'I'm a bad bottom'

This post was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au on the 26th of June 2015, available here.

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I should start off by saying this: I am a terrible bottom. Really. I’m awful.

At the best of times, it’s slightly uncomfortable. At the worst, though, it’s straight up painful. I’m often wondering if the guy I’m with has accidentally split me in half. Except… I seem to wind up bottoming a lot.

I’m told there’s a certain way they’ve got to do it, or a certain amount of preparation that needs to be taken, or a certain angle they’ve got to approach from. Or that there’s an ancient talisman, housed somewhere in the jungles of the Congo that, once acquired, and combined with the right cursed chants and essential oils, will make bottoming a pleasurable experience. None of these considerations have worked in my favour.

All self-effacing quips aside, the question I’ve really got to ask myself is: If it doesn’t feel awesome, why the hell do I keep doing it? Why would I torture myself like this? Why do I keep bottoming?

Firstly, it’s not all bad. There’s a psychological element to being ‘taken’ that can manifest in some truly intense feelings. That, and if you’ve ever ‘gotten used’ to the feeling after the onset, you can definitely agree that, while it might not be a religious experience like it is for some, it’s certainly not the worst feeling in the world.

The most prominent reason I keep trying is because, quite frankly, my perceived role in the bedroom seems to demand it. And more importantly: this role in the bedroom seems expected of me as a young, lean and somewhat effeminate homosexual.

So where do these stereotypes come from? Where are we pulling our ideas from about how we’re going to pull each other?

One theory is that our community has, in a number of ways, transposed heterosexual norms into our own homosexual culture, and, too, our own relationships. It’s something we’ve grown up with, and all of these hetero-normative ideas about masculinity and femininity, about power and vulnerability, have quietly crept their way into our subconscious minds, and have influenced how we view others and ourselves.

Masculinity is valued in men by straight society, symbolising power, confidence and sexual aggression, whereas femininity is oftentimes derided when shown by men, because it represents vulnerability, weakness and sexual submissiveness.

“What if I want to be a feminine top? Or a gruff, masculine bottom? Who on Earth decided that certain sex acts were specific to a certain stereotype?”

In short: Femininity and vulnerability are just not manly – and therefore, a lot of gay men feel opposed to it. It challenges their ideas about what a man is, and what a man should be, and what they should be as men. We’ve somehow ascribed these roles of masculine and feminine to sex acts alone – insertive and receptive, masculine and feminine, acting and acted upon. We’ve found ourselves viewing being the penetrative partner as being the more masculine of the pair, and to some, therefore the most desirable.

So it only makes sense that when I meet a man at a bar, who after a few cheeky drinks wants to hitch a cab back to his flat in Brunswick for a bit of a good time, that he might automatically assume my status as a bottom.

It’s because I’m feminine, and femininity represents sexual submissiveness, and even though we’ve discovered our anatomies and found ways in which bottoming can be pleasurable for everyone, we somehow view bottoming as something exclusive to “fems”.

Why shouldn’t bottoming be masculine? And why can’t topping be feminine? What if I want to be a feminine top? Or a gruff, masculine bottom? Who on Earth decided that certain sex acts were specific to a certain stereotype?

There are gay men out there in the world who know what they like, and will explicitly make clear what they want and how they want it, gender roles be damned. I salute those men.

But there are also men out there who feel uncomfortable about the very idea of bottoming, because they view it as feminine. And the last thing they want to be is anything other than the masculine gender they have worked so hard to embody, in spite of homophobia and bigotry that has seen them typecast as feminine by default – by virtue of simply being gay.

More self-identifying ‘masculine’ men should face the idea that something typecast as ‘feminine’ could be something they’re into.

The bottom line for me – the bottom-line with bottoming – is that it’s okay to enjoy bottoming, no matter how you might present yourself. It’s okay to be a bulking mass of muscle and want to take a dick in your ass, just like it’s okay to be an effeminate “fairy” and not want any dude coming near your nether regions with his eight-inch pole. And it’s okay to reverse those options, too.

Sex should be a fun, pleasurable and wholly uninhibited experience. We should strive to be pleased the way we want to be pleased – not in any way that restrictive societal mores might dictate. We should writhe and twist among one another and feel free from gender expectations, and we should aim to understand our own bodies and figure out what we like and dislike as individuals.

Know what you want, and ignore what a culture has planted covertly in your mind that youshould be.

'Wandering hands? I'm sick of being groped'

This post was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au on the 1st of June, 2015, available here.

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It’s late. Music blares from speakers all around, and the crowd shifts and writhes with the throb of the bass. I’m weaving my way between bodies and strange faces, in pursuit of the bar for a drink or another such thing. Perhaps I stop to dance, or greet a familiar face, but ultimately my aim is to break free and exit the throng.

And that’s when I feel it – a grip around my waist.

I look forward, and it’s an older man. He’s got his hands around me and is grinding up and down, and his face reads drunken lust. The crowd is too thick to escape him in a heartbeat, and before I know it, he’s got his hands under waistbands and in places they shouldn’t be. I get out of his grip, wave him off, and continue my journey.

And that’s about it, really.

That’s one of the first times I can remember being sexually assaulted by another man at a gay bar. When I told my friends about what happened, mere minutes later, they laughed. I think I might have laughed, too.

We’ve all been there, my friends and I. Every single one of us has a story to tell, about some guy at a bar or a club or one other such gay-friendly location getting a bit handsy. Or maybe he goes a bit too far and you end up with a situation on your hands. It happens, you deal with it, and the night seems to go on.

But why does it go on so easily?

Why have the collective responses from people I’ve known been so casual? Why has barely anyone approached these moments with the severity that our straight counterparts, in their own dance bars and dives, partake in so willingly?

I remember one time I reported an assault to a bartender at a certain gay haunt. The response from that man wasn’t, “Alright, we’ll deal with it” – It was a hearty, “So, are you going home with him?”

“He’s grinding up and down. Before I know it, he’s got his hands under waistbands and in places they shouldn’t be.”

It’s not the first time something like that has happened, either, when another man has violated my personal space. I’ve been felt up on dance floors, groped at bars, had men follow me into toilet cubicles thinking it’s a good time to have a go. None of these advances have been warranted, nor have I done anything to solicit them. They’ve been done with careless finesse, a reckless abandon.

As though because I’m a man, I must want it. I must want it all the time.

As gay men, men who have been oppressed and ostracised for years, we’ve established ways to hook up that our straight counterparts don’t share. It’s been part of our sexual liberation through decades of public inhibition.

We’ve mastered methods at giving signs and signals that exhibit our interest, wordless motions that reflect our search for sexual opportunity. We’ve learned to cruise, and in certain circumstances – at clubs, at bars, at washroom basins – we’ve found ways to indicate our interest to another that give way to sexual encounters.

These nuanced tactics are, as best put by an older gay friend of mine, predatory. They’re nonverbal, erotic and sometimes aggressive. They’re noticeably masculine. When a man cruises another man at a gay bar, it’s hard not to wonder if he’s checking him out, or wanting to punch him in the face.

And these are all fine. These skills were necessary at a time when being busted in bed with another man could see you ousted from your community, when men went to meet other men in the dark of a nearby public park, or bathroom, or “men-only” sauna. Because you couldn’t just roll up to a café with a man for a coffee date without your sexuality being brought into question.

They continue to be necessary now, because although being caught having it off with a man at home might elicit nothing more than a giggle from a straight friend, we’ve still got a long way to go. I have no problem with gays who want to cruise. God knows I’ve done it too.

Yet when I’m out at a club, one of our safe havens, and a man tries to feel me up, I’m somehow expected to just deal with it. I’ve internalised this idea that because gay men are sexual creatures – because men are sexual creatures – that it’s to be expected I would want to have a go. No matter who it is, how they look, or whether or not I’m even interested. We’re just fucking machines looking to get off, before disappearing into the night, and I’m part of the hunt as much as they are.

It’s almost as though these advances don’t classify as sexual assault. Not in this little world we’ve created for ourselves, where men have sex with men and grind on each other at the gay bar.

Once, when I was a bit younger, I was out on the town in one of Melbourne’s gay districts, in a street known for its gay cruising. I was separated from my friends and had had way too much to drink, so I nicked off down a secluded alleyway to throw up. Because I’m a sophisticated lady of the night.

When I turned around after ejecting my insides, I was shocked to discover a much older man standing beside me, leaning against the wall near where I spewed – touching himself. He had sized me up on the street, and followed me into the dark, thinking I was looking for fun. When I got up, he lurched forward, and I had to push my way out of there.

I’ve had too many experiences like this. Too many times where I’ve been the young effeminate boy to the older aggressive male, and been expected to just deal with it.

It’s part of masculinity – part of our societal conditioning. To be aggressive, to be rough, to be powerful. To exert our dominance in a sexual way. These are difficult traits to unlearn, as we start acquiring them from birth. And even as gay men – men typecast as effeminate divas with penchants for fashion and hollering Katy Perry from our “girly” convertibles – they still find ways to permeate our culture.

So what I’m saying is: I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough of being felt up. I’ve had enough of being groped. I’ve had enough of your arms around me, and your persistence despite me saying no. I’ve had enough.

More than that, I’ve had enough of people telling me – otherwise wonderful, intelligent, extraordinary people, whether directly or implied – that I should just deal with it.

I shouldn’t have to just deal with being groped at bars. I shouldn’t have to just deal with people following me into toilet cubicles. I shouldn’t have to just deal with people whacking off while I vomit from overdrinking.

This is our culture. It’s a culture of rainbows, love, acceptance and diversity. It’s one we’ve created through years of isolation and inhibition. It’s one that has allowed us to meet sexual partners, to grow and to prosper, through all of the persecution we have faced. We should be very proud of it.

But when I’m out at a gay bar, and I’m walking through the dance floor, and some fool sticks his hand down my pants: I shouldn’t have to just deal with it. I shouldn’t have to just deal with being sexually assaulted.

And neither should you.