'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.

How To Survive The Australian Summer

It was hot yesterday. I know this because when I woke up and logged into Facebook, head swimming through an excruciating weekend wine-haze, I was confronted by the pet hate of most social media users:

Topless selfies. At the beach; at the park. Photos from that day of sun kissed faces on balconies. Guys and girls swigging Club Mate in singlets, shorelines glinting in the background.

Sure signs that summer had almost arrived.

This was unprecedented, and left me with a gaping hole in my stomach, not unlike that which I had chundered up due to mixing drinks the night before.

My heart filled with dread when I realised that I, like so many, was unprepared.

Soon we will all fall ill with heatstroke as the mercury heats up at long last. Which is why I’ve arrived to spill the tea and aid those in need.

Consider this your Australian summer survival guide, or How To Survive The Australian Summer: A listicle by a bitter homosexual.

Prepare to go shirtless.

If you’re not a complete plebeian, you spent the entire winter months of June, July and August getting jacked the fuck up, lifting harder than you’ve ever lifted heavy objects before.

Forget warm overcoats and layering black on black on slightly lighter black: the Australian summer is all about taking every opportunity to go shirtless in the daytime (and the night, if you’re that kind of pretentious alpha-bro). Because what #blessed girls day out isn’t complete without some red hot Instagrammable bikini photos? 

Without the requisite Beach Body all “shredded for summer”, consider yourself wholly unprepared. If you don’t look like an actual swimsuit model ready to stalk a resort-themed runway by December of this year, you may as well just stay inside.

And for those thinking of visiting an (illegal) solarium: Do not spend money on something that comes from the sky.

Optional extras: Mediterranean tan; rampant egotism.

Speaking of nudity:

Fire all your winter cuddle buddies:

When cold plagues the Australian climate, it’s mandatory to enlist at least one or two vague Tinder matches to snuggle up to in the freezing night. However, come the warmer months, mere human contact becomes cursed with sweat drops and pungent odours, often masked with Lynx Africa and your own self-hate.

Unless you’re willing to compromise and risk hyperthermia by cuddling up on a towel by the beach, there is no call for any of this lusting up business. So delete your dating apps and throw away your boxes of condoms, because the kind of athletic sex you’re used to is about to be ruined by stagnant perspiration.

Say goodbye to your winter fling, because if you think it’s bad enough seeing a dude lose his water content at forty degrees on the side of the road: Imagine him touching you.

On that note:

Stay hydrated.

By hydrated, I don’t mean with water. Did you think this was a healthy PSA? Child, please. I mean beer. I mean cider. I mean vodka cruisers in the cool night air.

If there is one past-time Australians have perfected to an absurd degree, it’s the notion of the day drink, or the blissed-out Sunday sesh. Your Saturday nights are about to become extinct, since Australian event promoters nationwide are about to thrust at you with the full force of whatever daytime parties they’ve planned months in advance.

And if you’re willing to fork out the requisite life savings, there are even some fantastic summer festivals you could attend. If you’re fond of sweaty muscle bros, denim booty shorts and the sight of a guy being carried off by his mates after guerning out on too much ecstasy.

Or you could stay home with your friends, and take smiling group photos for Facebook to distract from the reality that you’re all sitting up in front of the fan, whispering “It’s so damn hot” every five minutes.

Post about it on social media.

Because I truly had no idea it was hot outside, and without your constant visual aids filling my Facebook feed of your vodka watermelons and wiener legs at the beach, I might never have picked up on this.

Because sweaty choking heats don’t constantly plague my nights, rather than gentle warmth, as my comfy flannel pyjamas are now suffocating death traps rather than loving cotton hugs.

Because I have literally never seen the inside of a commercial gym, and really need to be reminded of how you’re up to your fourth set of abdominal muscles lining your cheese-grater stomach. (Side-note: How are your arms so big when you’re not even flexing? Stop that.)

Because the entirety of your existence revolves around making yourself look better on the Internet, and if that means posting heavily filtered Instagram snaps of you and your beverage posing at some nondescript balconied-bar (with mates) - then by God, you’re gonna hop to it.

December will see the rebirth of a tradition, a seasonal shift in our cultural awareness, as the sun beats down and cooks our brains until we are rendered inferior forms of life, babbling “Summer’s finally here!” and “Hashtag, warm nights with great friends!”

Though I pray that I will not fall victim to this annual craze, I can only assume that by the time the sunny season rolls around, I will be a fake tanned mess of blonde locks and muscles on my muscles, sipping midday Sangrias with my girls.

Take this guide, and go forth. Be strong, soldier on, and may hand-fans and sunscreen be with you.

'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.

Just reverted a whole bunch of less-than-quality posts to 'Draft' status.

The world - and an apparent influx of new readers - don't need to see the lame shit I used to write in 2011.

'The True Gay Agenda Revealed'

This piece was originally published in full at YourFriendsHouse.com on July 7th, 2015, available here.

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It would seem that the first world has itself in a spin over the LGBT community. With Ireland’s homos winning the marriage vote, and the United States Supreme Court legalising it across the entire country, the proverbial rainbow is shining bright and true. Equal love for all and same-sex marriage acceptance are topics vibrating with mainstream intensity. We’ve done well, ladies, gentlemen, and all those in between.

Like with all signs of progression however, there have been groups rallying against the cause. Australia remains the last English-speaking Western country to legalise same-sex marriage. Ministers and members of our own community are actively holding us back, not just religious conservative groups.

Eric Abetz, the conservative Liberal cabinet minister, was the last person to make such a public opposition, making the ominous statement that same-sex marriage seeks to “undo the institution of marriage”, and that it’s “the latest fad” which would have “other consequences”.

“Other consequences”.

Bigoted men like Eric Abetz continue to pound away at us, time and time again, thrusting hard and fast from behind with the whipping force of their anti-gay opinion. As though us homos have something to hide. As though our goals are not ones for progression and equality, but for a unique and citrusy blend of chaos and control. Men like Abetz speak as though we have some sort of vile scheme up our sleeves. For so long, this has been the suspicion.

Well, friends: I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of living in the dark, as these old and ridiculous men pick away at our cause like fleas, trying to scrape downward to the hidden messages beneath. I’ve had enough of inequality, and of the suspicion, the ridicule and the anti-gay sentiment.

It’s time I came clean, for all of us who have been sworn to silence. It’s time I spilled our communities’ darkest secrets, ones that were written by our elders many decades ago, scrawled on the walls of toilet cubicles far and wide. It’s time I revealed… the true gay agenda.

Eric Abetz, you claimed that same-sex marriage would create “other consequences” – that it would open the Pandora’s Box to unions like polyamory. And to that say I say- Abetz… you’re not thinking big enough.

The homosexual forces do not just wish to legalise same-sex marriage and pave the way for polyamory. Oh, no. We wish to desecrate all of your precious heterosexual unions. We will tear down the institution of marriage itself, hurl gasoline upon its decrepit frame, light a match – and cackle wildly as the cinders of your beloved rituals turn to fire and ash. At which point we will then fornicate in unison, as gays cannot sustain loving relationships with a single partner.

To the Christian lobby, I say: gays don’t want to simply destroy your Christian marriages. No, no. You’re doing that well enough without us as it is. No, what we desire is the destruction of your churches and the conversion of your good Christian children. Because, like the demons you write about in books, our flesh burns to a crisp at the mere sight of Church spires, so we must remove them from our new world.

At which point our lesbian women will transform into winged bat creatures – their true forms – and pluck your good Christian children from your crumpled church houses, carrying them off for their conversion, screaming into the night.

In the big gay war for humanity, the public toilet blocks, where all gay men once lived to spread disease, will become conversion camps for the children of tomorrow. They shall be trained in tolerance and loving acceptance – hush now, don’t cry, my dears – and schooled in the homosexual arts, like sodomy, witchcraft and interior design.

And, when marriage and the Church have both fallen – the fundamental basis of all functional societies – we shall install a new world order.

Homophobia will be eradicated. Advertisements of all kinds depicting heterosexual couples will be removed, replaced by adverts containing homosexual couples. Straight people will be used as furniture. Heterosexuals will be the butt of most stand-up comedy jokes, and straight comedians will elicit crickets from audiences worldwide.

Your governments will be destroyed in one foghorn cry of “YASS, QWEEN” – taken down with ease and fashionable finesse. World leaders will be replaced by LGBT icons, like Kathy Griffin, Laverne Cox and Margaret Cho. All national anthems and political nationalism will be wholly eradicated, and the world will unite under the euphoric trance anthem of ‘Believe’ by Cher.

We won’t just legalise same-sex marriage in this bold new world. No, no. We shall legalise ALL forms of marriage. Man and woman! Man and man! Woman and THREE men! Man and kitchen condiment! No one will be safe.

And those who would rebel against this turn of civilisation would face cruel fates. For lesser crimes, such as refusing to provide services for a gay wedding, you would be forced to sit through two seasons of Golden Girls. We might even force you to marry a gay person, as was always our plan.

For those who commit more heinous crimes, such as using Joan Rivers’ name in vain, the punishment shall be fierce and debilitating. You will be forced to stand front-and-centre in a gay pride parade; dance, cheer, and chant songs like Macklemore’s ‘Same Love’ and other Godless hymns.

So, Minister Abetz, I don’t believe you’ve gone far enough. Polyamory is not the only evil hiding inside our trimmed and waxed Pandora’s Box. These are our plans, and our communities’ darkest secrets. If you bow to our demands, we may show mercy…

But if you refuse us, then you will face the effeminate wrath of one thousand angry homosexuals.

You cannot resist us, for we are many. You cannot fight us, for we have already won.

And we are coming, Abetz. We are coming.

'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.