I feel underqualified for my blog post, hooray.

Public displays of affection (one of the many-varied terms shortened to that most put-upon of acronyms, P.D.A), are a sort of grey area for me. I mean, I've had experience of displays of affection, yes, but very few of them ever really public, per se, and so I don't really know what to write about.

So this should be fun.

To be fair, I'm always like this.

If, by "public", we include parties, then I at least have something to write about. Last week I mentioned a party me and Cretzal attended (the one where he didn't sing "Kiss From A Rose" to me), and we kissed a couple of times then (rendering the father's clueless naïvety even more inexplicable). No-one threw drinks at us or drew pentagrams round us, but we were among friends, so they'd at least have asked permission to do so beforehand anyway.  

And, due to my somewhat static love-life, that's most of my experience covered. I mean, I've been kissed in bars/pubs, but always with either my friends Mike (of Todostrieb fame) and Jyoti (of no Homojournal fame whatsoever) nearby to protect me/cheer me on, or by someone large enough to punch any annoyances into atoms anyway. I've kissed someone else round  one of my other friend's houses, but everyone else was watching a movie and we were at the back of the room, so it was hardly primetime viewing. I'm really not very qualified for this.

Why can't this week be about the Potash Development  Association, or Personal Digital Assistants?

...well. Once, me and a friend, who I shall give the moniker "Joey", strayed into P.D.A territory. In the park with friends, we held hands. Nothing exploded (get your mind out of the gutter), no-one got shot (stop it), and there were no screams (I give up). Afterwards, we went back to his, and you don't get to know about that because, while affectionate, it wasn't public, so ner-ner-ne-ner-ner. 

On the way home the next day, we held hands on the bus, and we kissed repeatedly. There were feral youths on the bus, as well as elderly females, and neither group paid us any more attention than they would a heterosexual couple, or a black man carrying shopping. We were accepted, which was extraordinarily lovely.

And I suppose that's all I can say on the matter, really. Once, I engaged in true PDA, and I didn't get singled out as a witch or a heathen, and I think it should (and possibly will be) the same for all our readers.

Yours happily,

James

Me: I need to think of a pseudonym for Joey.
Brain: Try his middle name on Facebook.
Me: Ah yes, a foolproof plan.

I'd make a crap spy.

Thank god I don't get hangovers.

The thing I like about weeks like this is that it gives me a perfect excuse to go to the pub and spend an insane amount of my student loan getting rat arsed and singing Do You Hear the People Sing and other out-of-tune selections from Les Misérables and various other west end and broadway (and some not) shows. It's much fun, and I definitely did not spend most of last night doing exactly that and drooling over pictures of Eddie Redmayne...

"Do you hear the church bells ring?"

Where was I?

Oh yeah, I have to write stuff about people and Homo-Journalists. This seems like an excellent plan and there is absolutely nothing at all that can possibly go wrong.

I promise.

1. Describe each of the Homo-Journalists in a few sentences.
Oh christ...

2. Say which LGBT issue you feel most strongly about and why.
Well, equal marriage has to be right up there... personally I prefer the term 'marriage' or 'human rights', but if calling it the fight for equal marriage means my wedding to Eddie Redmayne and Ben Whishaw is legal, then I'm willing to compromise.

Wait, I'm not allowed a polygamous marriage? Fucking hell, government, stop trying to tell me what to do.

3. Would you rather have a horse the size of a rabbit, or a rabbit the size of a horse? Explain your reasoning in no less than 200 words
I had a decent answer to this when I was sober... pretty sure it'll come back to me, gimme time. For now I'm just gonna say horse the size of a rabbit, cos it'd be kinda cute, I guess.

4. Summarise the entire LGBT world history in no more than 200 words.
Erm... God made Adam and Steve, the world was somehow populated with morons who persecuted and did horrible unspeakables to the descendants of Adam and Steve, then some people started rioting because they didn't like it and ever since then we've all gone to this thing called 'Pride' and dress in rainbows and drag and have lots of alcohol and sex. Jelly babies and Vodka?

5. Embarrassing confession?
I don't think I've got any clean pants for tomorrow :(

6. Weirdest dream?
I had a really weird dream once after having eaten some cheese which my friends gave me for christmas... I'd been taken captive by some woman and put through a series of gruelling and life threatening tests. I survived, then I had to watch someone else do it and they went up the wrong staircase and 'died'... apparently going up that staircase is what forced the woman to become a transvestite and that it twisted her mind so much that she wanted the world to exist only of people who could pass this test and if they failed they'd get converted like she was... It was horrible, I'd rather not think about it.

Come to think of it, I think we'd had a Rocky Horror Picture Show night the day before and I saw far too many of my guy friends in drag and corsets, that might have something to do with it....

7. Would you rather kill someone you love to end a war in a foreign country, or kill someone you hate and thereby start one?
Who thought up this question?! It's utterly morbid, I'd clearly do both.

8. Happiest moment you can think of? (this was actually supposed to be number 7, but I forgot about it so it can go here instead where the question before thiss should have gone... oh god why am I this drunk?)
I got an A+ on my first uni essay the other day... guess I was pretty chuffed at that.

9. Assign a Pokemon to each Homo-Journalist and jsutify it.
The only ones I know are Pickachu and Squirtle. So I'll let my esteemed colleagues argue over who can be who.

Pickachu and Squirtle are both Pokemon, right?

10. (HOW MANY MORE OF THESE DO I HAVE TO DO?! I NEED SLEEP!!!!!!!) If you could go back and change something about your life, what waould it be?
I dunno, maybe I'd have done more piano and bassoon practice? Started the bassoon earlier? Probably something like that. These questions are far too deep and philosophoical for me to be answering at this level of intoxiacation.

11. If you were stuck on a desert island with a book and a person and film, which would you take?
Can I choose the island I'm stranded on too? Pretty sure there's one somewhere that's full of hot guys, I'll go there please. And I'll take Ben Whishaw or Eddie Redmayne with me (can I take them both and sacrifice the film or book?). I have lost all memory of books I've read besides the Harry Potter series, so I'll take one of those at random, and for the film, I'll take my netflix subsription. Lots of films there.

12. Who, other than your significant other, would we have to give to you for sexy-times in order for you to give us all your moneys?
As he mentioned on that day that starts the week off that he psots on, James knows the true answer to this question, but I'll just say Ben Whishaw or Eddie Redmayne. omnomnomnom.

13. Since I don't have to answer this questiona nd everybody else does, who would you rather 'have'/'do'/etc - Justin Bieber or One Direction?
Not gonna lie, however I answer this will make me sound like a peedo (I can't spell it right now, soz), so let's just go for one direction becuase there's more of them.

Who was the 'I' in teh question? I have a feeling it was me, actually... :/ oh well.

14. Biggest regret/worst thing you've done while drunk?
Apparently I harassed my friend's girlfriend about her fringe once, without knowing what the word for fringe was... I have no recollection of this incident and neither does my friend's girlfriend, so I'm just assuming that it never happened at the world is a massive lie.

(I'm not actually sure if my friend and her girlfriend are even girlfriend and girlfriend, or ever have been, if either of you are reading this, I'm sorry :/ )

Yours drunkenly and inocherenetly,
Rory

PS - I didn't get progressively more drunk here as my poor spelling and typing might suggest (if anything I'm more sober now that I was when I started, but not by much), I just gave up caring about that inconvenience we call grammar.

PPS - we should do more of htese, they're strangely fun. Next time, I'll write mine in the pub, not afterwards in my room at some unearhtly hour of the morning.

PPPS - Can you have this many 'post's in a post script?

PPPPS - As a disclaimer, I'd like to point out that the oipininos and views and stuff in this post shouldn't be taken seriously as most of it is actually the alcohol talking. (I'm actually a really nice person.)

PPPPPS - someone stop me now.

Business as usual.

I am the two small rectangles.

That was the post that appeared on our private FB group wall last night, from Eli. Why, you ask? What can cause this fine, even-tempered, upstanding young gentleman to become an unresponsive, slightly drooling puddle of boy on the sofa?

Homojournal, that's what.

Damn you.

You see, this week is "Drunk Post Week", and ideally we'd be answering the questions we've set each other in real time, typing while drunk, but, in a practically prescient display of forethought, Eli and I decided it'd be safer to record our ramblings, then transcribe what we said/meant to say.

Everything after 8) is being done hyped on Boost and Solpadeine instead, because:

1. I passed out;
2. I have no alcohol left;
3. I have a headache, and this kills two avianoids with one small, smooth rock.

~ Questions They Asked Me While Somewhat Tipsy ~

Describe each of the Homojournal writers in a few sentences. 

Mel: Well, she's blonde. Or brunette. I forget which. Let's go with black. I think. She'd make a great Queen, 'cos she'd make binge drinking for everyone but her the law, and she does medicine so she can heal us all afterwards.

Rory: When Wholock was created, it was with Rory in mind. We have an in-joke about one of our mutual friends in tight, white pants. Not so much an in-joke, really, as a mutual fantasy. This is weird.

Miu: Well, we have a history. It started when I kicked her in the head, and she walked after me menacingly like the girl from The Ring. It detoured through assault and madness.

Becky: Fresh meat! Erm, what? Anyway, I have little to say so far, seeing as I've yet to meet her. She seems nice, and I'm sure, being Mel's friend, she'll have some form of mental aberration.

Eli: My Mum knows her as "the strange girl" and my Dad knows her as "the one with odd hats". She gave me alcohol so obviously she's lovely.

Todostrieb: She has excellent fashion sense and boobs, and I've inherited a facial expression from her. We have shockingly identical taste in men.

EDIT: I've just read Todostrieb's scheduled post, and she references that last bit about her. So, um, yeah. I now feel awful that that wasn't my "Embarrassing confession" or "Biggest regret/worst thing you've done whilst drunk".

That's a lie, I don't feel bad at all, I was just talking to him while typing this post, I'm going to Hell.

Which LGBTQ issue you feel most strongly about and why?

Well, gay marriage, or, as it's more properly known, "marriage", is quite high on the list. I don't know if I'm the marrying type, or if I'll marry a guy, but it might be quite nice for others to be able to do so without getting attacked by a mob.

Would you rather have a horse the size of a rabbit, or a rabbit the size of a horse- explain your reasoning in no less than 200 words.

LOOK AT IT.

A picture is worth a thousand words, so I'm 816 over the minimum.

Summarize the entire world LGBTQ history in no more than 200 words (ie what you think everyone... absolutely everyone should be told).

All accurate descriptions of me.

This describes most LGBTQ people, so it'll have to do.

Embarrassing confession?

When I was in Year 4 I gained a strange sort of popularity as a kind of wedding planner. You know those cute kiddy-weddings that kids had in the playground? Yeah, I took over organising them and the decorations. I used tinsel and "Congratulations!" banners from our loft - I must've been the campest 8 year old anyone'd ever seen.

Your weirdest dream?

I had a dream where my friend took acid and murdered all of us at college except me, 'cos I killed him in self-defence. Then I got blamed for the murders. It was unfortunate.

Happiest moment you can think of?

Well, everything else aside, when me and Cretzal (and most of the other Homojournalists) slept round someone's house after a party, and he kept doing seal impressions was pretty damn brilliant. 

No, he didn't sing "Kiss From A Rose" to me.

The clueless naivety of the person's father was quite amusing too:

- "I'll get you another sleeping bag."
- "No need, we'll share."
- "Oh no, I won't force you two to share..."
- "You wouldn't be forcing us."
- "...?"

If you could go back and change something about your life what would it be? 

I'd campaign for surgery on my mouth and jaw more forcefully when I was younger. I would've gotten it free as corrective surgery rather than cosmetic, but now it'll cost something like £999,999,999, which I won't have until at least three months of saving. 

If you were stuck on a deserted island which one book, movie and person would you want to take along?

Well, the book's easy: "The God of Small Things", by Arundhati Roy. It's a beautiful book, and you are hereby ordered to go and buy it as soon as you've read this post. Not before though, because that would be rude.

Movie? Well, assuming we have a TV and DVD player, "Easy A" - I AM Olive Penderghast. If not, the "Prisoner: Cell Block H" box set might be useful, as 174 discs could be good for burning, producing heat and smoke so you can be found.

The person?

You could strand us on Mars and I'd be happy - we'd be naked in minutes.

Who, other than your significant other, would we have to give you for sexy-times to get you to give us all your money?

Look directly above the question.

Who would you rather 'have'/'do'/etc - Justin Bieber or One Direction?

There's one Justin Bieber, and he's Justin Bieber. There's 5 people in One Direction, and none of them are Justin Bieber. A sixsome with One Direction, thank you.

Biggest regret/worst thing you've done whilst drunk?

Well, passing out and not finishing this wasn't exactly A* material, was it? Also, I once passed out in a ditch while drinking mead that the friend from the weird dream gave me. Maybe it was a symbolic, prophetic dream.

...god, that took AEONS to type...

Yours sheepishly,

James.

Eli fed me vodka-soaked plums that tasted of coffee, vodka-jelly baby sludge that tasted of diabetes and vodka-soaked raspberries that tasted of sadness. No wonder I passed out. I think she was trying to date-rape me, but I've examined myself and I don't think I have any unaccounted-for marks...

New Year's Revolutions

(No, the title is not a typo).

Hello, again. I remember you. You're those people who went out of their way to read the ramblings of 6 teenagers a while ago, spending actual irreplaceable moments of your existence reading about what Miu thought about fetishes and what sprang to Eli's mind whenever bananas came up in polite conversation.

I hope it was worth it.

All this, and you chose to read about Masturbation Month.

As you may know, provided you haven't been sheltering under a rock for the past few weeks, we're in a time of great change here. A new year is dawning, a new Homo-Journalist is joining us (Hi, Becky!), it's all very exciting. With New Year's, though, comes New Year's resolutions, and I always find those difficult. Now, Homojournal as a whole has a New Year's resolution, "WE WILL ALWAYS POST ON TIME, EVERY DAY, UNLESS DEATH, FLOODING OR WILD TIGERS STOP US.", but what about my own personal one? Get in shape? Take up philately?

Both?

Well, this New Year's, I'm going for the jugular.

You see, since Cretzal, I've become something of a romantic door to door salesman, offering myself to whoever seemed interested. It's not that I don't want a relationship, it's that I've become really, really crap at persevering with them. The last 6 months, I've done something (kissing upwards) with 5 people, and, by and large, I can see at least the possibility of a relationship with all of them. Not always a good one, but a stable one at least. So why am I still the relationship equivalent of a non-stick frying pan? 3 of those 5 account for more than one event each, so why haven't I picked one? Why am I still single, completing revolution after revolution on this horrible roundabout of romance?

No, not that roundabout.

So, as of 00:00:00, on the 1st of January 2013, I James I'm-Not-Giving-My-Surname-Away, hereby swear to persevere more with any romantic events that occur, as far as reason and statutory laws will allow, because life's too short to waste flitting unendingly from one place to another

I shall keep you updated, Constant Readers.

Yours determinedly,

James

No, I won't tell you the names of the 5. If you really want to know, do some research of your own, but if I find you outside my house at 04:30, digging through the bins, I'm calling the Police.

Catch 22.

Finally, a subject we managed to all agree on. Except Miu and Rory, but, still, majority ruled. And it's no wonder Rory didn't vote for it, he couldn't even spell it correctly in the poll on Facebook.

What am I talking about, I hear you say/type? Why, celibacy, or "celibracy" as Rory puts it. Officially, our title for the week is "Celibracy [sic] - is there anything you would give up sex for?", one of the longer and more cumbersome titles we've had, but it'll do, and there's got to be loads to write about here!

...right?

My mind, 25 minutes after typing "...right?".

Ok, ok, so it's a little difficult for me to think of anything I'd give up sex for. I should point out at this point that, by "sex", I mean "any sexual activity", and by "any sexual activity", I mean "anything involved in and of the posts in Week 3, Week 6, Week 11, Week 12, Week 18 or Week 21 on this blog". As such, it's a little difficult, because that'd be a lot to give up.

Do I love anything that much? Does the charred, desiccated shell that passes for the emotional centre of my brain even contain that much love? I actually had to ask my parents what I loved/was addicted to the most, and they came up with the following suggestions:

1. Energy Drinks
2. Alcohol
3. Cruelty

"We do love you, we just think that you're a vindictive alcoholic whose body is so pumped full of chemicals that taking you into any one of 46 US states is a felony."

So, brushing off my parents' stark and harrowing portrayal of my everyday life, I set to work thinking: would I give up sex for any of these 3?

#2 was simple enough - no, because it wouldn't work. James + Alcohol = sex. It's the kind of thing others are usually ashamed of, but I'm of the opinion I'll only need to start being ashamed of it when my age begins with the digit "3" or I'm in a happy relationship and my partner's in another country to me. So, that rules out #2.

#3 is the same - it just wouldn't work. Hurting people is very exciting for me, so that'd defeat the point of the exercise, and the same goes for being hurt. Todostrieb's boyfriend pinched me hard enough to make me bleed when we were staying round one of our mutual friends' house, and the only thing that stopped me from jumping him was the idea that Todostrieb's torture would be a little more severe and likely involve a puppet called Billy. 

Todostrieb: "Would you like to play a game, James? Let's play a game called... "Never Have I Ever"..."
James: "NOOOOO!"

So, that's that out of the way. And then there was 1.

This is the only option I can really give consideration to. I mean, even though I'd be dead for weeks after giving up energy drinks, I'd get better, right? But couldn't the same be said about sex? I mean, I'd develop other hobbies, surely, crocheting, line-dancing, something. 

...and I've just seen the flaw in this plan. If I give up sex for energy drinks, I also have to give up alcohol and pain to make sure I don't break my contract, as it were.

I think I'll politely decline your offer, thanks.

Yours unrepentantly,

James.

Who am I kidding, I'm not sure I'd give up sex for breathing. Auto-erotic asphyxiation has its perks.

Dogging, fields and time travel.

My dear Readers, I have two very important things to announce.

One is that I'm very, very sorry that, once again, I've had to resort to the magic of retroactive scheduling in order to get this post out "on time". You see, Blogger was being very unpleasant, then I gave up and went for a long walk, then when I got home it had... gone through absolutely changes whatsoever, and remained steadfastly intransigent.

I am not a man of the 21st Century. It's a miracle I haven't burnt a programmer at the stake for witchcraft yet.

Now, with Blogger back on my side, I move on the the second point, which is WOO, THE TOPIC I WANTED IS THE TOPIC WE'RE WRITING ON! As such, I'm proud to present the topic for the week, "Dogging/Cottaging/Cruising, etc."

Please read nothing into the fact that I desperately wanted this topic. Nothing at all.

Oh dear, I've dug myself a hole here, one which isn't exactly being filled in by the fact that me and Eli live quite near a dogging site. A few, actually. I walked past/through several on my walk while Blogger fumed over whatever unknowable offence I'd committed against it. You see, we live in an amicably suburban area, which just so happens to be surrounded on 3 sides by grass and trees and bushes and nature in general, so it's perfect for surreptitious sexytimes. The pub which acts as a meeting point is only 10 minutes from the bush which acts as a bed. The isolated car-park only 5 minutes from the local condom vendor. It's really quite perfect. 

I Googled the name of my local area + "dogging". I don't recommend this.
Unless, y'know, it would aid you somehow.

I apologise for the rambling and uninformative nature of this post, but I've had 10.2 units of alcohol, and it's 05:21. Don't worry though, I'll schedule it for 09:00 yesterday, and it should reach you then. Right?

I'm glad we're friends again, Blogger.

Yours tiredly,

James.

I may or may not have engaged in some variety of sexual activity outside myself... I just don't wish to write about it.

I am never going to Freehold, Iowa.

Another Monday, another week where I'm outvoted on what topic we write about. You see, we decide by having a vote each week, and I'm all for topics like "LGBTQS celebrities as role models" and "Homophobia - actual phobia or ignorance?"

Unfortunately, the poll always looks like this by Sunday:

Actual quote - Todostrieb: "OMG flying boobs would be awesome."

Thus we have "UFOs and Aliens" week.

Now, aside from the obvious Rule 34 implications (I wish with all my heart that I hadn't Googled "Rule 34" - I despised My Little Pony enough already, thank you), I had trouble thinking of any connection between the two. So, with Google already open, I decided to do some digging. And oh my, some people have been finding connections for me.

They forgot the "BBQ" y-axis, which shows how much my brain started smouldering as I read that page.

Now I know this is a satire page, and I have nothing against gays, or aliens, or religion per-se, or crazy, but that page is a bewildering maelstrom of all 4 at the very highest levels. You could lock a starving cat in a room that contained a mouse floating in a pool, on a lilo, while blasting the Hawaii Five-0 theme tune at them, and you still wouldn't reach the levels of confusion, anger and revulsion as you see on that page. FBI Profilers could read that page as part of their training, if just to understand how strange delusions can be. We'll have evolved past the point at which we ARE THE INVADING ALIENS TO SOMEONE ELSE before we can fully understand what's going on in these people's heads.

I'm now in the middle of a true sense of humour failure here. "Pastor Ezekiel" has some very interesting badges underneath his name. Some, such as "Christian Love", and "4th Year Bible College" are absolutely brilliant, love and studying are wonderful. Here are some others:

1. "Punched the most queers" - a jolly pair of boxing gloves.
2. "True Christian Caucasian" - some variety of white object, possibly a feather, I'll give it the benefit of the doubt.
3. The rather ominous "Tell Her Once" - a shaking, closed, fist.

I will become this Sim, then go torment these people. Out of spite.

Seriously?! Satire's all very well and good, but you can't make fun of these things. It's not right, these are real issues, and it's not that funny. There are some things that you can't mock, women's rights, gay rights and aliens that might possibly have the technology to destroy us all being very high up on the list.

Aliens, if you're listening, go back. We have too much to fix before you're safe to visit.

Yours flabbergastedly,

James.

For at least 10 minutes, I didn't know it was a satirical page. I very nearly caught fire.

Living in the lap-dance of luxury.

First and foremost, I wish to have it known that if, for some reason, all of us Homojournalists were ever to live together, the house would have to be:

1. Very large, with at least 7 bedrooms for us, guests etc.
2. Be exquisitely furnished (well, at least my room).
3. Have all the latest mod-cons.
4. Be apocalypse proof.

5. Have a battalion of maids, cleaners, gardeners etc.

You see, I think that if we all lived together, it would be an unmitigated disaster, because last time we did something similar (well, me, Mel and Todostrieb, along with Unimportant-To-The-Story-Friend and Cretzal (who you may remember)), the lights in the living room fused, me and Mel almost got savaged by a dog, everyone but me was horrified by Insidious, Todostrieb threw up in a bowl and then proceeded to tip the bowl all over the floor and me and Cretzal broke up, so it wasn't what you could call 100% successful.

And no, I won't lend credence to the idea that having the other Homojournalists there would've improved matters, because then Mel would've been distracted by Eli, and wouldn't have gone on the walk, leaving me to be mauled to death by the angry dog/any number of cows/sheep/natives, Miu would've criticised my cooking if it had a single molecule of capsaicin in it (which it would've), and Rory, well, Rory would've drunk all my vodka.

I needed my vodka.

So, yes. NEVER, EVER IN MY LIFE.

...but here's the house it would have to be if it happened.

Right, let's get this known right off the bat - this will be there:

Only our blog can say we have a signature lamp.

We'd also need a suitably ostentatious way of having the vodka flowing at all times...

This will do nicely.

Let's face it, we're all absolutely filthy. We don't want a house, we want a temple of debauchery. We want a shrine to Bacchus and Aphrodite. And I'm 100% fine with that. I'm just suggesting we make it a classy den of smut.

This, with more nakedness.

I'm into minimalism, so obviously I want it to be all glass and chrome (think about it guys, wipe-clean is all I'm saying). I don't want actual brick walls, I want walls made out of smart glass like in that episode of CSI Miami where the under-age drinker was stabbed to death in a bathroom. I want spiral staircases made of glass. I want men and women in smart, modern suits, ready to remove them at any notice to give us lap-dances. I want my cat, Skye, as our signature pet.

Tell me this isn't a classy cat.

You know, I'm beginning to warm to this idea. Tell you what, I'll agree to live with you guys. As long as I can stay in my own safe, opaque glass box, with my cat, my penis vodka fountain and anyone I deem attractive.

I might let the cat out occasionally.

Yours tentatively,

James.

I have been using one of Cretzal's socks to scent train Skye, so if she ever meets him she'll attack. Progress is startling.

Since a little clarification seems necessary...

As a bisexual male, virginity is very, very complex. I mean, when you say "virginity", what do you mean? Does it only apply to penetrative heterosexual sex? Can it be penetrative homosexual sex? As a bottom, or only as a top? Where do blowjobs come in all of this?

I refuse to make a joke about that last sentence. 

I mean, if you just take "virginity" as the state of not having participated in a given sexual act, then there are at least 12 different virginities a bisexual male can have, if you ignore the somewhat less common/legal ones. I mean, look:

1. Homosexual penetrative sex, top.
2. Homosexual penetrative sex , bottom.
3. Homosexual oral sex, top.
4. Homosexual oral sex, bottom.
5. Homosexual manual sexual stimulation, top.
6. Homosexual manual sexual stimulation, bottom.
7. Heterosexual penetrative sex.
8. Heterosexual oral sex, female -> male.
9. Heterosexual oral sex, male -> female.
10. Heterosexual manual stimulation, female -> male.
11. Heterosexual manual stimulation, male -> female.
12. Usage of sex toys.

You should've seen the list that did include the weird ones.

So which one do you mean, overly-curious friend, when you ask me if I've lost my virginity? Are you asking me if I've given someone a blowjob, or if a girl has given me a handjob, or if I've used anal beads?

...actually, if you're one of my friends, you're probably working from the weird list.

Yours not-quite-so-purely,

James.

I've lost 7/12. 

Finally, having Instagram payed off.

The theme this week, in-keeping with the current events in the UK, is basically "Drool-worthy Olympic Sports", and I had no problem coming up with my post (even if I did have to fight Miu for the right to do it). You see, I have Instagram, which I use primarily for taking arty shots of clouds, peacocks, electricity pylons and the like, but also for viewing other peoples' photos. It's kinda like Twitter, and as such, you "follow" other people, and I decided to follow Tom Daley, because, well, Olympics coming up, UK talent and all that. This is the first photo I saw:

Excuse me while I fall off my chair.

I am literally having a mental affair with Tom Daley, cheating on Ezra Miller. This manboy is literally the most amazingly beautiful creature on the surface of any planet in this Universe. I mean, just, gah, look:

Gah.

He is sickeningly good looking, and only 18, too, a perfect candidate for turning gay in a night of wild lust contemporary of mine. But it's not just the esteemed Mr. Daley that's seemingly dodged every branch on the ugly tree on his 10.0 dive from Heaven. It's others, too, and Diving makes for some admirable qualities:

Good body.

Evidently not easily scared.

Can anyone say "flexible"?

So, yes, Diving certainly qualifies as "drool worthy".

Tom Daley marry me and do awful things to me.

Did you hear something?

I love you Tom I'll let you be the Dom.

Must be the wind.

As always, we're freely available at homojournal@gmail.com (especially to Tom Daley), but for now, I'm off to browse Instagram.

And send Tom Daley some nudes.

Yours stalkingly,

James.

Only bad WiFi is stopping me from actually sending Tom Daley nudes.

Well, that was simple.

Here at Homojournal HQ (which, despite the fact that only 1/6 of us frequent there, I have just decided is Wetherspoons), we have a mission. A mission so important, so universally accepted as the apotheosis of honourable quests, that we at Homojournal aren't quite sure that we can do it. But, for our own sake, we must try.

Our quest?

Finding Rory a boyfriend.

#13: The Boyfriend.

Now, all the other Homojournalists are scratching their heads at this, desperately trying to figure out who Rory would be most suited to, but I, even though I'm on holiday and therefore don't have very much time to think, found this easy. I know what Rory likes.

I know what everyone likes.

Besides, in an earlier post I already said I intended to clone Ezra Miller and keep multiples of him as sex slaves, so I should have one for Rory to take.

Hell, have three.

Yours strangely,

James.

If this fails, I know Rory well enough through text conversations to know which of our schoolmates to drug and present to him in only tight boxers.

Oh God, the pressure!

Hellothisweekisfiveminuteblogweekwehavetoblogwhateverwewantinonlyfiveminutesandohgodit'salreadybeenfifteensecondsohmygodnoI'mgonnarunoutoftimeohhelpand-

It's worrying how often this image is appropriate for the situations I'm put in.

Ok, so, yes, due to the fact that 4/6 of the Homojournalists have buggered off to France (thank you, Rory, for being so loyal), we're having a mini-post week, hereby named the "5 Minute Post Week", because it's so hurried it's only just been named, as in right as I typed that, boom.

We have 5 minutes to blog about anything we like, from the state of the Euro to our favourite Loony Toon cartoon, and the posts will likely have nothing to do with each other, and may even contradict.

Kind of like a normal conversation with us, really.

Pictured: a normal Homojournal chat.

Anyway, I'm literally timing myself, and I'm down to 00:17 left, so here's my topic:

Cats.

Cats are good.

Time up.

Yours hurriedly,

James.

YOU THINK I HAVE TIME TO WRITE A SECRET MESSAGE?!?!?!

So long, thanks for all the psychosis.

Well, I suppose that's that. We've done the exams, had the Leaver's BBQ, had the pre-Prom party, had Prom, and had the after-Prom party (well, I did). Short of getting results, we never have to go back ever, ever again.

Oh no, what a shame.

School is, was, and will probably always be an interesting place for the LGBTQS community. I can think of no other place in the world that has such a high concentration of conflicting emotions and agendas. Sometimes it was great fun, there was a rumour that the hot guy I fancied wasn't quite as straight as everyone thought and the conversations were so full of innuendo that a passing gigolo would've blushed. Others, however, were pure hell, I was being forced to look on as someone I fancied kissed someone who wasn't me and everyone male viewed me as some kind of predator, just waiting for them to turn their backs so I could pounce on them.

That said, my second ever post had this picture in it, so maybe they were a little justified in their fear.

That said, I think I speak for all the Homojournalists when I say that we wouldn't have missed it for all the porn in Germany, mainly because the porn from Germany is likely to be a bit on the odd side, but also because we all met each other at the school we go to, and we've all helped each other be more open about our sexualities.

That, and we gave you Constant Readers some frickin' excellent reading material.

On average.

I guess I'll have to go full stalker now to keep us all together... for the good of you Constant Readers, of course. Feel free to let me know who to stalk first at homojournal@gmail.com.

Yours menacingly,

James

Cthulhu didn't go to Prom, so I had to punch him in the face at the pre-Prom party instead.

Ps//

It's Mel here,

I thought I might hijack the end of this post to impart some of my Prom wisdom. 'Tis the season after all. Here are my tips for going to prom as a lesbian couple.

1. Do everything you would do as any other kind of couple and blackmail/kidnap/sue anyone who tells you otherwise.

There we go. Hey, it worked out well for Eli and I, I mean sure Mr N is still missing and Mrs M looks vaguely traumatised....

One last piece of advice, don't wear a dress that is longer than you are tall, male or female. I have dusty footprints on my dress and it was impossible to dance in, though this said, it did double up as a cancan dancing accessory and cape. 

Love Mel.

BITCH, THIS IS MY POST! Note to self: harass Mel.

Prom? 3 days? Fetch me my lace blindfold...

Oh, look, it's me again. Did you miss me? Probably not, but that's of little consequence to me, as I desperately sift through the Mauna Kea sized pile of clothing on my floor. You see, while I was off enjoying myself in pubs, bars and ditches, I quite completely forgot that Prom is:

a) on the 28th of June, and
b) quite a big deal.

Even if you are only there for the complementary red wine.

Even the fact that this week's theme is "Prom from an LGBTQS Perspective", and has been for 2 weeks didn't alert me to the fact that Prom might be taking place sometime around now. It just didn't cross my mind at all. Back in Secondary School I spent 2 months panicking about it, trying to somehow find the perfect outfit to say both "I am fashionable, dapper and charming" and "I am very much, 102%, absolutely heterosexual" at the same time. In college, I could turn up to Prom dressed as Carmen Miranda and not too many people would give me a second glance.

Even the ones that did would only be doing so because my hat was more appetising than the food.

In Secondary School, I had no idea who I was. I knew I'd considered guys handsome, even attractive, but it didn't click in my head that that was ok. As such, I spent almost all of Prom walking around in a daze, trying my level best not to look at the sporty guys in their fetching jackets, lest the world catch fire, the sky turn black and demons run amok. It wasn't amazingly pleasant.

"He shouldn't have worn tight trousers. And that bow-tie - oh god, that bow-tie..."

Now, I can grope my friends as much as I like. I even have an in-joke with one of them about it (to Todostrieb's perpetual disdain). I'm not saying that this short post has exhausted every possible issue the LGBTQS community has with Prom; that's why there are 6 of us, to cover everything. I know there's issues with whether or not you can bring your boyfriend/girlfriend/hermaphrodite/transexual friend to Prom, and whether it's acceptable to dress as Lily Savage if you're 6ft 8" and have a goatee, but I can only comment on what I've experienced, and at the moment, the worst thing about Prom is that I have fuck-all fancy enough to wear apart from my fetish gear.

And I'm only 5ft 4", have no goatee, and my boyfriend doesn't even go to the school, so those issues, much like whether or not the Constant Readers wanted a double dose of James, are of little consequence to me.

Feel free to harass or praise us at homojournal@gmail.com, we get off on it.

Yours panickingly,

James

Seriously, I think Todostrieb's good will will only withstand so many incidences of me groping her boyfriend's crotch; I may be murdered soon.

We should not be allowed out in public.

While reviewing the items has been fun (if a little difficult to explain to the parental units), I personally think that the voyage to Westfield in Stratford to actually procure them was far more interesting.

When I left the house on that fateful day, I had no idea of the insanity that awaited me. I honestly expected it to be a normal day for me - friends, sweets and titillation.

Pictured: all three above ideas.

I was wrong. Very wrong. The madness started before I'd even left my home town (which I won't name, for fear of lunati-I mean, our lovely readers visiting unannounced). You see, me and Eli live quite near to each other, so I agreed to wait for her at the train station. I assumed I could wait there in peace, unharried by the weirder members of the community, but no sooner had I set up camp by an inviting looking wall, than I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled round, let out a manly yelp, and prepared myself to face the unholy terror that had surely crept up on me with malicious intent.

I found myself facing this:

Look at her, just waiting for a chance to strike.

It was a charming old lady, asking for directions to the hospital, and now very perturbed by the apparently insane young man loitering outside the train station. I gave her directions and she waddled off. Eli arrived shortly after, and I boarded the train with her before any further geriatric muggers could arrive. 

I just wish to clarify something: Westfield is big. Not slightly big, nor big with an asterisk next to it, denoting a hidden qualifier, just plain big. So when me and Eli arrived there, we had no idea where to wait for the others. At the entrance? In the centre? In the Gent's toilets? We had no idea, so we set upon the safest option being directly outside Ann Summers. It was only once Todostrieb and Mel arrived that we realised how we looked. 

Totally innocent?

Here we were, two shifty-looking teenagers loitering outside a sex-shop, and now we'd been joined by two more shifty-looking teenagers. The only consolation was that, as the only male, I must have appeared to others as either the gayest or the luckiest guy in the world, and I'm fine with either of those. Mel rightly pointed out the fact that the staff in Ann Summers were actively staring at us, and that we couldn't go in now, so we skulked off to Pink Berry for fro-yo.

Mine was larger than everyone else's, but also quite significantly not-straight. Fitting.

Over our cold confectionery, we discussed tactics: which shape should we take to enter the shop? Diamond formation? Single file? Had the staff of Ann Summers already called security? Should we abscond with our yoghurt while we were still free to do so? There was much confusion, until, as a group, we collectively went "Fuck it.", and marched straight into the shop.

Choosing the sweets was also an interesting occurrence. The White Chocolate Sperm was unanimously reviled, and Rory had already claimed the Giant Chocolate Willy, but apart from that I think we all wanted to try everything. We'd each point to something, go "Ooh" or "Ah", then point to something else and repeat the process. The actual sweets we ended up with were the result of us beginning to feel like we were overstaying our welcome in the shop.

"Seriously, just set up a tent and be done with it."

Purchases made, we set about the arduous task of waiting for Rory, who was trekking his way down from wherever he lives. Norfolk, Southend, Ganymede, somewhere like that. Meanwhile, I invited Amber (our lady of the lovely guest post) down, for fun and socialisation. While also waiting for her, we came across two gloriously camp people in funny hats:

Identities hidden to protect the insane.

A semi-naked man:

Such a shame, Rory and Miu missed this...

And Mel was cursed by the girl from The Ring:

But it's alright, they're dating anyway.

Then we marched off to Lakelands at Todostrieb's request to look at pots, pans and banana cases. While waiting there for Amber to arrive, Todostrieb tried to take a photo of me, Mel and Eli. Disappointed with the first try, she scolded us and told us to "look gayer":

That's me on the left, standing next to a lesbian couple kissing and being told off for somehow not being camp enough.

Once Amber arrived (sporting a fetching new haircut), we set off to the toy store, because we could:

One is small, fierce-looking and not suitable for children under 3. The other is a Lego character.

Then, once Rory arrived, we headed back into Ann Summers, which by this point was probably filing a group restraining order against us. This, combined with Amber's presence, led to Rory buying his fated chocolate member, Amber buying a lacy dress to wear to an upcoming Fetish Evening, and me buying a lacy mask to wear to the same event:

They didn't have a dress in a colour that suited me. 

Once we'd done that, I think we were unanimous in our belief that the outing should be drawn to a close. We were tired, fraught, and in danger of being exorcised by Ann Summers employees, under the mistaken assumption that we were ghosts haunting the place, so we headed back to our respective homes.

Going out with us is always exciting.

As always, we're available for sexy chats at homojournal@gmail.com.

Until next time (read: tomorrow), dear readers,

James

I think you'll agree, I look rather fetching in my lace blindfold. Amber said it reminded her of a garter. Does that mean my face reminds her of a thigh? If so, what do I say to that? Thank you?