Manhood

The poem below includes a list of some forty men; but it should not be considered a definitive roll-call of all the menfolk who have made an impression upon me. Certainly I have only included chaps up to my meeting Richard (my partner 2001 - 2012 but still my best friend); so, none of the male friends / acquaintances I have since made appear. Some men about whom I have written specific poems (though not all [yet] published on this blog) have also been excluded, as I did not feel I had something fresh to add. An example, would be the previous poem about musician Paul. Some names [may] have been altered in order to protect individual men or even myself. Inclusion on the list / in this poem should not be read to mean I had a crush on or fell in love with any specific individual; though most I have loved in the philia sense and some verged on bromance! Bear in mind, these are my recollections and reminiscences and, as such, may not be recognised by all parties concerned - especially those not so confident with their own sense of self &/or sexuality.

*Please note part II of this poem contains sexual imagery & language.*

Manhood

“Tu jahan chalega”

I

thanks to all the men

who added to the man

I was

became

and am

to become

each a step

to my manhood

to my self

facets of the father

I should have known

but never would

of the brother

I might have known

but never could

each hand

each smile

each laugh

leading me on

to adulthood

each failed promise

each dashed hope

each broken heart

played its necessary part

taught me loyalty

though no fealty

to anyone

only me

and now

he

II

Red-headed Simon’s lascivious erubescence and vacillation

Inebriate Simon’s bear-hugs and concupiscent indecision

Policeman Michael’s off-duty hunt and lust declaration

Anglo-Pole Czeslaw’s white-undied romps and motorbike erection

Cousin David’s stolidity and (straight) porn collection

Anglo-Greek Nick’s failed dates and not-to-be-put-off determination

Engineer Jeff’s love affirmation and final rejection

Lorry-driver Brian’s unconventionality and accepting reception

Accountant Denis’ acceptance-with-joy and shoulder-to-cry-on

School-mate Ken’s relaxed heterosexuality and hopeless romanticism

Collegiate Simon-Peter’s constant flirtation and Persian exoticism

Neighbour Jed’s humour, gorgeous spouse and offer of troilism

Fireman Keith’s handy wank and sexual dilettantism

Pater Keith’s drunken distance and illogical stance

Polish Peter’s love-will-find-a-way and perseverance

Gay Paul’s writing-creativity and irrisistible self-confidence

Fire-chief David’s musculature and unconditional acceptance

Grandfather Cyril’s active dislike and standoffishness

Brother Tony’s posturing machismo and neediness

Married, electrician Keith’s bisexual pursuit and doggedness

DSS Trevor’s reddening feathers and solicitous kindness

Taxman David’s quiet charm and nestling flesh

Doctor Paul’s eirenic calm and shared little death

Reverend Mike’s egomania and religious hypocrisy

Dairyman Brett’s rain-drenched snog and self-imposed naïveté

Teacher Chris’ radiant smile, nudity and hirsute tactility

GP Mark’s chipper personality and confidence in me

Fellow churchgoer Chris’ late-night chats and car natter

School-chum Harry’s confirmed bachelor dishevelment and clutter

Privileged Guy’s disdain for personal hygiene and love of literature

Taxman Luther’s best man and doting family guy

Austrian Georg’s everlasting smile and infectious chuckle

Pen-pal Christian’s welcoming family and elder-brother mantle

Grandfather Doug’s eye for a beauty and a quality vehicle

Architect Ivan’s firm thighs and slumber snuggle

Grandfather Horace’s sunday walks and salutatory kiss

On the make drug-dealer Chris and his honeyed dick

Psychologist Graeme’s ego-boost selection and stolen kiss

Salop Carl’s Œdipal fear and self-loathing

“I’m straight” Greg’s passionate Paradise embrace and perfect kiss

And the greatest influence thus far

Rico’s love, patience and long-suffering

He

Believe it or not, this is the video that prompted this poem!

[EDIT: the video has been deleted as at 27.01.21. Try this https://youtu.be/SoC_ZjGBmmg]

Nature of Love

Today, Christopher Banks, also known as Bipolar Bear, posted Love and other people about his personal search for love and how it has impacted and still does his own well-being.

[Image description: photo portrait of Christopher Banks © bipolarbear.com]

I responded with a concise résumé of love as I have experienced it.

"Love covers so many things: I still love my Gran (Grandmother), my confidante, who died thirty years ago – I miss her; I love my friends for just who & what they are; when teaching I loved my charges in loco parentis; I have been in-love and that is not the same as crushes, which are themselves a form of love; and my last partner of thirteen years and still mutually best friends, I adore. Love & sex together, for me at least, is a totally different experience to sex without emotional attachment (which is not to imply any moral judgement). And over the years I continue to learn to love myself, not as an egoïst, but as an awakening spiritual dimension (if that makes sense?).

I know not whether it is the same for everyone, but for me love appears when not being sought. Just live & carpe diem – and I am a generally happy, bed-bound, disabled chap! %)"

The reader is at liberty to leave comments as to their own experience of love in the section below this article.

Matt Alber in Birmingham (not Alabama!)

For a keen cinéaste who has had to cease frequenting the cinema, as the noise levels literally cause me to collapse, I was somewhat daunted to be attending my first live music gig in years. My health condition means I can rarely listen to more than a few tracks at a time before the pain becomes too much. However I am still on a high from yesterday evening’s (openly gay, California-resident) Matt Alber benefit concert at Birmingham LGBT Centre. Matt sang accompanied either by his own guitar or keyboard. The sound levels were just right so I did not faint and my ears did not bleed!

[Image description: Matt Alber standing playing his acoustic guitar]

 [Image description: Matt Alber sitting playing his electronic keyboard]

We set off from Manchester at five to be sure to arrive for the seven o’clock doors' opening. Normally I would have slept for the journey down, for car-travel I find to be monotonously soporific. On this occasion I was wide awake with excitement like a wee child on an outing. Miraculously we hit no hold-ups on the notorious bottle-neck that is the M6 motorway (freeway) nor in Birmingham’s outskirts nor the city centre itself, as most vehicles were travelling out-bound. We managed to find a parking space (as recommended by Birmingham LGBT Centre) on Thorp Street in a pay-and-display zone. We had arrived a full twenty minutes early!

The reception door was opened to us, and we strolled into a plush reception area with a bright Barbie-pink accent wall and a selection of comfy chairs, one of which matched the aforesaid colour. One of Matt’s London fans, the immaculately hirsute Steve, was already ensconced along with some staff and/or volunteers. A couple of minutes later another London fan arrived having dashed from Birmingham New Street train-station, a short walk away. We were all happily chatting together when the door opened in a flurry of energy and in breezed Matt himself. He shook everyone’s hand, passed a few pleasantries, collected his shopping-bag and dashed up the stairs all in a whirl of motion.

With his exit we were all ushered into the café, offered a beverage of our choice and permitted to select our viewing station. Another advantage to being so ahead of schedule was that we early-arrivers could all take up positions at the front of Matt’s performance area. Within minutes Kelly & Nick arrived from Lincolnshire & Hull respectively. Folk had really travelled distances. (For those not familiar with the UK, transport links are generally poor and congested so it takes æons to get from a to b.) This dedication of Matt’s fans made up for the paucity in numbers: the event was always going to be intimate with forty covers; but we were finally a happy band of twenty-five.

[Image description: the stage is set with Matt's guitar & keyboard]

Matt appeared again, having changed into his performance attire: shirt with sleeves rolled up above the elbow revealing a tattoo on his right forearm; a stripey school-type tie knotted tightly and slackened from the neck of an unbuttoned collar; a buttoned-up woollen waistcoat (vest); black jeans; and, black Nike trainers (sneakers). Like a marionette he moved over to the speaker and connected some background music. He then came over to me and my assistant to introduce himself after again shaking hands. His orbs kept contact with either the one or the other of us as he mellifluously spoke. Matt enquired after potential performance venues in Manchester, preferably with a piano. And then he was off to mingle with the other attendees.

Only ten minutes later than advertised, his set began. He performed many of his well known tracks including “End of the World”, “Fieldtrip Buddy”, “Monarch”, “Tall Tales”, The River”, “Tightrope”, “Velvet Goldmine”, “Wallingford”. He also sang covers inter alia Madonna’s “Take a Bow”, Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody”, Eva Cassidy's "Songbird" and Florence & the Machine’s “Only If for a Night” (which may be Matt’s next single release after he recorded it in Manchester last week). Probably I am a tad biased but I hold Matt’s version to be superior - don’t tell Florence! We were also treated to the public première of Matt’s latest London-composed song, “House on Fire” - I can already imagine the dance remixes!

Between songs Matt recounted biographical snippets: his boyhood crush; his first unplanned stay in New York (whence his song “New York City”) with a handsome chaperon; his Ohio love; his director & friend’s Sasquatch tale; his own fanship of pop divas; an impossible mutual attraction; films (movies) and television programmes which inspired him; and the incredible life-cycle and peregrination of Monarch butterflies. We also learned of the serendipitous use of the barbershop for the video of “End of the World” due to no other location permitting a gay love story to be filmed on their premises. Our gain their loss I should say.

After all, who would not want the presence of such terrific talent, such supernal singing, such wonderful warmth, such a magical Mensch. Matt is all of these and more.

Afterwards, there was an opportunity to purchase Matt’s current CD, DVD and copies of the June edition of “meat” the San Francisco “SF” edition for which Matt and his chums posed and so forth.

Whenever I meet famous folk, I inevitably clam up. (I recall meeting my long-time crush Peter Skellern years ago and being unable to even move!) However, I put into practice the little CBT tips I had been taught: I pushed myself to ask Matt to sign my CDs; I chatted with him for a few minutes; as well as again shaking his hand twice more. I did not even get out my wet-wipes or anti-bacterial gel à la Big Bang Theory's Sheldon afterwards. Matt is so affable that I am certain it was he who put me at ease. And as if any further evidence were needed to prove what a human-being Matt is, the proceeds of the benefit concert were donated by him to TOPAZ, Brum's older LGBTI folk's own support group. Bless him!

Having viewed a fair few youtube videos of Matt performing 'on stage', this concert iterated my sense that live he sings with far more passion and with an extra spark that is not necessarily present in the recording-studio vocalisations. Or maybe his beatific smile has enchanted me and altered my perceptions.

I do so hope you will give Matt Alber a listen. %)

[Image description: Matt Alber's acoustic guitar in its stand]

For my article on Matt from last month, "Matt Alber: All My Ginger Fantasies In One Man", see here.

Matt has his own website: www.mattalber.com

He can be found on facebook under “Matt Alber” band/musician.

Also on twitter: @mattalber

There is also a dedicated youtube channel.

A Crush, a Bromance, a Friendship Ends - A Sexual Peregrination Begins

Thirty years ago this September gone I had my last in-depth conversation with one of my best friends from my school-days. To save his blushes, I shall name him AF. In the previous August AF had declared to one of my friends that he and I loved each other. I was rather stunned to hear such a declaration: seventeen year old lads in the rabidly homophobic early nineteen-eighties did not tend to go round making such avowals. AF had left the education system at sixteen to pursue an apprenticeship, so there was no possibility of him being ribbed (or worse) in the school-yard. The other friend was from outside the area so unlikely to broadcast an exposé. I was touched and, in the giddiness of the revelation, automatically agreed with the sentiment and averred that I reciprocated.

In those days I was not really aware of my own sexual proclivities as such and for much of my life have led a hermetic asexual life-style (for reasons I may one day blog). In the eighties there was no ready access to pornography or explicit queer literature. I would not have known what to do sexually with my friend in any case. There were certainly stirrings in my loins which I did not understand; but no erections, no masturbatory fantasies. I experienced wet-dreams for years before some school lads explained the mechanics of masturbation in sufficient detail that I could work out what to do. It certainly prevented the nocturnal emissions. However the onanistic pleasure was a physical, sensual thrill from turning myself on and making my body feel so vital. It had not occurred to me to fantasise about masturbating someone else, let alone sexual intercourse. The school-boy term for anal intercourse was ‘bumming’; but I thought this just meant bouncing on another’s bum (buttocks)! Ah, wrong end of the stick as usual due to my dogged naïveté...

Up to that point I had spent countless hours with AF: holding his hand whilst sitting beside him; linking arms whilst walking out and about; placing arms around each other’s shoulders leaning into each other whilst chatting with others; huddling under an umbrella in the rain; holding on to one or other of his calves or stroking them whilst sitting at his feet; tickling one another; playing rough & tumble; hugging one another (I am now a hugger, but my younger self generally did not like such close physical contact). It was the most physical, by which I mean tactile, affinity I had experienced up to that point. Middle-class families in the seventies and eighties did not really do the touchy-feely shift that came with the more nurturing nineties. There was no kissing on my part as I considered it an expression of feeling love and I was not intellectually certain that what I felt was love. AF would occasionally give me a chaste peck on the cheek. Remember this was before the continental vogue for cheek-kissing spread (resurgently) to England!

It was a crush; in modern parlance, a bromance.

So back to thirty years ago. For my birthday he presented me with a box of chocs and a greetings-card. We chatted for ages in his car. For the life of me I cannot recall what we discussed; though I have attempted to plumb the depths of my mind for a clue as to what was about to occur. Within a month AF completely stopped talking to me and refused point blank to elucidate his reasons therefor. Within three months we had ceased altogether from seeing each other. I was emotionally devastated. Some three years later I received a short, formal note advising that he wanted nothing further to do with myself: this after a wordless meeting on a ‘bus. And that was that. Eventually he emigrated.

For years I had seldom thought of AF, but when I started to use social media I, like many others, looked for lots of folk from various stages in my past. I discovered AF is on Facebook as he was listed as a friend of a mutual school chum. I sent AF a brief message to see if he would like to be Facebook friends, but that no umbrage would be taken if he did not. Answer came there none. And no exception was taken. I was not in the least upset - or so I thought.

Occasionally I think of him, usually on or around his birthday which co-incidently is the same as for two other friends of mine.

In 2010 I woke up sweating from a discombobulating vivid dream (in part due to medication I was taking at the time!). As is my wont, I turned on the laptop to record some notes and ended up scribing the following poem:

27

walking out

waiting outside

there

for us

for me

for you

who knows

what goes thro’ your mind

I see you stare

and my heart trips

then rips again

were you waiting or

was it just co-incidence

why come back

what for

after all these years

and my heart bleeds again

stabbed by that youthful love

I feel you close

scent of lost innocence

once forgotten

fresh out of the unstoppered vial

the one with your name on

my breathing quickens

shallowed inhalation

my chest constricts

recalling your memory

hallowed sentiment

impromptu assignation

I take you in

you’ve put on weight

skin’s less wan

lentiginous still

tho’ submerged in tan

I hear your voice

and melt inside

like that foolish youth

naïf child-man

no more blotches of eczema

I smell your creamy

spicy skin

remembering

how you let me in

your touch

calloused palms

warm, pliant flesh

errant life-line

firm grip

even when you left

why have you come

your wife and kids at home

my partner next to me

one for old-time’s sake

or fresh fantasy

you’re a moment

embroiled in time

still torturing me

spectre of a painful past

suppurating

an unburst boil

summer’s here

I thirst for release

but what do I know

can I divine your intent

lost in the hedgerow

bending behind shushing grain

the susurrus’ sirenic strain

stroking a wheaten tress

in unspoiled soil

hopelessly content

on the bed

lie down next to me

you said

caressing my hip

again

stealing away

in the vintage banger

we drive fast

past you

you silently stare

surrounded by

abounding fecundity

heart-rate pounding

you’re just reverie

dulled glass

splintered

weeping

foul

I cry

your reality

elsewhere

happy

wake up

bugger me

only in dreams

to see

Whilst I rarely consciously think of AF, he obviously is still inhabiting the dark recesses in the underworld of my sub-conscious!

Europeans over several centuries have often commented on British, and particularly English, boys' and young men’s romantic affinities with one another. Perhaps friends or family had made some snide remark to AF. Perhaps he had become self-aware and/or self-conscious of a relationship that could have gone nowhere. Perhaps he had become bored of it. Perhaps I had upset him unwittingly. At first I attempted to work out what if anything I had done wrong. Maybe though, the bond that had made us close for a while had just faded. The friendship had simply completed its course.

[Image description: the author with his current best (male) friend in a side-on embrace.]

On those rare occasions (roughly one per decade) when I have terminated a friendship, I have given an explanation (this is the lesson I learned from my friendship with AF): unwillingness to be open where repeated discussion got us nowhere; breach of trust after breaking promises made to me; sexual infidelity amongst my group of friends; inability to come out of the closet for himself let alone me; lack of shared values. I have never taken the decison lightly and invariably have attempted to sort out matters to mutual satisfaction in the first instance. However, for the most part, I consider myself loyal to my friends and love each of them in a Platonic sense and hold them in great affection.

I find it comforting to think of past friendships (with men or women) as being complete. Not everything must endure for ever. Besides, if some relationships had not ceased, I should never have made new pals and experienced so many subsequent pleasures. Anaïs Nin* said something along the lines of each new friend brings out a different facet of our self. My aim every year is to make at least one new friend. Thankfully, I seem to have left crushes in my past. Note should be taken, however, that the word ‘friend’ comes from an Indo-European root meaning ‘to love’. Irony perhaps!

* "Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."