White vest man, hot cops, Dukan and super trannies

I love Madrid! Just got back from La Paloma. Basically this is a huge fiesta that take place in La Latina, an area aof the city with tons of bars and restaurants. It's like a big latino Notting Hill Carnival except this one goes all night. There's incredible South American street food, music coming from every bar and people are cutting up a rug left, right and centre (doesn't cutting up a rug explain what it's describing perfectly? Love that expression!).

"Such fun!" I hear you cry, and you're right it is bloody good fun. We went last year and drank and danced the night away. This year however, things are a little bit different (the difference being my ever expanding gut). Hence, I'm currently following the Dukan diet to try and shift some blubber in a rush before I have to expose myself for a week in Ibiza. This, tragically, means no alcohol for yours truly until next weekend. A great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth ensued when I realised I wouldn't be able to lubricate myself in the usual manner. But you know what? I've had so much fun tonight I didn't miss the booze at all.

I may have had a mini (and I do mean miniscule, let's not get over excited) revelation dear reader. Normally in Madrid when you go out, you end up annihilated. Those of you who've been to the city will know that the nights here are loooong and filled with huge amounts of potent booze. My problem is that often, there comes a point in the night when I'm wasted, standing in the middle of a packed gay club and failing to pull yet again. Cue drunken waterworks. Many a time I've run weeping (such a drama queen) up Gran Via cursing life and anyone who gets in my way. The thing is, this didn't happen tonight. There was the usual slew of ridiculously hot, buff guys (namely white vest man, so hot I may cry myself to sleep tonight!). But this time, being sober I didn't have the usual fog and nonsense running around in my head. Don't get me wrong, there's no way I'll ever give up drinking, I'm way too much of a party boy. And I'm betting that as soon as I set foot again in the booze soaked UK my new resolve will evaporate quicker than you can say virgin. But I think there might actually be something to be said for drinking in moderation. Perhaps guys aren't really all that attracted to a gyrating (albeit with amazing rhythm), sweaty mess. Given time, a little bit of Dutch courage and several months (years) in the gym I might even pluck up the courage to talk to the likes of white vest man.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the super tranny I'm referring to in the title of this post is just that. Walking home tonight with my friend Steph we saw a woman with the most incredible hips and arse. Only thing is, she used to have a penis! Madrid is filled with trannies, I love it! And hot cops? Well, I'll leave that to your imagination.

Isn't this great? I'm learning stuff about myself, you're all learning stuff about me. It's like f-ing Sesame Street!

Night peeps xx

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!

The awful truth

My name is John Goode. I'm 30 years old. I'm gay, and I'm a virgin. There, I said it. For a while now I've wanted to write a blog but I could never figure out what the hell I would write about. Everything I considered just seemed so trite and had no real relevance for me. Essentially I think blogs are the most self indulgent things going anyway. Good ones are so few and far between. "Look at me, what I have to say is so important.". Is it really though? Most of the time if I ever read a blog I'm thinking about what I can eat next. Most people's lives and what they have to say just isn't that interesting I'm afraid. Who knows, maybe you're thinking the exact same thing now. Only time will tell...

Anyway, it's 3.20 am here in Madrid (where I've lived for the past two years), and I'm coming off the back of a conversation with a dear friend of mine. During our chat it became clear to me that what, if anything, I wanted to write about was my love life (or rather lack of it).

I'm moving back to London in a month and I want to document my attempts to find love in the city I love so much. After two years in Spain where the only action I've had has been a sweaty fumble with a deaf guy (more on that in later updates), I'm determined, on my return to London, to really put myself out there and try and meet Mr Right. That means internet dating, blind dates, meeting someone out and about, wherever love is I'm determined to find it! And you lovely (or hapless as the case may be) people are going to come along for the ride I hope!

So, I'm a virgin. It's not something I usually throw out there to people. Let's face it, nowadays it's kind of a Scarlet Letter thing if you haven't done it by the time your first pube pops up to say hi. But yes, for a myriad of reasons I have never had bum sex. Most people assume that all gay men walk around with permanent erections and use them at least fourteen times a day on some unsuspecting anus. At least that seems to me to be the image propagated by the media and indeed us benders ourselves. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some dewy eyed ingenue. I've had my fair share of fun behind the proverbial bike shed, it's just I've never been in a long term (or short term come to that) relationship. I'm aware that it's not the norm for anybody, gay or straight, to reach my age without one decent relationship experience, or indeed to give their flower (sorry, I just love that expression, so Hallmark) to anybody. Clearly I have issues. I'm not going to go into all the reasons behind these, I want this blog to be readable and entertaining, not like reading the Bible at primary school. Suffice to say I had a bit of a difficult time growing up gay and until now I've never been brave enough to deal with my many (yet still rather fabulous) neuroses.

It's strange, putting all this down is immediately cathartic. I think I might be onto something here. Anyway, now you all know the score (virgin, never been in a relationship, neurotic), I hope you'll all come along with me on my journey. Let the games commence...