Brrrup By Scott Baxter I sit, hypnotised by the pulsing cursor on the screen of my mobile phone. In or out? The cursor throbs within its elliptical grey gateway, permanently open, waiting to receive. Not so much a glory hole but a postal slot. A tongue licking the side of its mouth, tasting the air around it. Top or bottom? Do I grab a drink and feed this insatiable mouth for a few hours, before frustration and boredom kicks in? Or do I go into town, try my luck and see who’s about? Sub or dom? I should shower. Freshen up. A spray of cologne. Travel of accom? A shot of vodka. Get the blood moving. I’ll feel more… into it. Twist or stick? <Brrrup> That unmistakeable sound. My phone glows complicitly announcing a new message. <Evening!> Cam, 42 Profile pic of blazing log fire in a cosy living room. <Hey>
<Interesting profile pic> <Wondering if I’ve been to that cottage> <Got a face pic> <It’s not a cottage. It’s where I work.> It’s not. <It’s disgusting>
<I know.> <Got a pic> <You keep asking but I don’t see one from you.> <Maybe it got lost in the post.> <pic received> Oh. <I think we talked before.> <You wanted me to sit over your face with my balls in your mouth.> <I said no.> <I’m into other stuff too> <Got a pic> <????> <I only send pics if I’m interested.> <Sorry to bother you> <BLOCK> <pulse> <pulse> <pul… I’m becoming fickler these days. Less patient for some reason. <Brrrup>
<hi>
JP, 28 Profile pic of pale smooth torso. <Hey.>
<into> <BLOCK>
Why do I use this app? I hate this app. I only use it as a last resort. As if the men it would deliver to me are quicker with decisions and are less particular in taste than other apps. Yellow, however, is a warning colour in nature, I remind myself.
<Hiya!!!>
<Brrrup>
<Hows it going???> I C O N, 26 Profile pic of a painting, Pollock meets pavement pizza. <pulse> <pulse> <pulse> I hear him stressing those vowels in my mind. Probably a sibilant on that ‘s’ too. <???> Is it wrong to ‘block’ someone for using too many punctuation marks? <BLOCK> No, it’s not. I’m starting to annoy myself now. I feel my attitude changing as I read. Their rudeness increases my rudeness. Time to head out before I ruin the night with my mood. Opening the freezer door, I think about how middle-class I am now. Not only is my furniture a mixture of high street brands and the occasional hand selected item from a vintage shop but I keep my vodka in the freezer.
<Howdy>
<Brrrup>
Sean, 32 Profile pic of a bearded chin in green light.
<How u> <Kl Kl>
Interesting. The cowboys are in town. <Ev’nin partner.> Cringe. <Good. You?> <pulse> <pulse>
<Looking for>
<pulse>
<Not sure, tbh.> <Thinking of heading out to the Caves.> <Unless I get distracted.> <Lol.>
<Lol> <I was supposed to meet mates there myself> Breaking character. <You mean amigos?> <?> <Never mind. Yeah me too.> <Ive had a few already so a bit horny> <lol> <I’m guessing not sarsaparilla.> <?> <Sorry. It’s me. Long week.> <Cool mate.> <We could meet up at the Caves and see how it goes?> <Kl Kl> <How will I recognise you> <Pic swap?> <Kl Kl> <pic sent> <pic received> <Nice>
Hmm. *sad face* Not the clearest pic. Too close up and still in green lighting. Taken on a work’s night out probably. Be polite. <Cheers. You too.> <When you be there> <Couple of hours.> <Need a shower and I might grab a drink before.> <Kl Kl alright mate> <See u later> <Cheers.> <I’m Jack.> <Sean> <I know.> <Kl>
Standing under the showerhead the water blasts my shoulders and my head starts to pulse from a mixture of alcohol in my blood and the damp heat against my skin. I’m starting to feel horny and I’m tempted to just have a wank and an early night. But Sean sounds interesting. I wipe the steam from the mirror and inspect my face and beard. I began growing a beard earlier this year. It’s like having a child - not the birth aspect of course, but the apprehension of how it’s going to turn out. You don’t exactly know what you’re going to get. Coverage, shape, colour. It can be a pleasant surprise or a humiliating disappointment regardless of your family’s beard-growing heritage. Luckily, though, beards can be dispatched without social services investigating. My own beard turned out to be vibrant ginger upstart. I should have grown one earlier in life but hipsters hadn’t been invented. It was only paedophiles who used them to hide in plain sight. Now every bloke with one is somehow fashionable rather than predatory. If comedy is tragedy plus time, then fashion must be tragedy minus memory. I apply moisturiser to my face, conditioner to my beard, clay to my hair and a liberal amount of cologne to my body. I don’t have to consider what I will wear tonight, I know my audience. Doc Boots, Levis jeans, T-shirt (with ironic logo), plaid shirt (with press-stud buttons for easy access), vintage bomber jacket and woollen beanie (rolled up and perched like a yarmulka). I will be overdressed at the Caves but I never get the goods out in public. My ‘look’ is accessorised with a variety of chain and leather wrist bands and large silver rings. They say it takes a thief to catch a thief, but I prefer thinking that only in my camouflage can I truly be seen. I’m essentially dressed like a traditional ‘straight’ guy but with more attention to detail: the shirt is ironed; the jeans spotless; the boots polished. Workwear that only ever gets worked on in the bedroom.
Dressed and sitting on the bed I slide open the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and inspect the contents checking to see if I’m running low on anything. These days it’s more of a ‘med-side’ cabinet and, like my freezer, there are only three items of any importance stored here: PrEP: Instant; a variety of Libidinum and lube. I seem to have plenty of everything, it’s been a dry winter so far.