"What IDAHOT Means To Me"

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au on the 17th of May, 2016. Available here.

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It was a brittle and cold evening around the suburban centre near where I lived. Five o’clock and the sun was already beginning to set. The streets, usually bustling with energy, were melting away into a more quiet nightlife.

A close friend and I were hanging outside the train station, when she ran into some people she knew. They were big muscled blokes, kicking back and chain smoking. The kind of guys who threw their weight around wherever they went.

My friend also decided to tell them, for whatever reason, that I was gay.

Within seconds of hearing that info, their ears pricked up. They were onto me. They lurched forward, armed with hate and almost cackling vitriol. “You’re gay, huh? You a fucking gay? Why don’t you suck my dick, then? Suck my dick, you fucking faggot.”

In total fear, I ran away, their shouts echoing behind me.

I was a shy rake, not yet out to his parents, and had only just come out to his close friends. I was fourteen years old.

That was to be one of my first direct encounters with homophobia and bigotry, but it wouldn’t be the last.

Even now, in a time of my life where I am so out and proud that I write candidly about sexuality online, I still get scared when I’m dropped off near that centre. Thinking about who might be around, or if I’ll be singled out and targeted. As though my sexuality can be read from a distance, or smelled on me like cologne.

In the decade that has passed, I have experienced many more instances of abuse and violence. Whether it’s slurs spat on public transport, or shouted abuse from strangers, or the slight chink in the expression of an acquaintance when they realise what I am.

Today is International Day Against Homophobia And Transphobia. It’s a day to recognise and stand up against the violence prevalent in our society, which continues to threaten people in the community.

This is a society in which half of all LGBT individuals hide their sexuality or gender identity in public, for fear of violence and discrimination. One in which they are several times more likely to experience mental illnesses like depression. Where children are kicked out of homes and forced onto the street for being who they are.

Several states in Australia still have the Gay Panic defence, meaning that should a straight man decide on a blue Monday to murder you in cold blood, he need only infer that you, a gay man, were trying to hit on him, to have his sentence reduced from murder to manslaughter. And too many in our society continue to try and tear down our beloved queer institutions, like the Safe Schools Program.

While American civilians bicker and moan about whether or not trans people should be able to use the appropriate bathrooms for their own personal bodily functions, said trans people are being abused, assaulted and murdered in the streets. Trans folk suffer vitriol far greater in number than their gay and lesbian counterparts, leading to higher rates of mental illness.

The Russian government continues to silence the voices of sexually and gender-diverse people, refusing to acknowledge them as human beings, jailing them for speaking out. And in far too many countries to this day, simply living, as a gay person, will see you killed by members of your community. Sometimes even by law enforcement.

All the while, gay men still clutch their ears and block out the fragmented echoes of the AIDS crisis, grappling with the sense of masculinity imposed on them by heteronormative society, rejecting one another in episodes of internalised homophobia for being ‘too femme’ or ‘not masculine’.

And, of course, we still can’t get married. Bloody hell.

I think of these facts of life, and they hurt me. I am wounded by the reality that this world doesn’t fully cater to my kind. I fear for trans people and worry for gay people and struggle to comprehend the lack of acceptance by members of our very own government.

But I also know that things are changing.

Since that grim day being abused by men in the street, I have met others who blocked out their memory with kindness. I have met straight people – muscled blokes, who throw their weight around – that embrace me with warmth and kindness.

I believe that through love, charity and expression, and the occasional burst of well-channelled outrage, we can change the way society views our people. That we can create a safer community, one devoid of the trials our forefathers faced, for LGBT youth to grow up in.

If you’re gay, or trans, or any other shade of sexuality and gender-diverse, who might be struggling with confusion and fear over what you are: know that you have a vibrant community standing behind you.

IDAHOT is a day to show our support for those who have suffered, and remember those we have lost. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer and intersex. All of the colours of the pride rainbow.

Let’s stand together in solidarity, and help build a better world for our young people. Let’s stand tall, proud and strong.

We can save lives.

'A Beginner's Guide To Saunas'

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'The closet is a lonely place: Defending the Safe Schools Coalition and Minus18'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, 15th February 2016, available here.

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Once, not too long ago, I was a frightened pre-teenager, living in the shadow of a fear that my secret might one day ‘get out’. I feared would never find a group of people who would accept me for my sexuality, and allow me to be who I truly was.

That was until I stumbled upon Minus18 – an LGBTI youth organisation, run for and by young people, to unite queer teens. To give them a space to feel safe, to provide support, to feel appreciated, and to meet others like themselves who would otherwise have no avenue.

Minus18 conducted many wonderful events, but my favourite were the dance parties. They’d hold them once a term in the school holidays. I’d sneak out of the house to attend, lying about where I was going – “It’s just an underage club, Mum! Nothing weird at all!” – and, as the cliché goes, dance the night away.

“Late nights after Minus18 were an adrenaline rush of utter joy and happiness.”

I still remember walking into my first Minus18 dance party at fourteen years of age, and being utterly astonished. All those queer kids, all in the one place! A veritable gaggle of gays. So many friendly faces – and so many people, all just like me.

I kissed my first boy at Minus18. I made way too many friends, many of whom I still adore. I had a wild time, once a term break, gyrating on the dance floor to raucous noughties hits and setting myself free.

And when it was all over, I went home. Back to the suburbs. Back to my closeted husk. Maybe it was the free soft drink sugar kick, but late nights after Minus18 were an adrenaline rush of utter joy and happiness. A sense of belonging and self-love. In fact, I do recall crediting Minus18 with a renewed desire to keep on going.

Because living as a closeted early teen in the suburbs at a high school, one that neglected to teach the ins and outs of human sexuality – let alone educate that being gay is okay – was a hard slog. My thirteenth birthday was spent in first aid after someone beat the shit out of me because I was different.

Over a decade later, Minus18 is still kicking on, and have done wonderful things for the community on a national and international scale. Schools are now taking a firmer stance against homophobia, and all the other discriminatory phobias that plague the LGBT communities.

They’ve introduced a new program titled All Of Us, an “innovative new teaching and learning resource that aims to increase students’ understanding and awareness of gender diversity, sexual diversity and intersex topics.” It’s funded by the government and developed by the Safe Schools Coalition Australia and Minus18. It’s designed to change attitudes in youths and work at nipping the bud of phobic discrimination.

We never had that when I was in high school. I wonder if we did, would I have had the same experience? If students had been taught not to hate people like me, would I have so desperately clung to the queer underage dance parties of the mid-term break for a sense of support? And moreover, would I have spent my thirteenth birthday in the care of friends and not a nurse?

It’s wildly apparent that some people take issue with All Of Us and the improved Safe Schools program. As our commitment to providing safety for youth grows stronger, our opponents grow louder.

There are those who desire to stop the new Safe Schools program outright, like the Australian Christian Lobby and no shortage of traditionalist pollies and civilians – which include the members of a Facebook page, simply titled ‘Stop Safe Schools Coalition’. They are vehemently against All Of Us and the Safe Schools program, and in the mere days since their launch have accrued hundreds of followers.

This group would be considered your subpar Internet troll, hiding ill tidings behind skewed criticism; all bark no bite – if they weren’t planning on taking real action.

Minus18 will soon host another one of their esteemed Same Sex Gender Diverse Formals; a popular event amongst the newer generation of same-sex attracted and gender diverse youth. It’s a ticketed event.

The owners and followers of the hate group have decided to buy out the tickets to the event, in order to stop youth from attending – in the hope of ‘saving’ and ‘protecting’ these kids from the intangible horrors of Minus18’s Same Sex Gender Diverse Formal.

Heaven forbid we give these youth a place to congregate and be themselves! Surely there can be no greater horror than a poor confused child feeling comfortable in their own skin, surrounded by people who are just like them.

The idea that people are trying to stunt one of the main events run by Minus18 – in the too-cliché and misguided spirit of saving the children – makes me want to brutalise a punching bag, or binge-eat McDonalds in spite of my waistline.

Because Minus18 gave me an escape. I’m forever grateful for that.

The fact that some people want to trash it – want to help ruin all the good that they and the Safe Schools Coalition are doing; want to take us back to a time where violence and discrimination were the norm in schools galore, all because they fear what they do not understand – fills me with dread.

Let’s not sit idle while these bigots scream their nonsense. Not while thirteen-year-old gay boys are being bashed in the schoolyard, and schoolkids must wait once a term to feel safe and secure.

'5 Golden Rules Of Gay Online Dating'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, Thursday 26th November, 2015, available here. Some contributions made by SameSame's editor.

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Back in times of yore, gay men had to go down to the local cruising spot wearing a handkerchief in their back-right pocket to score on a Thursday afternoon.

Nowadays however, we rely on nabbing tail through a variety of colourful online dating apps.

There’s several apps which vary in function: Grindr, Scruff and Hornet, for the homos who want everything from good conversation to a quick root-and-boot. Then there’s Tinder andOkCupid, for those who might just be looking for someone to love. And if you’re a gay man on a desktop who wants to get down to the point, you can even hop on Squirt or Manhunt for some ready-made action.

There are many more – trust me – and I’ve just named the ones I’m most familiar with. They are also apps solely for gay men – bar Tinder and OkCupid – as I’m less inclined to reference services I have no business exploring.

Each service provides a different appeal, and the characters that frolic in each one vary like the colours of the rainbow. I’ve experimented with all of them over the past several years. And ultimately, I’ve witnessed some behaviour and learned a thing or two about online dating through the process of my exploration.

Which is why I’m qualified to be your gay app Agony Aunt. Lie down and put your feet in the stirrups, because I’ve got some firm advice to ram home…

Include a clear photo of your face

Dating in the online realm is meant to present a convenient alternative to dating in real life. To go without a clear face photo is to suggest one is hiding from ASIO. If I ever found myself on a blind date with a headless torso, I’d be more inclined to run screaming into the night than put out after my third beer.

Use a photo of your face. We want to see your marvellous mug, not your shirtless torso five years ago after you’d conveniently gotten back from the gym.

Of course, some folks are closeted. Stay strong, soldiers, and provide a face pic as early as you can in the conversation.

Engage in conversation

Nothing gets the ball rolling quite like using “Sit on my face” as your opening line.

Some apps give you more leeway. Grindr and Hornet in particular will let you discretely plug that you’re looking for fun ‘Right Now’.

But still, context is everything. Ask yourself: Is enquiring about fisting a query best saved for later? He asked how my day was going – do I need to let him know about my diaper fetish? And more importantly: Would I ask this person to urinate on me – over coffee at the local cafe?

Wait for the opportune moment.

Similarly: I know dating apps are referred to as ‘the fast food of sex’, but surely you can do better than ‘Hey, hru’. Get creative with your texting. There’s a world of words out there.

Don’t send unsolicited nudes

I’m guilty of this, but that’s only after 3am on a Sunday morning while plastered off tequila. My Grindr profile genuinely reads “Regularly delete this app out of shame.”

I always wonder what goes through the mind of men who decide to send unsolicited nudes. “How best can I win this strange man’s heart?” There’s really no reason to send a photo of your genitals straight off the bat.

Especially not when it’s poorly angled with harsh bright flash, and I can see your toilet in the background. Classy.

Although, on some of the raunchier apps – like Squirt – it’s acceptable to show off your Prince Albert.

Don’t be racist

This is referring to the trend of ‘no blacks, no asians’ – and other racist garbage written on dating profiles. If I had a dollar for every time I heard “It’s just a preference” from a man on a dating app, I could buy an island to maroon them on.

Remember: When hooking up, it’s best to say what you ARE looking for, not what you’re not. It makes you sound like an idiot with attitude if you’re saying “no” to various groups of people right up-front.

If you’re not into an entire race of people because you’ve met every single one of them and decided to broadcast that they’re all unappealing, then go for it – but be quiet about it. That’s only if you’ve met and engaged with every single one of them, though. Every single one. Otherwise you’re just an ass.

And lastly, be a decent human being.

If you’re on a dating app and aren’t interested in being romanced by a stranger, the best thing to give is a simple ‘Sorry, I’m not interested’. Their heart will go on.

But if he’s taken the effort to send you a creative what’s up – if he simply wants to chat – then is it really necessary to leave him in total silence? Or worse, tell him to fuck off?

Ask yourself: Am I perhaps a bit of a disappointment? Did something happen in my childhood to make me this way? Do I maybe need to log off?

Welp! I’m spent. That’s the end of my guide. You’ve taken my wise words, my well-seasoned advice – and you’re now ready for online dating. Or Grinding. Or Scruffing. Or hell, even Squirting.

'Gay-on-gay bullying'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, Sunday 27th September, available here.

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People often fall under the impression that the gay community is one harmonious union of likeminded souls, singing jamboree tunes and embracing one another in the spirit of love and equality. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth.

Some of us are bitchy, toxic and unkind. And when we hit – we hit hard.

Once you were a young boy. You crawled through life, hiding in the shadows, isolated from the rest of your peers. The truth was, you were in the closet, and nothing struck fear into your heart more than the idea of someone finding out. No power on Earth, you promised yourself, would force you out into the open.

Then, one day, your world fell apart, as through one circumstance or another, your sexuality was revealed. You were at the mercy of antagonistic bullies, who lashed out with all the vitriol that teenagers are capable of. The rest of your high school years went in a blur. You were beaten, bashed and battered – but ultimately, you survived, and sprung out into adulthood.

That’s when you discovered the gay community.

Coming from a world where you are not accepted, into a collective that takes you in without question, can be a shock to the system. Especially when the mutual ground you have with these newfound friends and acquaintances is based in something you were attacked over for your whole life. It can feel like you’ve been liberated – finally! A chance to prove myself! A chance to be whoever I want to be!

But it can also feel like high school all over again.

This may be because in our re-introduction to the world – the new world that we promise ourselves will see us transform into self-affirming superstars – we subconsciously endeavour to compensate for all that we lacked in our teen years.

“I see it all the time. Gay-on-gay bullying. Bitching and drama and adolescent chaos.”

Gay men, who were once pimpled and timid victims of abuse, change themselves into what they perceive as glorious works of art. I have seen these gay men try to compensate for all they were without, and become their own ideas of perfection; work hard on themselves, their bodies and their lives, to make up for all that they lacked in high school. The gay community has provided a window for them to climb through and free themselves from pain.

It’s become an almost tragic coincidence that the men I’ve encountered who have changed the most are often the ones who feel they have the most to prove. The psychological trauma of a disjointed and troubled youth runs deeper than mere skin and muscle, and with those changes, those efforts at self-improvement, I’ve seen attitudes shift, and personalities alter – for the worst. Cue a tragic recompense, as these gay men bully and attack one another, living vicariously through a high school persona that they never got to experience.

I see it all the time. Gay-on-gay bullying. Bitching and drama and adolescent chaos.Men attacking other men, over bullshit as simple as talking to someone online, shaming individuals on their social media profiles. Direct call-outs by name and face, not just your usual ‘what’s the deal with this headless profile?’ – Hostility and subtle harassment the likes of which Mean Girls taught us not to commit. The bullied become the bullies.

I think I’m more sensitive to it all because I was a victim.

Fresh out of high school, I tried to ‘find myself’ in the gay community – the bright new world of acceptance and love. Only to be ousted by a group of homosexuals who apparently took issue. It started off as, ‘you said something bad about our friend’ – (never substantiated, but I digress) – ‘so we’re going to say bad things to you’. Bickering ensued, back and forth, back and forth, and I thought it was, in the early stages, just a bit of fun and banter.

That was until I started receiving phone-calls; getting threatening messages; being set upon by hordes of mutual friends. My face, published on their profiles, upon which terrible things were written and said. I shit you not; an actual website was made, satirising my personal writings. It escalated into the offline realm; shouts of abuse and public threats. A couple of them began a running joke, wherein I was a rodent, and I should kill myself with rat poison.

When I took the online content to the police in a folder, to file a report of ongoing harassment, the folder numbered over fifty pages. Over fifty pages of online bullying, from a group of gays, none of whom could remember what I had said or done.

A mild bump had become a full-blown tumour, and before I knew it, I couldn’t handle it anymore. It became a dark time in my life, and even though it’s been a number of years, I still feel pangs of angst and hurt when I look back on it.

These people were in pain, so they began to inflict it upon others.

Your words have power, and the worst possible scenario to arise from an adolescence of persecution from teenage villains, is to become the villain yourself.Think about the way you treat those around you, and perhaps this community, so oft stagnated by high school era bullying and hate, can grow and evolve. Let’s not allow the torment we suffered in high school to seep into the way we treat one another now.

I remember that my bullies told me I wouldn’t amount to anything. That I’d never be a writer, and no one would ever publish anything I wrote.

So it only seems fair that I would publish this now, years later, and let all of these young gays know, who might feel harassed and tormented by those around them – that I know how it feels.

Through years of hurt and persecution, the troubles of an angst-filled childhood, you have grown.

Don’t become the persecutor. And don’t let these people tear you apart – because you are so much stronger than you know.

'You're more than just a bicep!'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, on September 2nd 2015, available here.

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We are a community that, in so many ways, takes pride in our physically attractive members and our conventionally gorgeous gay boys. We do so at the exclusion of a lot of other elements.

And I have to ask – why?

Why does the gay community celebrate people simply for being attractive?

Why is it that, when I open certain gay websites, I’m confronted by articles titled with shit like “The ten most attractive dudes on Instagram”? Or, “Five straight footballers who look good without a shirt on”? Why is this considered newsworthy? Why are these stories taking over?

Marketing campaigns for gay nightclubs are awash with images of nearly naked attractive men, showcasing ripped physiques and chiselled jawlines. The target market for these soirees seems to be every homosexual with a self-esteem problem, as all of the photographs documenting these nights are of the most physically appealing individuals you can find. They’re of the most subjectively ‘gorgeous’ characters – and these are dubbed the ‘elite’ gays, and the ‘alpha’ homos.

I should point out that I am a photographer by trade, and have primarily worked in nightlife and events for the past five years. I know what the purpose of this type of marketing is, because as part of my various briefs, I have been asked to fulfil this style in the past. I have explicitly excluded unattractive patrons from my photographs, and have gone out of my way to document the most aesthetically appealing individuals at an event. Because a client wants their brand to reflect a certain image, and they want to market themselves with a specific style.

Which would be all good and well, if it didn’t seem like this kind of attractiveness-is-key advertising was seeping out from the homo nightclubs – and into our big gay media.

Articles putting hot dudes on pedestals are absolutely everywhere. Every day, there’s a new journalistic dive into What Straight Guy Has The Best Ass? Here’s That Z-List Celeb You MUST Follow (For His Abs!), and Guy Minding His Own Business Loses His Pants “AND WE ARE HOT FOR HIM!”

And sure. Some of us probably are hot for him.

But people are starting to take notice of this vapid excuse for marketing and journalism. People are starting to see it for the empty and vacuous thirst-fodder that it is, and growing steadily disheartened. I’ve started making a conscious effort to check the comments section every time another of these articles pops up, and it’s becoming awfully predictable. “Is this what you call journalistic integrity?” one might cry, or “Another article praising a hot dude for looking hot” sighs another.

This is now becoming a concerning facet of the community that threatens to erode the depth of our collective journey. Whether it’s as individuals with extraordinary stories, or as survivors battling through in spite of homophobic opposition, our story is being quietly tucked away behind a giant framed photograph of Nick Jonas’ abs.

I should also point out at this point that I have no issue at all with gay men expressing their sexuality, and I am the furthest thing from a sex-negative prude. If it were up to me, we would all be semi-naked in a nightclub, gyrating upon one another in our underwear, and making out on Mardi Gras floats. I respect and adore public expressions of gay sexuality, as so often it is used as a tool to shun the systemic oppression that has silenced us and rendered us invisible.

What I take issue with is that so much of this looks-oriented digital and print marketing does a disservice, not only to the individuals being adored for their looks, but to the community as a whole, and represents a shallow decline in the integrity of our community.

“Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.”

There is one very good reason why we should be fighting this descent into superficiality:

Because we’re worth more.

Because our young people – the consumers of our media and the harbingers of our future – need to be shown that their value is greater than the width of their biceps. That their worth is not directly tied into the proportions of their face and body, but based on the strength of their characters, their kindness, their generosity, and the thoughts that they put out into the world.

We must communicate to them that we are not Neanderthals, where physical power and aesthetic visage is of the utmost importance. We represent so much more than mere mass and good looks, and we are capable of vast oceans more than commercialised thirst.

And if there are physical characteristics worth being appreciated for, it’s that which your parents and your families gave you. Every line, spot and curve that is yours and yours alone, which the tabloid media dictates are not worth having love for. All because you do not resemble the image of a beautiful man in a gay magazine.

Gay people are just as impressionable as straights, and at the same mercy of junk food news and marketing. When a young boy sees an image of an attractive person being glorified based simply on how they look, what it tells them is: You’re not good enough. You will never be good enough, unless you look like this.

That can have an incredibly destructive effect on someone’s self-worth.

And that, to me, is not good enough.

We should strive to break the mould of making icons out of abs, and broadcasting these individuals as the ideal, the infinitely desirable, based purely on their looks.

Stop celebrating people simply for being attractive. Start celebrating them for their intellect and accomplishments; for being clever, for being unique, for being kind.

Because you are more than just a bicep, or a pretty face in a gay magazine.

'Getting caught forced me to come out'

This piece was originally published in full on SameSame.com.au, on July 21st 2015, available here.

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Coming out is hard to do. For gay men like me, it’s an exercise in owning who you are, enough to tell people about it – your friends and your family – in a society which actively instils a sense of shame and wrongness into our gay youth. Coming clean with your truth in a world that actively fights against people like you is no small feat.

I’ve been a young boy, confused and afraid, grappling with who I was. I have thought about suicide. I remember being twelve or thirteen years old, and every night staring up at my ceiling from my bed, praying to God or whatever sentient being watched over this world, that I would wake up and be normal. I remember telling that being – that omniscient presence – that if they would turn me straight; if I would wake up the following morning and not be gay, that I would devote myself to them.

I would have done anything to get rid of that loneliness, that self-hatred, and I swore I would never tell a soul. Because I was ashamed. Many gay men out there feel the same. We know they do, because we’ve been there, and we’ve lived so much of their pain. The anguish of living in the closet, before coming out to the world, is real and devastating.

For some gay men like myself, the coming out experience goes a little differently.

I was fifteen years old. I’d just started dating someone new – I would have been with any boy, so long as I had a chance to feel an intimacy I’d craved. He liked dressing fancy on thirty-five degree days in suits and ties. I had a sweeping side fringe that covered my eyes – my “security blanket” – and I was totally smitten by the fact that someone was paying attention to me.

On one particular scorching summer day – forty degrees on the scale, no less – he agreed to come over for a swim in our backyard pool. He arrived, and we splashed about in escape from the heat, while my parents were inside. Every now and again, he’d pull me behind the cover of a pool toy, and plant a kiss on my lips. It was new. It was nice. But we had to be careful.

At one point, we went inside to “watch a movie” – quotation marks necessary – and as soon as the lounge room door closed, we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. It wasn’t safe, however, so I suggested we do the sensible, mature thing – and take our business to a nearby park.

Well, the park idea got scrapped once we felt the goddamn heat, so we settled for around the side of the house, under the cover of trees and shrubberies. At which point we got right down to business, right next to a pair of big black bins.

Little did we know, however, that the family freezer had exhausted its supply of Cornetto ice creams to help deal with the summer heat. We’d run dry, and the freezer needed a restock and clean up – but not before the family had disposed of the trash. This was where things went horribly wrong.

Dad wandered around the side of the house to put some Cornetto boxes in the bins – and walked in on his fifteen year old son sucking some dick.

Try getting a Hallmark card for that.

There was no explanation needed. It’s hard to deny the reality of your sexuality when your own father has caught you in the act of fellatio. He drove my “friend’ home – and a couple of hours later, the sit-down family conversation was terribly, disgustingly real. They were confused at first – obligatory “are you sure you’re not bisexual?” and all – but ultimately, they were fine with it. I’d already come out to my friends, and the rest of the family followed thereafter without my consent (as is the nature of gossiping Greeks).

I’m 22 now, and I am fantastically, unapologetically gay. I am fortunate enough to have a family who love and support me. I am out in the open – homophobia be damned – and life is fucking good.

I suppose I’m lucky that the opportunity to personally ‘come out’ was robbed from me – because with that shame lingering in the forefront of my mind, it might have been years until I came out of the closet.

The closet is a dark and lonely place – but the reality is, the fear of isolation and distress is too often misplaced. Coming out – living openly as who you truly are – is a liberating, beautiful experience. If you are lucky enough to have family who accept you, then that’s bloody fantastic. But if you are not… well, as RuPaul once said of gay people: “We get to choose our family.”

And to any young gay folk reading this, who might feel alone, confused and afraid, deleting your browser history with every few clicks, I’ve got this for you:

Don’t be afraid. Don’t torture your soul any more. Be brave.

We’re all waiting for you.

'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.