Sex Tape Scandal!

Paris Hilton has one. Pamela Anderson also has one so does Lindsay Lohan. Kim Kardashian, I believe, purposefully leaked hers to the media. Yes they all have had their sex tape scandals; it seems you’re not quite famous until your sex-escapades are immortalized on film and ends up on the Internet. Charlie Sheen has also even been rumoured to have taken photos of his wiener. Couples filming themselves while having sex or taking naked pictures of them seem to have become a trend in yet another of the plethora erotic fetishes. Making your own home pornographic movie for your secret erotic pleasure is one thing, but once it ends up on the Internet or in malevolent hands you can be in for a nasty & embarrassing surprise. This let me to wonder, why do people like filming themselves engaging in sexual acts? Is there a hidden exhibitionist in us or is it the thrill factor of having done something naughty captured on film?
Let’s be honest at one point in all our lives we have considered taking a few sexy pictures of ourselves and/or of our partners. With the emergence of new technologies like mobile phones with camera’s it has been made so much easier. Whether you have actually done so I hope will remain your secret. A friend of mine recently had his mobile phone stolen. This in itself is traumatic but what made this crime worse is the fact that he had taken some raunchy pictures and videos of himself engaging in unmentionable acts with his former boyfriend. All these pictures and videos were stored on his phone memory. Imagine the thief’s surprise when scrolling down to the media files on the stolen phone and discovering in graphic detail exactly what “gay sex” entails. After this unfortunate discovery 1 of 2 things may happen: 1) The phone could be discarded in utter disgust; or 2) The entrepreneur in the thief could whisper to him “Blackmail the former owner or sell the pictures and videos to a porn site”. In any event both outcomes will leave my friend tainted and he’s justifiably been having sleepless nights. I don’t know which is worse, being caught masturbating by your mother or having a thieve glare at pornographic pictures of you – luckily neither has ever happened to me!
While in High School a former friend one day showed me what he had discovered whilst rummaging through his parents’ closet. In a well hidden unassuming shoe box he discovered Polaroid photo’s of his mother in sexy lingerie in various erotic poses and photo’s of his dad in special undergarments. No child wants to imagine their parents having sex and I, for one, would not want to see sexy pictures of my parents nor would I show them to a friend if they had. Admittedly when I was showed the photos I was quite disturbed at both what I saw and the mere fact that it was being showed to me; suffice to say that friendship died a quiet death. I can just imagine the embarrassment his parents would suffer had they known that their kinky erotic photo montage was being exhibited by their own child to pubescent teens. As if private kinky photos and home made sex videos aren’t enough there actually are people that willingly expose themselves on the Internet. There are special websites where you can upload explicit videos and photos of yourself for the world to see; you can create a profile and have voyeurs subscribe to your daily sexual exploits. Whether these individuals are trying to break into the porn industry or do it purely as an exhibitionist outlet is a mystery to me. They may be better advised to audition at a porn studio and actually earn an income from it.
I was once approached to act in a porn movie, not that the word “acting” accurately describes what was to be expected of me. I was 18 years of age and probably looked very naive. A dodgy looking man pitched the idea to me in a gay club and his main selling point was that it would pay well, would only be one day and I would get to have sex with sexy young guys like me (the flattery angle is always a good marketing tool). If I recall correctly the movie was to be called “African Adventure or Out in Africa”. Naturally, being a broke student at the time, I briefly entertained the idea walking around with the guy’s business card in my bag for a couple of days. Luckily, I made the wise decision not to take him up on his offer. In retrospect, I am very grateful I didn’t make my porn debut - imagine how different my life would have turned out if I had.
Many of our friends have taken sexy pictures of themselves and partners as part of spicing up their sex lives and as an erotic and new form of foreplay that unlike the traditional version leaves one with a lasting memento. Personally it’s my views that if it contributes to improving the health of your sex life and keeps the passion in your relationship then click away, just make sure the erotic mementos are safely locked away and out of reach of your children, thieves and the Internet.

The sex tape mystery may not have been solved by me, but it sure makes for interesting debate over a few drinks with liberal friends. Whether people take naked pictures and make sex videos to spice up their sex lives, to satisfy some exhibitionist need or just simply to push themselves beyond the boundaries of their own sexual inhibitions, this form of sexual fetish have landed many people in embarrassing situations when these private products falls into the wrong hands. Luckily, I do not foresee any sex tape scandal in my near future. If there had to be one I find solace in the fact that I’m not famous and the fall out would be minimal.

Till next time.

Margaret Cho - Gay males vs straight males

Strike a Pose!

With the much anticipated unveiling of what could be the next biggest trend in men’s hair fashion (the “V” cut) I participated in my 2nd only photo shoot in my 32 years on this planet. Not being an oil painting nor being very photogenic the prelude to this big day, I was frantically trying to shed a extra few pounds as they say the camera adds 10 pounds and I was consumed with nervous tension (after all this face wasn't made for television and is more suited for radio or the print media). So I was left with the gnawing question– will I be able to play model for a day or will I crack under the pressure inflicting the same destructive force on the camera lens and photographer?

My 1st photo shoot was for my attempted television debut on the 1st ever Big Brother South Africa. This was many years ago but the memory of that Sunday afternoon is still vivid. The photo shoot was done on a couple of locations and I distinctly remember feeling increasingly foolish striking poses while the unsuspecting public were staring at this hive of activity, probably wondering who the hell I was not knowing that they may soon see me on television 24 hours a day for 3 months. I remember that the camera scared me and made me feel self-conscious about all parts of my body I perceived as being imperfect. I always hated my noose and therefore I found seeing profile pictures of me more frightening than watching the Exorcist on the big screen. The photo shoot went well and I was pleasantly surprised with the end result, but unfortunately the final decision by the producers of Big Brother excluded me from potential fame and knowing me also probable embarrassment. Like my husband says, sometimes you just can take me anywhere with my chronic “foot-mouth-disease”.

With the final countdown to the latest photo shoot I was making my way through peak hour traffic I came to the realization that what ever happens I must at all cost just relax and try having fun. Arriving at the shoot the atmosphere was relaxed. The skilled make up artist managed to artistically cover up my stress pimple that like Mt St Helens’ Volcano was threatening to erupt over night. She also managed to conceal all the nicks I had inflicted on myself with the previous morning’s shaving or rather carving disaster. My stylist who also happened to be the photographer did his magic with my hair and the signature “V” cut was perfected. I was ready for my close up! This would be my 1st shoot in a studio and it’s quite different from a location shoot. Everything appeared more confined and controlled. Unlike Naomi Campbell I was no diva and no personal assistants or housekeepers were harmed as there were none, besides I can’t afford throwing my phone at anyone or finance defending an assault law suit.

As the shoot started I was admittedly nervous in front of the camera. Having grown more mature since my last photo shoot, I have come to accept certain parts of my body that has become a good part frumpier than my Big Brother stint. A few well needed shots of social lubricant (aka strong liquor) relaxed me and the shoot progressed nicely. I am no natural therefore certain instructions on poses I found peculiar. Being said to manipulate your body into a position that feels totally unnatural, tilt your head in ways you have never done before and relax your lips was not something I was used to do. At one point having to keep a certain pose for up to a minute I could feel my leg muscles starting to shake, and I gained a lot more respect for professional models. Even though it felt queer posing in such precarious positions on camera it looked completely natural and hid all the little physical flaws and most importantly the much hated double chin. What more can a gay guy ask for!

Several wardrobe changes, themes and what felt like hundreds of photos later I actually started enjoying myself and my intense fear of the camera seemed like a distant memory. The other consolation was that if something didn’t look right at least there was the ultimate savior in the form of PHOTOSHOP! As my confidence grew adventurousness set in and the boundaries and inhibitions I had of what I was willing to do in front of the camera abated – I was now less concerned of showing a double chin and more focused on having fun even at the expense of looking like an absolute idiot. My husband was there for moral support and in certain photo’s a hand, an arm and a partial shot of his face can be seen. At the end of the day the creativity, confidence and freedom the photographer showed was contagious and it ended up being a very enjoyable experience.

Having survived my 2nd photo shoot I must admit that the experience was an eye opener. From being nervous of embarrassing myself I managed to cross a psychological barrier that prevented me from venturing beyond certain boundaries of being in total control of my outward appearance and entrusting my body to another person’s creative vision. The experience was scary, fun and at the end of the day very liberating. One thing is certain I am no professional model and the run ways of Paris and Milan will not grace my feet any time soon but having spend 4 hours in front of the camera I gained a new found confidence and my phobia of being photographed and having a Naomi Campbell epic breakdown was completely unfounded. This Diva is still utterly tame and harmless and the general public is safe for now.

Till next time.

HEDDA LETTUCE COVERS LADY GAGA'S POKER FACE

Pet Peeves

Life can be filled with small annoyances that some of us bear with greater ease than others. Having spoken to some of my more neurotic friends I have come to realize that one’s pet peeves can shed light on one’s own idiosyncrasies. This let me to wonder what my pet peeves say about me.

One of my pet peeves is having to stand in a queue - I absolutely despise it! It’s worsened when I am standing in front of Chatter Box or a Moaner. When standing in a queue I am usually not in the mood for idle conversation and chatty people tend to find me rude as all my responses are limited to one word answers until they eventually leave me alone. The moaners who vocalize how staff is moving at a glacial speed, are incompetent and how this delay will adversely affect the rest of the busy schedules also makes my blood boil. Complaining has never and will never speed up any queue and the only assured effect is the frustration of those around you. Many a time I had the urge to turn around and smack such people behind the head and tell them to shut the hell up! But alas I never have.

Another of my pet peeves is punctuality. I absolutely hate being late and get really irritated when other people seemingly find it impossible to tell time. In South Africa this phenomena is know as “African Time”. The “African Time Syndrome” spans across all age, race and gender groups. One of my friends is a prime example of someone afflicted with this syndrome– she has never been on time for anything not even to her own birth being 3 weeks late! Whenever you invite to her a party or dinner you have to deceive her by telling her the shindig starts 90 minutes earlier than the actual time - even then she can be up to 30 minutes late. As the years passed we have come to accept this as one of her quirks. We have now made peace with the fact she has an incurable aversion toward punctuality and her wrist watch is purely an accessory.
Telemarketers are one of life’s annoyances that drive me nuts and bring out the bitch in me. The best way to deal with a persistent telemarketer, I have found, is to be firm, stand your ground and make sure you start every conversation with “If you are selling anything I am hanging up”. If this doesn’t deter them your next course of action is to ask the marketer 2 questions: “Are you rich?” and if the answer is No followed by “Then how the hell do you expect to make me rich!” This usually works with all insurance or wealth brokers. Your last and only recourse with all other forms of telemarketers is to ask whether what they are selling is “Free”. This usually throws them of balance. I have also found asking them what’s in it for them also causes mass confusion. When ever I am in a good mood I also enjoy teasing them. Inevitably I would be asked whether I am married and I find great satisfaction correcting them when they make reference to my “wife”. At this point the marketer usually is uneasy and I being an opportunist worsen their discomfort by interrogating their views regarding gay rights in Africa & the Middle East. As a result very few remember why they phoned me and the conversation is usually short lived.
There’s nothing more comforting in winter than standing in a warm shower after a long day but sometimes water pressure issues has caused me mini heart attacks. My husband has the nasty habit of flushing the toilet while I am enjoying a relaxing shower. As the cold water wash over me and my body goes into a cringing shock I am instantly taken back to my christening: Wearing a white dress and having a old man throwing cold water over my head while I am screaming my lungs out in my mother’s arms! I know my husband doesn’t do this on purpose, but I do – it’s my benevolent revenge! As I hear his high pitched shrieks echo from the bathroom I always wonder whether I made my point.

Being stuck in traffic and road works are near the top of my pet peeve list; worse than the above are the last of my pet peeves - “Sunday afternoon cruisers” and the “Purple dye club”. The “Sunday afternoon cruisers” are those individuals that think the speed limit is a recommendation and always tend to drive much slower than is suggested. They also don’t seem to understand the concept of keeping their car in their own lane and drive with an observable lack of urgency or courtesy.

The “Purple Dye club” are all our older drivers, the ones that should not be allowed behind any steering weal but instead should be driven by a designated driver from their retirement village. You can spot the “Purple Dye club” a mile away; they are the ones whose cars are crawling down the road with the driver barely visible with only a pair of heavy duty spectacles peaking over the steering weal which they cling to it for dear life with a noticeable anxiety. They are the drivers that always have freedom of way and it’s their god given right as your elder to cut you off. Very few know how to operate their indicators or understand the purpose of all the mirrors on their cars. Their reaction time is well over 1 minute and it takes them 10 minutes to manoeuvre their cars into a parking space plus an additional 10 minutes to enter and/or exit their vehicles. Once I waited almost 20 minutes for grandma & grandpa to get into their car and exit their parking space at a shopping mall. This is one of my little habits that exasperate my husband – I’d rather wait 20 minutes for a prime parking space than having to walk 100 meters.

If I had to list and explain all my pet peeves I could write a book thicker than War & Peace. Not everyone share similar irritations in life and I have also come to realize how easy it is to become immune to others. What my pet peeves say about me I am not sure as being able to examine one self objectively is nearly impossible. However, queues, punctuality, telemarketers, water pressure & bad drivers will remain high on my list of top pet peeves.

Till next time.

Funny Granny

The Testosterone Club

The ever elusive inner circle of the “all boys club” has always seemed quite inaccessible to me. However, in recent weeks, I have become privy to this enigmatic phenomenon. What I found was that being one of the boys aka “testosterone club” is not all it’s cracked up to be, and I’d much rather prefer the company of my fag hags and fellow queers.
Since a young age I never quite fit into what is referred to as gender appropriate behaviour for a heterosexual boy. My 1st kindergarten report card, which my nostalgic mother kept, was proof of this. The report card read that I was developing as normal, my speech, vocabulary and eye-hand-coordination was above average. However, the teachers noticed my refusal to play with gender appropriate toys and the absence of same gender friends. The fact that I kept the company of the opposite sex when it came to play time was of concern and my parents were advised to encourage me to befriend other boys. Little did they know what the consequences of that would be! The last straw was an incident when we were made to play dress up. I had 3 choices of costumes: A Cow Boy, a Clown or a Witch. Naturally, I choose the Witch to the great disillusionment of my teachers. The resulting photo which I proudly presented to my mom left her unimpressed, little worried and the next day I had a "play date" with the neighbour’s rambunctious boy – a friendship that was uneasy and brief.
When it came to high school, my parents had the brilliant idea of sending me to a very prestigious all-boy school in an effort to butch me up. It didn’t have the desired effect in fact it was quite the opposite. In high school I did make male friends but never found myself a member of any “all boys club” but rather stayed on the periphery of popularity and complete social acceptance rather opting to associate myself with the outcasts and rebels as they were my kind off people – the minority group of non-conformists with as strong sense of individuality. Instead of reinforcing heterosexual male values and behavioural patterns, I instead burst out of the proverbial closet at age 16 proclaiming my sexual orientation to the great dismay of my school and family. I started my own elitist “all-boys club”. The club was so elitist it only had 1 member – me!
So when, in the last few weeks, I was accepted into another elitist “all boys club” I thought this would be my chance at redemption and finally being able to decipher the mystery that is heterosexual male bonding. At 1st it was moderately exciting but I soon grew bored as I realized I had very little in common with this group of men: I don’t like sports; I have no desire to understand sports and I have no yearning to talk about women’s boobs and asses, cars, golf or hunting. I found myself in conversations watching their lips move but only hearing white noise, as I zoned out thinking about what I was going to cook for supper or when my next Botox treatment was. The only thing we had in common were a penis and even that commonality would fade into obscurity as our choice of usage conflicted. I found their bonding ritual queer and their topical conversations tedious, not even the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol could blur the dichotomy that is our lifestyles and interests.
When I had to participate in a fairly large scale move as part of the boys last week, I had an epiphany. The move was well organized, timed and executed with military precision. The only flaw in their well laid plan would be my role. As the “gay guy” in the group I presumed I would have a supervisory task (god forbid they would expect me to do any heavy lifting!) As fate would have it, they didn’t make any distinctions between members and therefore I would not receive any “special treatment”. I was to put in the same physical effort as all the other men – oh the horror! As I hauled my first 4 boxes up 3 flights of stairs being a member of the boys club seemed less and less appealing. This fairy wasn’t having fun anymore! I kept thinking to myself gays would pay people to do the heavy lifting for us as we would hire staff – it’s called job creation! Not wanting to disturb the peace I kept my mouth shut! After 3 hours of physical torture my ordeal was finally over. The move was finished and so was my membership to this club. Gay men and straight men can get along just fine, but personally I felt I over stayed my welcome in their testosterone filled world and desperately wanted to submerge myself back into my natural gay habitat doing gay things with gay people and talk about gay stuff. My final and appropriate salute to this “all boys club” was with the downing a few beers as I left their world shortly after chased with a margarita back in my natural gay biosphere.

The “all boys club” is a phenomenon that has been with us for centuries. Having infiltrated one such group and having been part of their bonding, activities and private discourse, I must say I found it less exciting than I anticipated. Straight guy’s interests, at times, seemed odd, boring and taxing. Being a member of the "testosterone club" definitely wasn’t one of the highlights of my social calendar. I wonder how straight men would fare spending a couple of weeks with their gay counterparts. Would our activities bore them as much as theirs did me? Would they actually enjoy some of the frivolous gay banter and reckless abandon of stereotypical male activities? This would be a challenge I would like to see.

Till next time.

So You're Having a Gay Baby!
Gay Comedian Jonny McGovern's 3 Dollar Bill featuring Murray Hill

Abnormal Load

A conversation with a friend regarding how often in our lives we are confronted with everyday objects that has some kind of sexual and/or erotic overtone had me looking at my environment with greater attentiveness. I was amazed to find how many phallic and/or priapic symbols we are surrounded with, from fruit, trees, plants and appliances to the ultimate of phallic objects – the modest Tow Bar.
For quite some time I have thought the tow bar resembled the male organ in its erect form. On closer inspection the comparison is undeniable. When I first become aware of this, every time I saw one I would utter a disguised giggle! One day in peak traffic my husband asked me why I was giggling. On explanation, he frowned, turned to me and said “You’re just weird”. However, it did prick his interest and soon I caught him looking at tow bars in a similar fashion. A couple of weeks later, upon seeing a particularly over sized one he agreed by saying “Ah, now I see where you are coming from” followed by a flustered and embarrassed chuckle.

Many car owners buy their vehicles without a tow bars and they have to pick one themselves. On doing some research on the Internet on this piece of innocuous equipment I soon learned that there are quite a variety to choose from; all serving a particular purpose and your choice should be based on what you intend to tow and the type of car you own. Once you have determined the purpose, you are then faced with a choice of a multitude of different shapes and sizes.
Being a man, or rather a gay man, how do you think my choice will be influenced? Will I go for bigger is better? Will I base my choice or the girth, length, shape or curve? Subconsciously, I must admit, that I would make my decision based on my perceived perfect shaped phallus. I can just imagine standing in a motor shop staring at a display wall of tow bars, rubbing my chin deep in thought trying to pick out the perfect one. All the while the sales person not understanding why this is such a complex decision and god forbid me actually handling one while vocalizing sounds like “Hmmm… ahhhh….” Or asking my husband “Honey, what do you think? Is this one too big… is that one too small…”

When straight men choose tow bars I can’t help but wonder how their decision process works. When faced with a tapestry of choices has it ever crossed their mind that they are actually choosing a penis like accessory that they are going to attach to the derriere of their cars? Do they subconsciously realize that their choice may reflect their view of their own masculinity? When it comes to straight males I have observed penis envy on the road many times. I have also observed the more over sized the tow bar the more timid the man. So when it comes to choosing a tow bar, by straight guys, my question is: Do they opt for a fantastic improvement, a true reflection or a more practical version of their own manhood? AND if they know what I know would it influence their choice?

When speaking to a friend, this morning, she was quite enthralled and embarrassed when I raised this issue, so much so that she said she would have to call me back. I am still waiting… Which brings me to my next point – how do women pick their tow bars? Would it be a choice made purely based on practicality or would the subliminal sexual reference of the object in anyway play a role? With tow bars on female’s cars I’ve noticed that lesbians tend to be more practical, opting for the more stubby sturdy ones and straight women being very much indistinguishable from their male counterparts. The latter being the fact that, I believe, their husbands or boyfriends made the decision for them – imposing their masculinity onto their wives or girlfriends. So it would be quite a treat to watch a straight couple go “tow bar shopping” and observing their method of negotiating a compromise and seeing their final choice – the phallus they both agree on!
In South Africa with its citizen loving their sport they have taken their devotion of a famous team one step too far. The Blue Bulls (a renowned rugby team) has gained another symbol fans can use to identify themselves with. Apart from the T-shirts, flags, caps, and stickers they have now also attained the famous “blue bull testicles” that you can attach to their tow bar. So if there were any doubt that the tow bar is a phallic symbol, the attachment of bull testicles to it has now banished any reservation. Personally I think it’s tacky, the tow bar is penis like already and attaching balls to it is just too much – even for a gay man! It’s way too camp and vulgar!

My car does not have a tow bar at present as I have no need for one – I do not plan on towing any abnormal loads any time soon. I also do not plan to attach blue bull testicles to my car as I prefer my car remaining androgynous and I have no desire to butch or femme up my car. I know I may have ruined tow bars for some forever, and for that I do apologize, it is but just one subtle erotic symbol that we live with and I am sure if you take a closer look around you many more will emerge.

Till next time.

Gay Comedian Jonny McGovern's 3 Dollar Bill- Good Cop/Gay Cop