched us from nearby. Then he stepped up so his crotch was at my eye level and pulled out his hard cock and hairless balls for me to play with. After a while, he lifted my right arm and started licking my armpit. He lifted his own armpit (hairless) and offered it to me. It had a metallic, unejoyable taste to it and my licking was unenthusiastic. He kissed me again and said he would see me around. (His name was R. and he did hug me from behind a bit later, as I sat by the bar, to ask if I was enjoying myself.)

The only other guy I played with was the one dressed in football gear. I saw him wander past with a hardon inside his shorts and my interest was piqued. When two guys started fucking next to me, he left his perch by the bar and came to sit in front of me. When we exchange dlooks, he smiled – until he finally stood up and moved towards me.  We kissed and flicked tongues. I played with his nipples through the fabric of his football shirt, felt the nice ass inside the shorts, then pulled out his cock and stroked it together with my own. But maybe I was too gentle and not passionate enough, as he then said he was going to rest a bit and see me around.

A few guys came in – bottom cubs that accessed my topping potential. One of the regulars sidled up to me but I apologised for my lack of interest. We then got chatting and he told me how he always visits, despite living in Canary Wharf, that it’s a friendly bar. (My first impression of the Backstreet was how it felt like what NYC gay bars must have looked like in the 70s – slightly rough around the edges, lots of leather everywhere, Tom of Finland posters, and guys fucking in the corners.)

I left for home and only ended up having my long awaited orgasm when my boyfriend shagged me in the middle of the night!

A week later, after drinks and dancing in Soho, I decided to pay a visit to the Bunker. Unlike the Vault 139, it stays open until 4am on weekends, so I was curious to see how many guys would be there at 1.30am, when I finally arrived.

Four guys stood at the entrance, unsure if they should go in or head into town for G-A-Y. (they left). I paid £10 and handed my jacket to the receptionist.

Inside, a few guys sat by the bar and a television played porn. They were in various states of dress, some with chains around their necks. The bar ender – shirtless and tattooed, with a baseball cap and a thick black beard – was the standout cutie of the place. I walked through the venue, familiarising myself with its layout, its nettings you have to push through from one room to the next, its dark corners. It seemed about the same size as Vault 139, but laid out differently.  There wasn’t a single soul in sight apart from two naked guys having a chat in the toilets and a solitary guy walking around who didn’t tickle my interest.

I sat at the bar and waited for a bit, wondering if anyone else would show up. The bartender smiled at me, walked by and called me handsome – then even touched my beard at one point to check if I was OK. Maybe he felt a bit bad that it was so empty, and I wanted to say to him: can you take a break so we can go fool around? But I didn’t and, about 20 minutes later, I decided to call it a night and head home. What I should have done is ask when are the best times and days of the week to visit. Is the Bunker worth a second visit?

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Euston Station and Weddings

Euston Station public toilets

Euston Station public toilets

I spent Thursday outside London, on a work trip. Returning home, to Euston Station, I dropped by the toilets to check out its activities. The turnstiles were broken and anyone could walk in for free. Most guys were going into the cubicles and the long row of urinals was empty aside from two guys pissing.

I did my business and thought of other cruisy toilets, and how Euston Station maybe wasn’t ideal because the urinals were so long and open, and there was a large amount of straight guys. But then, as I was drying my hands, I spotted a short black guy newly arrived… he had the biggest cock I’d seen in my life!  Something thick and large, still soft, like that famous Mapplethorpe photo.

He looked at me, I looked at him. He kept looking, massaging his monster, I smiled. And it would have been nice to gesture for him to follow me into a cubicle and try to suck on that thing, but I turned around instead and left.

At the turnstiles, a rotund man dressed as a fransiscan fryer was coming in. I nearly laughed out loud.

I’ve also gone past Carnaby Street’s toilets recently and it remains shut down – probably for good. Not surprising when considering how openly the cruising and sex took place down there.

I went to a wedding this weekend and one of the guests – a guy I briefly met before – is someone who I once spotted cruising at Liverpool Street Station’s toilets.  He got drunk quite quickly and flirted openly with me the whole night. He also visited the wedding venue’s toilets constantly – back and forth, back and forth. I was almost accepting the idea of snogging him as a bit of fun (despite coming down with a cold and not having much energy to take him anywhere afterwards) when another guest at the party made his moves on me: a pretty guy with thick black hair and beard, dark eyes – South American – who smelled good, brushed his hands often on me, and suggested we go for a walk around the venue to “explore its history”.  I gave him a kiss when he stood close to me, and for the next hour we drunkely snogged in front of the guests.

Then the newly weds announced the bouquet would be thrown… and he caught it. 🙂

He lives in Brighton and it’s possible I’ll see him again as we have the newly weds as friends in common.  It felt so nice kissing and holding him… made me horny and now I’m considering visits again to The Vault 139 or the new Buff night at Bunker, for a bit of spring-time fun.

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Saturday Night, Liverpool Street Station

Yesterday, coming home from friends around 10.30pm, that familiar urge crept up when the Tube stopped at Liverpool Street Station. Should I hop off and go check it out? Every time I’ve been to those toilets on a Saturday night, the barriers are open, tons of guys are coming and going, mostly drunk, and the action is swift and busy at the urinals.

I wasn’t wrong: both urinal rows had about four guys, standing towards the back, some side-by-side, clearly jerking off.

I stood by a young guy, tall and fit, carrying a backpack. He looked at me with serious eyes and kept motioning to see my cock (which long time readers will know was soft and refusing to get hard.)

I motioned to him instead to move to the cabins and licked my lips. He moved – but to the partition at the back that separates both urinals, a narrow stretch of wall that can hide one guy.

I followed him there and found his thick, hard cock waiting for me. I went down on my knees and took it in, moving my body so both of us were behind the wall. Guys around us turned to look.

He moved then to the nearest urinal, so he could keep an eye on the traffic and then turn and feed me his cock at any gaps. Meanwhile, a short, older guy had moved to my side, trousers way down, cock peeking out of white briefs, and tried to feed me his. I gestured a no with my finger and kept working on the other cock – which was now being force fed hard to me.

The guy in the backpack then pulled back and asked me to show mine, but I said no and asked for more of his cock. He ignored that and moved to another urinal; I stood up and went to the cabins at the back.

I tried but just couldn’t get hard – too many nerves! But while at the back I noticed some interesting movements – some guys would walk past the cabins, walk up one of the urinals, then down another, maybe stop to wash their hands, then back to a cabin. Like they were checking the scene, or hoping to be followed.

I followed one guy, who got inside a cabin with me. But he didn’t want to be sucked, he wanted to kiss me gently and then motion for me to follow him outside… which I didn’t.

More guys arrived – mixed in with the rowdy lads who may, or may not, have been aware of the cruising (surely straight guys know?)

I lost a bit of patience and decided to head home. Just as I left, a station supervisor walked past me, on his way inside.

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Back to the old haunts, part 2

Yesterday, at lunch time, a few hours after my visit to Liverpool Street Station’s toilets, I happened to be in the area again. From past experience I knew the toilets would be a little busier than the morning.  I had 20p in my pocket and I thought: “it costs 30p to go in. I’ll walk down there and I’ll check to see if someone left credit behind on the turnstile.  If they did, it’s a sign for me to go in. If they didn’t, I’ll turn around and go back to the office.”

I got down there and someone had left 10p as credit.

The toilets were indeed a little busier, and the cleaner was there too, chatting loudly to someone just by the entrance. I took the second row of urinals and weighed the two nearby guys.  One of them, in his fifties, glasses and clean shaved, with a sports bag by his shoes, didn’t take long to show me his hard on – about 6 inches.

He nodded for me to join him but I said the cleaner was nearby. He didn’t understand so he moved next to me. I repeated myself and he said “two minutes, then follow me.”

Some younger guys arrived just as I was washing my hand, including a handsome and tall bearded fella. I left the toilets and waited by the escalators. He joined me a moment later, a bit nervous.

“You’ve got a nice cock,” I said.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked. “I really need a wank.”

“I don’t know. But it’s dangerous down there. I’ve heard of raids.”

“Really?” he said, surprised. “Let’s wait for the cleaner to come out, then we go back in. 5 minutes.”

But I wasn’t sure about this plan. Then I remembered the Weatherspoons upstairs, where I’d once seen a pair of guys go into one of the stalls. He accepted the suggestion and told me to go in front of him.

I got to the pub, walked past the security and pretended to look around for friends. The place was packed with blokes having a lunch time pint. I stood near the toilets and waited for him, but he wouldn’t show up. Then I saw him standing outside, looking around. I quickly went into the toilets to check them out, just one guy stood by the urinals. There were three cabins, with doors that you could see people’s legs underneath – not very safe.

I went back outside and told him I needed to go back to work.

“I know a nearby hotel. How much time do you have?”

“Five minutes,” I lied. I knew this was going nowhere, and he was very edgy and nervous.

We walked back inside and he asked what time I finished. He couldn’t be there in the evening but wondered if we could meet again the following day. I said I’d see him around and said my goodbye. He looked disappointed.


Today, I decided to go for a quick walk around Hampstead Heath, in particular the cruising ground I’d heard so much about.  The last time I’d been there was two years ago, with a friend. I wanted to feel the place by myself this time – with no intentions of hooking up with anyone.  Just wanted to see the paths, feel the vibe, check out the guys.

I got there by 4.30pm, when the sun was already setting. A grey sky, drizzle, not many people about – but it felt alright.  I enjoyed the brisk walk up Hampstead, going past the homes of the rich, enjoying the fresh air.

I took the path just by Jack Straw’s Castle carpark and noticed a guy in the distance, through the trees, walking a dog.  Further down, going slowly so as not to slip on the mud, I spotted a guy checking his mobile phone. I turned the opposite way and walked down one of the main paths (the one that runs beside a structure that looks like a Renaissance pavilion). When I looked back, the guy was still standing there, and a much younger (and fitter) dude had walked past him.

As I walked, I kept peering through the woods, trying to spot the mythic Fuck Tree. Would there be guys at that early hour? Would there be many of them? But that corner of Hampstead Heath was quiet, and growing darker.

Down a path to my left I spotted a young man walking my way – slim, pretty but nervous-looking, with a conservative hair cut. He wished me a silent hello and I whispered hello back.  Further down, an older guy in jeans and a backpack also headed in my direction. We nodded a hello to each other as we crossed paths.

After them, I didn’t see anymore guys. The forest got darker, the paths muddier, and so I turned around and made my way back to the nearest street.

I felt good walking home.

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Back to the old haunts, part 1

I’m traveling this morning around London, for work. Happened to be in Baker Street and that old curiosity cropped up: would anybody be cruising in the station’s toilets?

Popped in and yes, yes they were: three guys by the urinals – two older gentlemen and a guy in his early 30s. Stood beside two of them, turned off my headphones (to better heat cleaners approaching), and pulled out my cock.

But that familiar issue again: I just can’t get hard by the urinals! How do you guys do it!? Is the excitement of the moment? Half a tab of viagra?

Both fellas were hard and showed themselves to me – but I had nothing to offer back, so the younger guy zipped up and left. I followed a bit later.

Then I arrived at Liverpool Street Station, which tends to be very busy at night (and heavily patrolled). Whenever I’ve visited in the morning, it’s been empty – but I clocked a guy in grey trackies that seemed to be watching the comings and goings.

30p through the turnstile, deserted urinals (just an older guy in one corner, who looked homeless). When I’m washing my hands, a young guy comes in and, a moment later, the guy in the trackies, straight for the urinals.

Some things never change.

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Like a Virgin

I haven’t died, I haven’t disappeared, and I haven’t given up on this blog.

But what I have done is… stop cruising. After my last post, I went once more to the Vault (I think late September 2018?) and hooked up with three guys. I stayed in touch with one of them and ended up seeing him a few times in October and November. By our last meeting, I knew it wasn’t right and I wouldn’t see him anymore.

Then December came and a holiday in the tropics. I meditated, I practiced yoga, I read, I went for swims and runs. I contemplated my life a lot and asked myself if I was trying to find happiness outside myself, and if I was capable of just being happy with how things were, without changing anything.

I’ve deleted all apps and my account with Squirt. I’ve stopped watching porn. Maybe it’s winter, maybe I’ll spring back into action when London warms up. Or maybe it’s something else… I’m becoming someone else.

I have no regrets about how I’ve grown, what I’ve explored, what I’ve done, and all the many men that crossed my path. I’m happy with how everything turned out, and I look forward now to what 2019 has to offer; I hope it’s good and exciting – for myself and for you, dear reader.

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