No, sex in Britain is a rather shameful little act performed by intoxicated adults in dark rooms under the covers. At least that’s what I was brought up to believe and, thinking about it, probably the reason I spent the most of my late teens driving to the next town in a hat, dark glasses and a big coat to buy a staggering number of porno mags.
Of course, this is just me. There are plenty of blokes who have no such hang ups, although these are generally ex-public school types, rugby players or squaddies; blokes who like to rough and tumble, grab each other’s nuts for fun and devise initiation ceremonies for newcomers which usually involve sucking everyone else off. I mean, come on, these sorts of blokes are so used to staring at each other’s cocks across digestive biscuits that of course they’re not going to have any qualms about having it off in front of each other.
Me though, I just couldn’t do it. Does that make me less of a man? I don’t know. Maybe. But then if in order to be regarded as a man I’ve got to drink some scrum-half’s piss through a sock or kiss cocks with the rest of the battalion then you can call me whatever you like. Though this is slightly getting off the point.
Like I said, I’m not shy in front of other blokes. Whenever I play five-a-side I have no worries about getting stripped off and jumping into the showers with the lads because this is just getting clean after the match. It’s no more sexual than washing your hands after working on your car or combing your hair. If however, all of a sudden, one of the lads turned around and had a big hard-on, that would change everything. Me, and I’m sure everyone else, would feel distinctly uncomfortable and want to get out of there and get dressed as quickly as possible (unless it was Michael Owen and he’d just won us the World Cup, then who knows what might happen?). But this is just my natural homophobia at work and that’s the truth. I’m not against gays or lesbians anyone else who wants to swim against the tide, I just don’t want to myself. I’m happy for the homosexual community to do whatever they want to do and enjoy the same sorts of freedoms and liberties as the rest of us, it’s just not my flavour of crisps that’s all, so I’d rather stay well out of it.
Same as I’m not into stamp collecting or Robot Wars; you can crack on if you like but personally I’d rather be in the next pub.
I used to work with this gay bloke a few years ago when I was on the caravan magazine and always got on all right with him, except when he would absolutely insist that I was actually gay myself but hadn’t come to terms with it yet. This, he would say, was why I was afraid to try shagging another bloke, because I was bent and frightened that I’d end up liking it. I mean, what sort of sense does this make? I’m gay and the proof is that I won’t let some geezer in a tight t-shirt give it to me hard up the arse? Am I a murderer too? My response was usually, ‘You don’t have to smack your hand with a hammer to know it’s going to hurt,’ followed by, ‘And even if I was going to try it, it wouldn’t be with you, you fat ugly cunt’.
No, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I’m not gay (though you can never tell with these things) because my overwhelming desire is to be with women, who I am totally and intoxicatingly attracted to. Sometimes I wish I was a nine-bob note because I bet it’s a hell of a lot easier getting a shag than it is being straight.
And so, somewhere amongst these disjointed thoughts is probably the reason I fled from Howard’s that day.
I’ve been in a few similar situations with models since and I’ve always reacted the same way, like Mr Grimsdale’s assistant with the microfilm down his pants. I did a runner. I wish I didn’t, but I did. What can I do? We all have to accept our own limitations.
It particularly confuses and pisses off the models when you do this though because there they are, stark-bollock naked with not an inhibition in the world and there you are unwilling to join in. It hurts their feelings and makes them feel a bit cheap, like you’re saying to them, ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possible do that. Your sort does that, I’m above all that sort of thing’. This isn’t true, of course. I have only the highest admiration for women who get their clothes off in public. I’m just far too fucked up to do it myself.
And that’s the answer to that question – do you get to shag the models? Well, if you don’t mind getting your cock out in front of the lads and bumping balls with your mates then yes, you do occasionally get to shag the models.
If, however, you don’t go in for that sort of thing, well then no, you just have to be content with going home and whacking off over pictures of girls who’ve chased you around the studio and out the door, begging you for sex.
8. Hitting bottom
I guess my subconscious homophobia must’ve still been bubbling away just below the surface a few days later because I turned to Don and asked him, just hypothetically like, what he’d rather have; some big black bloke shag him up the arse or his mum beaten up by muggers?
Don thought about this for a moment or two then asked if he couldn’t have both.
‘Why is it always a black bloke who’s got to shag you up the arse?’ Matt asked from across the room.
‘Yeah, who is he and what does he want?’ Paddy joined in.
‘No, seriously, seriously, whenever anyone’s got a hypothetical gun at their heads in this room it’s always the same big bloke black that gets wheeled out to shag us all up the arse or make us suck him off,’ Matt said. ‘Would it be all right then if he was white or something? I mean, the whole point of these questions, as far as I can make out, is to question our sexual orientation, aren’t they? I don’t think we necessarily have to chuck in the race issue too.’
Hasseem looked up. ‘Don’t look at me, I’m staying out of this one.’
‘No, no, hang on a minute, let’s put it like this then; Godfrey, who would you rather get bummed by, me or Hasseem?’ Matt asked. All eyes turned to me as I considered this question.
‘Have I got a gun to my head?’
‘Yeah yeah, don’t worry about that, you’ve got to do it, you ain’t got no choice. Now come on, which one of us would you rather get done by?’
‘I don’t know. Who’d be the nicest to me afterwards?’ I asked.
‘You know, this is getting a little weird, lads,’ Paddy said.
‘Come on, come on, answer the question,’ Matt insisted. ‘Me or Hasseem.’
‘Fine, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll go with Hasseem then and you can fuck right off,’ I told Matt in no uncertain terms.