The World's First Gay Windmill

Don’t laugh; my dream has always been to own a fully operational windmill, and have a small café attached selling assorted cakes, warm drinks and yummy fresh bread. We could have a small pen for animals like tiny baby goats and chickens. Each homo-journalist will be assigned a specific role; I will grind the flour and design our superbly cool LGBTQ themed packaging. Rory can drive the giant tractor because it seems like fun and he isn't technologically challenged, like James. Mel will run the shop along with her girlfriend Eli, who will look awesome in a maid costume. In fact everyone will wear cosplay 100% of the time. Miu will muck out the animals. There, everyone should be ecstatic to be given such an important role in the world’s first LGBTQ windmill. I'd say we should paint it rainbow colours and add glitter, but there's something so elegant and quaint about the traditional off-white windmill colour.

Location: Probably Norfolk

My bedroom will be furnished with a superbly cool burger bed, as seen below. It will also feature an ‘internest’ involving a cool desk, a mac pro, and at least three million books. No one but me will be allowed in my personal space, you will all damage the aura. My numerous conquests will be allowed in the room for short periods but under no circumstances may sleep in the burger bed; they will sleep in the guest room.

As far as interior design goes, my dream palace is a far cry from minimalistic, or even stylish. It will be filled wall to wall with a random assortment of eclectic items I have picked up on my travels. Brightly coloured fabrics, cushy arm chairs, a mountain of teacups, creepy paintings, enough kitchen appliances to assemble into a tank, a room entirely full of pillows, a library of antique books,  a patchwork tiled swimming costume, stained glass, pin cushions, crystals, dried herbs etc…

The guest room. Also where all the others will sleep. Also my playroom. 

While I'm on a role here are the other house rules:

• the pool is reserved for skinny dipping only
• all animals must wear cute hats at all times
• cosplay must be worn by all humanoids at any time
• if you finish someone else’s vodka, that’s what the spanking bench is for
• anyone who wakes me up from my at the very minimum 18 hour sleep will also be spanked
• the body field is where the bodies go, please do not leave evidence, I mean scientific experiments in the fridge or similar

I think that covers everything important,

Todostrieb

Grand Designs

First some stories. While on holiday in the south of France Eli had an allergic reaction to something. 2 hours later, some excellent experiment design and marker pen use later I still hadn't discovered what it was. I could only conclude that she was allergic to me or nothing at all. And, as I couldn't leave her- it was impossible to conduct a fair scientific test... When I was a child I liked making potions and as anyone in my chemistry class can attest to- I never grew out of this stage....I am currently conducting a test to objectively categorise people’s sense of smell, and possible taste in food as well.

This leads me to my actual homojournalist house design. I highly suspect me being left alone with a few other sciencey people will result in....this.

Bluebell!!!

I propose we dedicate a floor to this....

It's so shiny and white- like heaven

I may be getting carried away here, but this is after all my dream house. I will second the other homojournalists motions for us to each have a sex room of our own design. I would however, like to take this one step further and propose that we each design a couple of floors in the mansion. (don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger darhling).  I can have my lab, partly for mad science, partly for kinky white coat related hanky panky. But, I can also have my dungeon and 4 poster princess bed, without worrying about a clash in taste.

This is also completely necessary.

As are these.....

....And of course these....

As you may have understood from previous posts. I am at heart a nerd. Left to my own devices I would not sleep, but build a nest. I would read hundreds of books a week, and only leave my nest to eat, have sex and possibly use the bathroom (I say possibly use the bathroom because dialysis may be a legit option). Thus, the homojournalists need one of the libraries pictured below. Trinty college library is enough to make me regret not going down the Oxbridge route. But, no fear one day I’ll break in and if I can’t read the books, I’ll make do with banging a professor on the desk.

So, sex, books and science- why aren’t I hosting grand designs I here you ask? It may be due to the vodka water dispenser I would also require, and the vast quantities of apple trees I would demand in our orchard. But, I think that this place will one day be a reality- as soon as I win the lottery and my insanity becomes distinguished eccentricity instead of criminal.

Thank-yee for reading pets,

Lots of love Mel

xxx

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.

And the winner is....

Firstly, I should probably point out that I stole the idea for this week from a YouTube collab channel I subscribe to, called The Global Gays, and I sincerely suggest that everybody goes and watches some of their videos because a) they're well made, b) they come from all over the world, c) they're all vaguely good looking and d) one of them tends to post without clothes on.

Secondly, the move to Germany went well, all boxes are unpacked and some sort of order is now being established in this house, even if I have to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road, and giving way to traffic coming from the right.

And now to the bit which everybody has been waiting for.

This week, my esteemed colleagues decided it was high time to find me a boyfriend, there were a number of suggestions, some of them hopefully weren't serious.... to recap, the choices were:

• An Ezra Miller clone
• Mel
• Sherlock / Benedict Cumberbatch
• Merlin / Colin Morgan
• The Doctor / Matt Smith
• David Tennant
• Justin Bieber
• Neil Patrick Harris

An Ezra Miller clone
James, I agree with you that Mr Miller is rather scrumptious, and I would most certainly not object to calling him my boyfriend, but alas, we are talking about a humble clone here, and I'd rather have the original - but thanks for the offer >.< I'll have the clone as my toyboy though!

Mel
There is one fatal problem to this suggestion, I'm afraid Mel - you possess boobs and a vagina in place of a penis and unfortunately, as you pointed out in your post, that's a problem for me....

Sherlock / Benedict Cumberbatch
I saw this suggestion and thought 'brilliant!' But then I sat down to write this post, and I suddenly thought that Sherlock and I would never quite get on with one another... As Todostrieb pointed out, I do possess a vague interest in astrophysics, and Sherlock is completely ignorant of the formation of the solar system. Sorry, that's a no go. Besides, we'd argue too much. Benedict, on the other hand... is ginger and a little old for me, maybe if you were to freeze him until I'm his age, then things might work.

Merlin / Colin Morgan
This is another suggestion I was thrilled with, imagine the spark it would add to our sex lives when Merlin climaxes and it turns out to be a magical incantation which sets the bed on fire or something... Excellent, that's sorted. And then I realised that my cat is called Merlin too, and suddenly it occurred to me that people who know this fact might assume I'm a beastophile when I proudly declare "Merlin's my boyfriend". Actually, that's probably the reason why I'm considering the actors too, I have no objection to Colin Morgan, as long as he can speak in that sexy Merlin voice rather than his natural Irish accent...

The Doctor
I'm going to assume that Mel was referring to the Elevnth when she out this suggestion forward, since it was Eleven's picture she'd added to the post - besides, the previous ten doctors no longer exist. Now don't get me wrong, I'd kill to be the Doctor's companion, in every sense of the word, but I'd get too attached to the one I'm with, I wouldn't get on with the new one after regeneration. In terms of the actors for the doctor, some of them are dead, and I'm no necrophiliac, others simply don't do it for me. Matt Smith, however, I'd not say no too.

David Tennant
Again, I loved this suggestion, but then I re-watched Journey's End from season 4 of Doctor Who, and realised that he was far too hairy. I do however agree with that set of criteria you listed, Todostrieb, of course, the Not Gay part to David Tennant was a problem....

Justin Bieber
Eli, I seriously hope that you were joking when you suggested this.... person. I won't pass judgement on his (lack of) musical talent,  And I'm not sure when I ever said I was into small men...? (I'm not, for the record.) Besides, he looks about twelve years old...

Neil Patrick Harris
Now there's eye candy if there ever was some... And I must correct you, Miu, Neil is engaged to be married (to a rather smexy specimen of a man). Although, my conscience gets the better of me here, I don't want to deprive their kids of their two lovely daddies and destroy their relationship, I prefer monogamy.

And so I must declare Mel to be the winner. That doesn't mean she's now my boyfriend, I'm not sure Eli would let that happen. She put forward the winning suggestion of Colin Morgan, even if she didn't mean to, and has my permission to endulge herself with Jelly Babies and Vodka.

Prom is like a packet of chocolate digestives.

I didn't go to the Year 11 Prom. Back then I was barely out, had no boyfriend nor any idea who else was gay and interested. Now, I am completely out (I think), still have no boyfriend, and am even more clueless as to who is gay and interested. Perhaps it's worth noting that at the time of my Year 11 prom, I was aware of only one other "out guy", although neither of us were particularly interested in each other at the time. Coincidentally, by some bizarre circumstance we ended up 'dating' for a brief period of time during my lower sixth year. I'm not sure 'dating' is exactly the word here, since we never actually once went on a proper date nor did he ever show any interest in me once I'd plucked up the courage, half out of desperation, to ask him out. But I digress, back to the topic of being gay at Prom.


Another reason I didn't go to the Year 11 Prom was that I had been single for far too long - pretty much my entire life, to be truthful - and quite a few of my friends had a romantic attachment of some description. To me, the thought of watching other people make out in front of whomever cared to look while I remained sadly unwanted and unloved was a rather depressing one, and I knew that I would start feeling a little sick by the end of it. You see, I've always imagined that Prom as a single gay guy would be a bit like a massive packet if chocolate digestives: at the start it's great, but by the end you feel a bit sick from a) watching everyone get off with one another and you're sitting there like a plonker with only your horrible biology teacher and an empty bottle of J2O for company, and b) all the digestives you've eaten (you're now more than a little constipated). 

And there's always that lonely biscuit right at the end of the packet, when its companions have met their doom inside your stomach... 

So it will come as no surprise that the idea of sitting on my own with nothing but the evil Physics teacher and an empty half-a-bottle-of-wine this time round didn't exactly fill me with joy. Yes, we're apparently only allowed half a bottle of wine or something stupid like that. It's a bit rubbish, but don't judge.

Perhaps you're wondering why I bothered going at all then, given that I had no-one to go with, and wasn't about to give up feeling awkward about it. Well, despite my relatively slim chances, I decided to go because I'm a bit of a 'FOMO' homo - that's a fear of missing out homo (and I'm sure we'll come back to this in a few weeks time). I don't want to not go, because I'm terrified I'll miss out - partly because of all the banter I'd miss, partly because there's a minuscule chance that the man of my dreams is hiding somewhere amongst my esteemed former classmates just waiting to whisk me off into the sunset.

In my fucking dreams.

Any single person will tell you that the thought of going to the school Prom alone is probably their second-worst nightmare. The first-worst is clearly waking up to find they're out of Jelly Babies and Vodka. Maybe Prom will become more bearable for the single man/woman/shemale if he/she/they (not sure if that's the correct pronoun, will get back to you on that) thinks of it as that gigantic packet of chocolate digestives I was talking about earlier; after too much, it all gets a bit sickly.

Sorry for rambling a bit this week, I haven't quite been with it since.... well, since Mel started counting down the days 'til results day, frankly. I'll try and be a little less vague next week. In the meantime, you know where to find us.

Install Locks on Your Bedroom Door

Speaking from personal experience, it is not ideal to introduce your boyfriend/girlfriend while you are covered in love bites. Although, having said that, my parents have a rather relaxed view on my dating; it’s rare they would intervene. Mel spoke about us as a family of spiders, and what she wrote was true, but really mummy and daddy spider are quite reasonable.  I’ve been told they might step in if they thought a relationship was abusive, or they were a drug dealer/demon, but there’s an element of trust. If I did introduce them to a complete idiot whom I was dating, I like to think they would have the tact not to ridicule him to his face; mocking me later may ensue.

Here’s my list of what not to do when dealing with introductions:

• Do not get caught in bed with them, that is not something your parents need to see even if they are lenient
• At first, maybe a quick hello is better than the huge family reunion; get your boyfriend/girlfriend to pop in and say hi before making a speedy escape, think of it as a pilot introduction
•  Sunday roast is possibly not the best time, those cooking tend to get a little stressed out
• Bribe your siblings with vodka and jelly babies to tell your family nothing but good stories about them, hearing the story of your boyfriend/girlfriend's naked arrest is not the first impression a judgemental parent needs
• For the love of god do not have your parents as friends on Facebook
• Now is not the time to use nicknames unless utter humiliation is your goal here
• If it’s a guy get them to shave, it freaks my nan out if teenagers have beards, I assume other older generations may agree
• Do give parents prior warning, especially if the relationship is lgbt, unless you want your partner by your side when you come out

Apparently a logical combination

I would never judge a partner by how they get on with my family; I understand how annoying my mother can be and how strange my young teenage sister is. Although, perhaps I would look harshly on someone who found my adorable four year old sister annoying, or treated her badly. Luckily everyone seems to love her, poor dumb fools.

Todostrieb,

Please send all nudes to our email address (which I forget)

I don't have to worry about getting some girl pregnant...

James has been swallowed by the Peak District, so I get to post a few days early again :D

As I sit here writing this, weeks before it gets published, listening to the London Symphony Orchestra's cover of Bohemian Rhapsody and Eye of the Tiger (seriously, they're amazing, go and listen to it), I find myself struggling to come up with perks about being gay, aside from not having to worry about getting some girl pregnant. Because, lets face it, girls are ikky.

This rather obvious fact comes with a very useful by-product: I won't have to suffer those sleepless nights when the devil in baby form arrives after nine months and begins crying because it's.... done whatever babies do - if whoever I end up with wants a baby, we get to skip that stage and adopt one who's approaching the bearable years. How awesome.

Ooooh, Life on Mars. Sorry.

And because of that, there's no 9 month pregnancy break in the sex life either; my partner and I will get to continue in our antics for however long we please, or until our adopted baby needs a new nappy/feeding. And just as Jelly Babies and Vodka are well known to be the recipe for whatever you want, it's also a well known fact that gay sex is just invariably better than its straight counterpart.

On a vaguely related note, neither partner in a gay relationship feels obliged to surrender his coat during a date, nor is it necessary to embrace the 'ladies first' philosophy. Admittedly, this can lead to some awkward moments of you both reaching for the door handle simultaneously to open it for the other, resulting either in an awkward silence in which you both go bright red, or passionate sex in time with The Final Countdown:

As a gay man, aside from the above-mentioned benefits, you also get to help your straight female best friend (because, let's face it, we've all got about a hundred of those) choose her boyfriend, giving you a legitimate excuse to stare at all those guys that you've fancied since Year 8 without either of you feeling awkward. 

I'd like to be able to promise that James will be back with us next Monday, but if the peak district (or even Cretzal) has swallowed him, then who knows when he'll be back with us... for now, I'd just like to leave you all with a shameless bit of self-promoting, and bid you all farewell and until next time.

Rule #1: Do not expect normality.

By the time you'll have read this, I'll likely be lying in a ditch somewhere near Ingatestone, Essex.

You see, the reason me and Rory had to swap days was that on the day I was meant to furnish you lovely people with an entertaining, well crafted post about how I came out, how to come out yourself, and how to help others, I was instead sitting a Russian exam, wondering what on earth "Благотворительные Oрганизации" meant. 

There is a certain bitter irony in the fact that the International Baccalaureate caused me so much pain and confusion with a phrase that translates to "Charitable Organisations".

But, dear Constant Readers, I've scheduled this post to go out exactly 30 minutes after my last exam finishes, and, believe me, that's enough time to make a bottle or seventeen of vodka vanish, like a magic trick from my liver's worst nightmares. As such, while reading this post, just know that somewhere out there, in the big wide world, the person who wrote this is happy and smiling, and with friends.

If that doesn't cheer you up, just imagine the hangover I'll have afterwards.

Now, onto the post proper:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I first came out as bisexual while in bed with my straight crush, while we were just in our boxers, at about 4 in the morning. It wasn't even either of our beds, it was a 3rd party's bed. You see, I've never been particularly good at doing things the expected way, or the correct way. That little imp that most people have in their heads, that whispers such things as "No, don't eat the nettle, it will hurt." or "No, don't talk about sausages/bananas/courgettes with your crush, you'll only giggle and run away again." seems to have taken early retirement around my 1st birthday.

I suppose it made a bit of sense for me to come out to Cthulhu first, as he was mainly the reason I'd decided I was bisexual. Up until then, I'd had the occasional "James, you enjoy thinking about men a bit too much..." mental conversation with myself, but they always ended up with me no closer to accepting it and feeling a little like the guy in Fight Club.

Which isn't an entirely negative experience.

But one of the things Cthulhu and I were particularly fond of was sharing secrets, lots and lots of secrets, and he was the first person who'd ever gotten me to do that. Before then, nobody had even guessed I had secrets - I seemed too boring. My secrets were so secret I'd started forgetting them. Until he dredged them up.

But I appear to be straying from the crux of the matter here: semi-naked and in bed together (albeit at opposite ends).

I honestly can't tell you what degenerate part of my brain thought that that was the most appropriate moment to tell him that I, his up-until-now-apparently-straight best friend, had a massive crush on him. Did I think that because he was bereft of clothing he couldn't escape? Was I hoping that he would say the same, and we'd make out in our friend's bed? I cannot say.  All I can say is that, despite being probably more than a little taken aback by the fact I actually said it, he was absolutely fine with it. No rage, no fear, no torches and pitchforks. He even made a joke about it later on, when he said "My boxers feel a bit tight... oh, yeah, that probably wasn't what you needed to be hearing right now."

"No, please, keep talking."

So there I was, officially out to at least one person (the 3rd party followed shortly, because I had come out in her bed after all, she deserved to know). I don't know about you, dear Readers, but once I've done something scary, I want to do it again and again. Thus I set myself a challenge: I had to be out to most of my friends and my parents by the end of college. I am (woo!), but neither of those went particularly to plan either...

Me and Cthulhu had decided that I was going to come out to everyone at the party we were going to before we'd even gotten there. About 2 or 3 months had passed since I first came out to him, and when I got there, it all seemed quite doable. Most people there I either knew or seemed friendly and/or drunk enough, and I was feeling confident.

Until I actually considered the mechanics of it all.

"You must come out to all of these people. You have one hour - go."

The fact that the party goers were legion, and quite a spread out legion at that, had put a significant dent in my plan. By this point I had partaken in quite a few intoxicants myself, and was therefore a little wary of putting myself through all that walking lest I end up in a bush or a puddle or a bear. And then I saw it.

The answer to all my problems.

The tree.

In the middle of the field/park/golf course where we were partying, there sat a large, fallen tree, about 1.5 times my height. Now, to anyone else this tree looked like just another fallen tree, a tad incongruous in the middle of a clearing but no matter, blame ghosts or aliens. But to me, in my drunken, slightly deluded way, it looked like a bloody good stage for a little show I wanted to put on.

The temptation to sing my way through the experience was barely containable. 

While I can't claim to have proclaimed my sexuality to the entire world from the top of that log, I did announce it to quite a few people (to an irritatingly small response - no girls swooned or anything). After that, I just left it to filter through my school's gossip machine on its own. It took a while, and everybody seemed much more interested in the false rumour that me and the 3rd party had made out (oh, the irony), but  it got round in the end, and that just left the stereotypical final boss battle: the parents.

"IT'S JUST A PHASE." - 999 HP DAMAGE.

Except, they were the easiest to tell. I told my Mum about 3 months after the party, flippantly while enjoying a glass of Strongbow. She was unmoved. She had very little reaction whatsoever, except to tell me that she'd thought I was gay once. She had no qualms whatsoever, but she did warn me not to tell my Dad, which was a little ominous. However, after 9 months of not telling him, I just had to - he was the last pertinent person left. I built up some courage, gulped down some Strongbow (it's a favourite drink of mine, don't judge), and said "Dad, I'm bisexual." halfway through an episode of Masterchef: Australia. "I know, your Mum told me ages ago."

This is a recurring theme: I told my Mum about Cretzal a full 3 weeks before I told my Dad, and when I did eventually tell him, he used the exact same phrase, as if he'd copy/pasted it. I just had to laugh.

And that, dear readers, is my advice to you: laugh. Make coming out funny. Do it in incongruous situations. Do it semi-nude. Do it while standing above everyone like Moses with the 10 Commandments. Do it while wearing a French Maid costume just do anything to make it enjoyable, because, y'know, Mary Poppins was right.

A spoon full of sugar and all that jazz.

You're saying the chimney sweep who has a full blown dance number with loads of dirty, sweaty guys isn't totally closeted?

You could email us at homojournal@gmail.com, or you could come and find me in that ditch somewhere, because there's no way I'll remember where I am when I eventually wake up.

Yours drunkenly,

James

Looking back on it, me, Cthulhu and 3rd Party had a habit of doing impolite things in/on each others' beds.

You should all be having sex with yourselves.

I’d like to start this week’s post with an apology: this will seem very rushed, however the majority of my foolish Homo-Journalists decided late on Sunday to change this week’s theme from Coming Out to talking about masturbation, causing me to reschedule my planned post until next week and blitz this. So you will all have to make do with yet another short post from me, however I promise next week’s post will more than make up for two short ones.

So, you will no doubt have gathered that the month of May, in all its simultaneous gloriousness and horribleness (glorious because I’m going to New York at the end of the month; horrible because of the exams which I have now finished. I pity my fellow Homo-Journalists for all studying Biology.) is officially masturbation month. And we, being the sexually frustrated people that we are, have discovered this, and have chosen to exploit this, and you’re all going to come out of the end of this week never being able to think of [insert innuendo here] in the same way again. Ever.

“What is the purpose of this insane month?” I hear you all cry. Well, in all honesty, I’m not sure I can answer your plead, so let’s all just assume that the organisers of this month (if there are people sad enough to organise masturbation month) are all trying to tell us to go and have sex with ourselves, because if we do it all the time and never stop, we might not develop prostate cancer (that’s a valid argument, if you don’t believe me, read this article). But our daily lives and routines are all too full of revision and shopping and vodka and jelly babies (and also chocolate cake) to be able to successfully incorporate a daily masturbation session into our routine. Unless we all switch off the BBC News at 10 and do it then – who wants to listen to Ed Miliband insulting and shouting at Dick (sorry – Dave and Nick) about the recession, or some other sleazy scandal which will no doubt come to light in the time between me writing this in the early hours of Monday morning, and it going live at 10a.m. on Friday.

Before I descend into a mad rant about the apparent incompetence of our silly government, or about how everyone on this tiny little planet leads a much too busy life to be able to fit in a sneaky wank here and there, I shall leave you with the following advice: never type 'masturbation month' into YouTube in the hope that you'll find a quirky video to finish this post off with; it will burn your eyes.

All the guys I like are straight... :(

Getting your straight best friend to like you in that sort of way is never going to be easy for any gay man. Or woman, for that matter. Unfortunately for me (and, dare I say, probably most of the gay population), it seems to be the only thing I ever end up doing, and all just to be repeatedly disappointed, let down and depressed when they kick you in the face after a trip to the toilet gone too far (this has not happened to me, I hasten to add).

Here's my situation. Since realising I was gay many moons ago, I've found myself crushing on at least 3 of my best friends, and many more random people I walk past on a daily basis in the corridor but have neither spoken to nor discovered their names. I *think* I've only ever told one of those friends how I feel towards him, and it doesn't seem to have dented our friendship in the slightest; it only makes those awkward moments at sleepovers all the more awkward by the occasional presense of an erection. Of the other two friends: one is in a sweet and loving relationship with a girl which unfortunately for me doesn't look like it's going to end any time soon; the other, a catholic who despite not minding the fact that I'm gay, refuses to stay alone in the same room with me without an open door through which he can escape should I decide to rape him, which despite my feelings for him, is unlikely. And now I won't say any more because anybody who knows me well enough can probably figure out who these three are.

True dat.

Even though I know that these three people are straight, in my youthful past that didn't stop me from trying my luck out anyway, despite knowing that I'd just get rejected and depressed. This has led to the following situations developing:

1. At least one of my straight crushes claims he's now been asked out by more boys than girls.
2. A certain awkwardness now dominates the atmosphere when I'm around at least one of my straight crushes, particularly when the conversation turns to something gay or relationship-related (which is always).

Perhaps I'm the wrong person to give advice on these sorts of things, mainly because of my shocking lack of success and/or experience in the relationships department. I stand by Jelly Babies and Vodka as being the best way for you to get what you want and when you want it.

And if what you want really is your straight best friend inside you, be sure to get them pissed out of their minds first.

Giant Puddles Are Fun

Straight crushes, I’m sure we’re beginning to sound very much like a broken record, but it is yet another topic I have little experience in.  All of the rejections I have received I can assure you have been based solely on my personality. The girl I jokingly asked to prom told me “it’s not your gender it’s your personality”. She was probably joking too, to be fair I can be a bitch though, and now I have a boyfriend so really it all worked out roses.

Once upon a time a few of my friends had crushes on me, obviously they all have terrible taste, while I still thought I was straight. Having been in this situation my advice is; don’t be afraid to tell them, I was happier to know and did my best to avoid actions which may have hurt them further. Having a crush is not going to ruin a friendship, if they are truly your friend whom they crush on should not be an issue – the worst that can happen is changing in front of them is a little awkward (but I’m told guys seldom do that anyways). One awkward conversation is worth the potential gains, it’s a possibility you’ll get rejected, I can’t lie, but you never know – they might be willing to give it a try, or are secretly harbouring the mirror of your crush and are too scared to do anything. If the worst comes to the worst don’t be a stalker about it, give yourself some space and time to get over it (ensure you have adequately explained your feelings on the matter though, it hurts to have a friend ignore you without knowing why). Sometimes dragging it out is unnecessary torture to you. It may seem like this is the end of your friendship, your life, or the world. But in a few years you’ll look back and laugh, and if they’re a true friend they’ll be sitting next to you laughing too. Or, if they’re a best friend, at the bar buying a round of drinks.

New life ambition.

My advice to anyone whose friend confesses affection/crush/undying love: don’t be a dick. Seriously, I know where you live.

Lots of love,

Todostrieb

4 easy ways to protect yourself from gay-bashing.

It seems that out of all of our homo-journalists, I'm the only one who has been gay-bashed at some point. I'm not going to go into much detail about it now, that's for coming out week, but let it be said that the gay-bashing has now stopped, and much like James, any gay-bashing that does come my way, I tend to take in good humour.

If, on the other hand, you are still being gay-bashed (I promise you it does stop - see the video at the top of the blog), here are 4 easy, untested and untried ways to protect yourself from it.


1: Know thine enemy
Most of the people who bash gays in a non-sexual way, tend to be homophobic. So, after having safely evaluated and weighed up the potential dangers, opportunities to be stabbed, opportunities to be shot, and opportunities for cock, get to know some homophobic people. Perhaps this is the example I couldn't think of last week about stereotypes not being useful to anyone. Well, I lied, they might be useful here.

Once you get to know some homophobic people, take what they have in common, and use it to your advantage. For example, if you know they're all complete mummy's boys, when they come at you and your boyfriend/girlfriend wielding a machete or an AK-47, threaten them with "I know where you live and I'll tell your mummy." Remember to take pleasure in the look of absolute terror that that line will strike into them, and once you've done that, make good your escape.

2: Alienate your friends and family 
In order to be able to survive gay bashing/homophobia/whatever you want to call it, you need a thick skin. Rather than stand in front of the mirror shouting "rectum raider" and other such insults at yourself (although that might be a good way to start immunising yourself from the 'phobes), ask pay your boyfriend/girlfriend/brother/sister/mum/dad/best friend/etc to do so for you. This gets you used to other people insulting you, and since the insults are coming from the people you know, it'll ultimately hurt you more than what some tosser outside the tube station will say to you.

This will obviously come with considerable side effects, such as losing contact with friends and the immediate family, and may end your relationship with your other half, so be warned, this is a dangerous option. If side effects persist, you should seek advice from your GP...

3: Sign a peace treaty in Jelly Babies and Vodka 
It's a well-known fact that everybody on the planet adores Jelly Babies and Vodka. You should use this to your advantage and draw up a peace treaty of Jelly Babies and Vodka; you hand over x kilos of Jelly Babies in return for the same amount of Vodka for you and your significant other to either drink, fuel your getaway car with, or both.

4: Straight-bashing
What makes the heteros of the world so different from the homos anyway? >.<

(Disclaimer: Any fool who actually tries any of the above is a fool. These have not been tried and tested for effectiveness, and will probably result in you and your other half getting more hurt than you would have done had you just ignored it and moved on.)