De Madrid al cielo

There's a Spanish saying "De Madrid al cielo", which means "From Madrid to heaven". Basically what this means is that Madrid is the closest place to paradise you'll find on Earth. Kind of like a "See Naples and die" thing. In many ways, whoever thought of this saying was on to something. Madrid really is a fantastic city. It has beautiful parks, great museums, fantastic nightlife and good weather. I can't be that enthusiastic about the gastronomical offerings unfortunately (there's only so much swine and cheese one can ingest before suicidal tendencies set in). But I digress. Madrid is great, and what's more it's great for gays. It's one of the most tolerant cities in the world for those who row in my boat, and so when I was casting around for the next place to stick a pin in the map it seemed the obvious choice.

Let's start at the very beginning (a very good place to start. Sorry, couldn't resist). I arrived in the Spanish capital with my best friend in October 2009. We'd come here (like almost every other Anglophone in the city it seems) to teach English. As soon as we got here we were thrown into the drunken, sweaty, dark Madrid gay scene. The usual frolics ensued. Loud, wasted, 5am singing under some poor hard working (ahem) Spaniard's window, drunken new best friends who you never see again, greasy kebabs, the lot. Only one problem, no man for John. Not even the faintest whiff of one. Ruh roh, here comes the neurosis! I had convinced myself that the reason I never pulled in London wasn't me, It was the hundreds of thousands of other gay men in London. They all had the problem, not little old moi. By moving away, I would conquer my sexless existence and a whole new world (and my legs) would open up to a host of delights of the flesh. Wrong! The closest I've come to intercourse during my time here has been toilet fellatio with a deaf guy. I didn't realise he was deaf until halfway through giving me a blow job the toilet door was nearly knocked down by drunk people with full bladders trying to get in. He carried on oblivious and I put two and two together. Needless to say after this I knew it wasn't going anywhere. Have you ever tried communicating with a deaf Spaniard who can't read lips? I don't know sign language (in English, let alone Spanish) either. I gave up all hope of being whisked off into the sunset when he had to instant message me his name while still in the pee soaked cubicle (classy).

Initially it was easy to blame my continued virginity on the language barrier (both signed and spoken) and a host of other lame excuses. My favourite is "Gay guys in Madrid aren't into black men". I have to say, unfortunately, there is some truth in this one. I think I'm an attractive guy, but on many occasions I've stood in a room full of gay men here, and I may as well have been wearing Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. I'm not saying that there aren't gay men of colour (all four of them) getting laid every night here, it's just I'm not one of them. Also, although Madrid is crawling with hot Spanish boys, they do all (at least the hot ones) tend to look like they came out of a chicken Mcnugget mould. The standard gay look here seems to be extremely high hair (to make up for the fact that everyone is a midget), either an extremely loose "gay" vest or an extremely tight polo shirt, and variations on a theme of muscularity. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for coiffed muscle Marys, it's just that after a while one realises that they (mostly) only go for other coiffed muscle Marys. What are us mere mortals supposed to do? Plus, it all starts to get a little like Lidl, very generic.

I'm not trying to throw myself a pity party here, trust me. I know that nine times out of ten the reason I go home alone all the time is myself. I was blessed with many talents, but flirting and recognising when someone is interested are sadly not in my portfolio. I'm just terrible when it comes to guys. The truth is most gay men in  a club/bar environment scare the hell out of me. My lack of amorous experience leads me to run a mile or freeze up completely whenever anyone shows the faintest bit of interest. And you can forget me approaching someone (are you mad?!). My natural flow dries up like an Ethiopian riverbed if I even countenance talking to a guy I fancy. It's a bit of a sad picture really isn't it?

Anyway, all that's going to change now, I just wanted to give you a bit of background info. Even with my lack of amor, I've still had an incredible two years here in Madrid. I've made several friends for life, consumed the equivalent weight in pork as Michelle McManus, taught some unwilling students English and been sucked off by a deaf guy in a club toilet. Not bad going really, all things considered!