One thing I’ve discovered in this past decade of promiscuity, is that sluts have more fun. I’ve discovered other things, but that is one thing I know for sure. I know this because when I wasn’t a slut, I had much less fun. The first time I went to the USA, in the days before I fucked around a lot, the fun I had was minimal. This was in the days before I went to bath-houses, and even if there weren’t that many bathhouses left, I didn’t go to any. I still drank in those days, so I mainly hooked up with men in bars. The two Americans I’m thinking about were both in the army, the one I met in New York was a black guy who chatted me up in a bar that first summer in New York and we landed up having sex in the doorway of a building in Greenwich Village. The other American was a doctor in the US Army based in Germany. We met one night in Russell Square in London, in the days when the square was a major cruising ground. We went back to his hotel and fucked – I fucked him, and then I fucked him a few more times on other visits he made to London. He had the dirtiest arse I’d ever come across; whenever we fucked there was shit. He went shopping for a turkey baster in John Lewis so that he could douche with it; still, he was messy.
In the sauna recently I had sex with a guy whose family was from Vietnam, though he’d grown up in Switzerland and had a strong Swiss-German accent when he spoke English. His body was beautiful and warm and brown, but he had a very tight mouth and a tight arsehole, and he left the cubicle as soon as we came, me on his chest and him on him stomach.
There must have been someone from Wales, though no one springs to mind at the moment, except this cute hairdresser I met in the Waterloo sauna a couple of years ago. We had a nice conversation about New York and tattoos and he was just my type, but for some reason we didn’t have sex. The only other country starting with W is Western Sahara; it’s a proposed state, not recognised by everyone.
In my early twenties I dated a guy whose mother was from Yemen. His dad was Roumanian, I think. He was tall and smooth and gazelle like in his movements. He seemed to bounce around a lot. He was a singer and an actor and I was deeply in love with him. I’ve been in love with quite a few tall, lean, smooth men who were younger than me. If I had to commit to a type, that would be my type. He had thick curly hair and I seem to remember him being a bit obsessed with straightening it. I loved to watch him draw and I loved to fuck him. In those days, even more than now, I communicated with lovers through fucking.
The Zimbabwean guy lived not far from where I used to live in Hackney. He had the same name as me. And a strong Southern African accent. I hadn’t been in London long, so it felt good to be with someone from the same part of the world. We drank rum from shot glasses. He was one of the first black guys I had sex with. We were both Luther Vandross fans. Once, after sex, we lay in bed and watched music videos and sang along to the duet Luther does with Gregory Hines.
Michael Wynne 