Politics of Sex

Etiquette is something we learn as very young and ungrateful children. Where to put our cutlery when still eating and when done, where to leave our napkin if we’re visiting the mensroom, and how to never bend our backs while eating soup. You also learn ‘cocktail party’ etiquette as you reach adulthood by 18. You learn the kind of conversations that are acceptable with people you just met, how to seem debonair even if you’re an out of control alcoholic, and how to politely divert any unwanted sexual interest heading your way. How to be pretentious and angelic in one breath.

Those rules I’ve pretty much adopted throughout my life as law, even if at times unnecessary, because I’m a whore for approval and shudder at the thought of being considered ungracious.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve been finding my Gwyneth Paltrow approach to socialising in large groups detrimental to when the time comes and I escort one of the lucky gentlemen to my bedroom. It seems that the faux pas I’ve been so warned against are in fact the only way you can survive being gay and sexually active, at least in London. And of course, its sad.

The examples are many, but lets take the most recent one with Ishmael. Friday night I was planning a quiet and cozy night indoors, probably read a little more Umberto Eco and dabble with a little dinner. It was not to be though – I hadn’t had sexual intercourse (not counting oral sex, who does these days?) for a month and Charlie was insisting that I head out to the Box in Covent Garden for a drink.

The Box is, of course, a gay bar. It stands out from other gay bars because the men are pretentious (more than your average dose) and muscle-bound. I may at times lay claim to the former, but not the latter. Still I went, knowing that by now Charlie has introduced me to half the regulars there and I wouldn’t be at all bored.

I’m glad I did, the evening was fun. People I hadn’t seen since last year were hanging around, I flirted with couple of cute bartenders, had delicious vodka, and even went out for a divine menthol cigarette (and I don’t even smoke). At some point at around 10.30pm I was introduced to Ishmael, a sexy Spaniard who works for British Airways as a flight attendant. I carefully asked him if he knew any of the other BA flight attendants I’d slept with in the past (they are a dime a dozen) and felt refreshed when he didn’t. He asked what I did, I replied not revealing too much for fear of being tacky. We talked a little, and as we were standing side-to-side I politely had my hand around his shoulder when i leaned over to talk to him. I was heading home soon and I told him that. Where do you live, he asked, and I had moved to Westminster which was not very far away. Since he lived in Croydon (which is at least an hour’s worth of public transportation) I offered that he spend the night at my place. He smiled, and said he would like to.

At home, the cork was popped, the clothes came off, and we made out for a while. I took him upstairs to my room and got him in bed. It may have been the vodka but he was really hot. After teasing him a little more I went into my wooden treasure case (thank you S! I’ve been putting to good use) to take out lube and a condom. As things progressed he stopped me, looked, and smiled: “I’m sorry, I’m only active”.

First of all, WHAT?! An active BA flight attendant?! What has happened to the world? I checked and sure enough things were really tight down there. “Its ok,” I mumbled, and though on occasion I have switched sides I wasn’t going to do it with someone I just met and I wasn’t in the mood for it anyway. We played around a little more, he eventually gave it a try, but it was so difficult I was literally in pain every time I pushed.

Resigned, we fell asleep next to each other. In the morning I got up, made us breakfast, and got ready for my run. When he left, I messaged Charlie, who had seen us leave together and was inquiring about how well thing went, and I let him know of the unfortunate disappointment.

He wrote back: “A lesson your mother has to teach you is about careful due diligence before you rush home with someone!”. Due diligence. Hm. So what, as I passed him his Corona that night I should have casually slipped in: “So, do you take it up the ass?”?! My faux pas etiquette monitor would have burnt me on the tongue no sooner. How much are you supposed to discuss when you’re planning to take someone home, without loosing the charm of the moment? I realise this is entirely unchartered territory because for straight couples, unless the guy likes girls with strap-ons, there is really one way things can go: he’ll give and she’ll receive. But with two men, there’s a couple of options, and just as I’m pretty fixated on one option so will other guys be- and liking each other at a bar is not enough. I need to figure out a way to, somehow, know which side he’s on without spelling it out and ruining the fun. Though i can’t be blamed for my assumption this time around (I repeat, BA flight attendants are almost always passive), what am I going to ask the next time? I figured that in clubs things are a little easier. When everyone’s jumping and dancing you sometimes get a feel for which end of the spectrum Mr. X is on. Moreover the etiquette rules are thrown out the window with the music, the sweat, and substance abuse. But clubs are the worst places to meet people in London, and I plan on sticking to my bar/dinner party scene.

Anyone come up with a crafty little trick, throw it in my direction.