The Not So Secret Life of This Manic Depressive.


The sunlight poured through the kitchen window as I sat cross legged amongst a sea of paper carefully and methodically cutting up the pages of magazines and then, once happy with their individual alignment, pasting them onto A1 sheets of card to be tacked to the walls or glued to the doors of the ancient kitchen cabinets in our little two up two down terrace house in London’s East End.

Needless to say, when my husband arrived home from a hard day at work with no visible sign or hope of dinner on the table, he was not impressed! I was not only at the height of one of my manic episodes as I now understand them to be, but also I was as high as a kite on a cocktail of GHB and ketamine. The sounds of Ibiza Global Radio pumped through the house and I rose to greet him proudly displaying my creativity.

I was in my late twenties and engrossed in a world of graphic design, photography, music, prostitution and experimentation with drugs and pleasure. In those days my ‘Up’ moods lasted longer than the ‘Downs’ and I was at my creative peak forever hunting out the latest fashion magazine or typeface or new form of pornographic material or sex toy I had not yet played with. Ah what a time of life to live in London, in the centre of the gay world. And of course I was determined to write my book. The memoires of a gay prostitute. To tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth of what is it to be a sex worker, a husband, an artist and a half Irish, half Jewish and very troubled young man with ambitions to be something else, someone different.. to be ….. something. Alas, years later, one realises that dreams and illusions are by their nature sweet.. But who knows, perhaps one day my humble blog will one day be bound into a collection of ideas and memories and sit gracefully on the shelves of bookshops.. if indeed these still exist in our futuristic world of downloads and kindles and cyber technology. But for me paper still feels more real than this glowing screen of my macbook.

Unfortunately now, years later, nothing remains of my creative efforts. But those walls were beautiful. A myriad of black and white and colour images ranging from images of amazon rainforests snipped from copies of National Geographic to hardcore gay pornography. Birds of paradise in all their radiant colours sat next to the oiled muscular torsos and over sized erections of American porn stars whom I had masturbated over many times in the early hours of the morning taking deep inhalations of poppers to bring myself to the most wondrous and mind blowing orgasms. Ah such happy memories.

These days, rather than such extreme drug taking, I write and indulge myself in this weird and wonderful world of tantric or as most people know it as erotic massage. And of course I live in Spain’s Costa Blanca and spend my days looking up such obscure words as ‘screwdriver – destornillador’, ‘rubbish tip – basurero’ and of course one of my personal favourites… ‘slippery – resbaladizo’. And then there is the sea. The Mediterranean in all it’s azure glory stretching out into the distance. At night the moon and the stars rise and dance silently in the deep black sky, a sight I never saw in all my years in London with it’s city lights and neon glow and never ending vibrancy.

As a child I was drawn towards the arts. As you will already know from my previous blogs I played the cello for many years along with a few other instruments (most recently I have become extremely proficient in the playing of the pink oboe…) and of course later I worked as a life model for four years which allowed me access to the wonderful and fascinating world of Universities of Art and of course ignited my burning desire to learn more about human anatomy. As a 15 year old I recall being memorized when I first looked upon the drawings of Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci. Those exquisite lines which so perfectly described the male form, the elegance of the curves and such realism of figurative paintings that one could almost touch the flesh. Later I would spend hours gazing at those actual paintings in London’s marvellous National Gallery. What a contribution those men gave to the world, their deepest desires hidden in plain sight for the bourgeoisie and the church to marvel at and misunderstand… Such sexual potency and energy. But I digress.

I tend to do this you see. My mind wanders when in these manic states. A thousand ideas fill my head at any given moment rushing past like tube trains. If only I could slow time in order to write these ideas down, to capture them and give them the attention they deserve. It is like, it feels like, arriving on a strange and new planet. A world where colours are brighter, sounds are louder and tastes are stronger. Suddenly a switch is flicked in one’s mind and one’s senses become sharp like daggers. I want to experience it all. Every pleasure, every sensation. Those lonely months of darkness have ended and the sunlight once again pours in. I wonder sometimes if it is like living in those far northern places, those lands of the midnight sun. The relief that those endless hours of darkness have ended is so great.

To say I want to lose myself in this state, to savour every moment is an understatement. Sex, of course, becomes far more appealing and exciting. Before, in my old life, I would mount my trusty bicycle and make my way up to Chariots Sauna near Liverpool Street Station. Filled with wine and my heart racing with excitement I swam naked in the heated pool on the upper floor my cock already hard and aching for pleasure before wandering through those steamy corridors in search for the first encounter of the evening. In those days I was fearless, wandering around with my towel draped over my shoulders and my naked body glistening with a mixture of sweat and pool water. My cock leading the way as the eyes of strangers glowed in the darkness. I remember the sheer delight as the bubbles of the jacuzzi ticked my shaven balls. I would gaze deep into the eyes of the men who sat across, their hard-ons concealed under the raging current of that hot, steaming pool. I loved to hear the groans of pleasure and the thumping of flesh against naked flesh coming from the rooms at on the top floor. All around the intoxicating smells of poppers, sweat and cum.

But of course with the sweet comes the sour. The darkness, as I call it, comes upon me as quickly as the light. Those months when one simply cannot get out of bed. Days filled with paranoia, dread, misery, despair, thoughts of suicide, anger, frustration and worst of all isolation. Being in this ‘Up’ mood that I am at the present moment I do not care to dwell on those times. I merely wanted to write tonight and to try to explain, to analyse perhaps the curious nature of this condition. You see, much like the wonderfully verbose and highly talented Stephen Fry, I too am grateful in many ways for my mania as it brings the gift of creativity and a way of seeing the world through very different eyes. After the darkness there is this beautiful appreciation of the wonder and complexity of life in all it’s radiant shades of colour. Without my manic depression I may still be sitting at my desk in the middle of a vast and grey and depressing call centre wishing I was somewhere else and waiting for my next brief and blessed spree of annual leave. The phrase ‘Dead at 30 buried at 70’ comes to mind. A fate which many befall. Lives suspended in a thick beige soup of despair and regret.

My life is a life of poverty for much of the time. There is no villa. There is no fancy car outside my door. My clothes come from charity shops and my Lacoste jeans came with a price tag of 2 euros instead of 100. There is no pension. There is no swimming pool. There is no foie gras in my fridge or holidays to the Caribbean. But what there is I would probably not trade for all the tea in China. There is passion. There is a fascination with life and with people and a sense of adventure in these moments of happiness that has guided me along this crazy and very uneven path of my life.

So there you have it. More ramblings of a demented Irish man living in Spain.

Thanks for reading. Sending love and light from Spain. A x


Why Do I Write?….


Why do I Write?”…. So that someone will read, so that someone will hear, so that someone will understand… Out there, perhaps, you my reader will feel something in my words. A cord inside of you will resonate to the same sound, to the same frequency because you have felt how I feel.

Writing for me has become my release valve. It is my way of expressing my pain, fear, pleasure, desire, longing and at times of course loneliness… So much of the time we are all in our own thoughts, in our own heads, in our own minds, in our own consciousness.

We experience this world of ours in a void of our own perspective. Our experiences like secret doors in our minds, in this inner world into which only we can enter.

I write of my experiences, remembering the sights, the sounds, the colours, the tastes, the smells, the sensations which only my body has experienced and I try my best to share them with you. And so tonight, I shall write as freely and openly as one can… to share…

My boundaries of professionalism have been crossed recently. A client of mine who regularly comes to visit me discovered my achilles heel, my weak spot and for once I was the one who laid on the massage table. You see I simply adore being sucked dry. My cock frequently aches for it and longs to be drained by a willing mouth.

It had been weeks since I had enjoyed casual sex only for my own pleasure and I was as hard as an A’Level Math’s test by the time he arrived. I began as usual working up and down his back each stroke more sensual than the next. Then his shoulders and legs…

He rolled over onto his back and I took his erect member in my oily hands. He moaned in ecstasy as I lovingly caressed his aching shaft paying particular attention to his helmet and as I stroked his cock up and down a single perfect droplet of pre cum oozed down across his glands.

I teased his balls, the skin tight and creased so I could create ripples of sensation over the fullness of those spunk filled sacks. And then, as if driven by some insane and impossible urge, I took his cock in my mouth. Almost at once his long hard hot shaft reached the back of my throat and I tasted his sweet yet salty pre cum. My tongue wrapped around his cock and my mouth salivated for his juice.

I was not to be kept waiting long for my reward. Hot, warm squirts of man cum filled my throat and I swallowed as my cock grew and stood to a full erection against the massage table as his juice poured down my willing, hungry throat.

His moaning eventually subsided and I reached for a towel. He rose from the table and forced me to lie down pulling my legs apart. “Now it is I who is in control” he said…

I gave into the pleasure. My cock was aching to cum and as his lips sank down onto me I sank back into the towels covering my massage table, reached back and grabbed the legs of the table behind my head. I closed my eyes, giving into temptation completely and allowed myself to experience the pleasure which unfolded between my legs.

Skilfully he milked my cock with his hands and mouth and throat. Every movement brought me closer to the edge until eventually I exploded… My cock pumped it’s load deep into the man’s throat so much so that it poured out of his mouth and down my veiny shaft and around the curve of my balls seeping into the crevice my ass…

I hope you enjoyed my tale tonight…

Buenas Noches..

Sending love and light from Spain…

A x

The Fear of Fear Itself….



As the noise from outside permeated the single paned windows of my little flat I could feel the anger and frustration rising inside of me and deep down that desperate, burning craving. Yet another fiesta was now in full swing. I was not aware when I had rented my little two bedroom flat with it’s leafy balcony, shuttered windows, pebbled street and quaint filigree street lamps that only two doors up was a social centre where my neighbours would gather each and every fiesta weekend to drink and make merry whilst a brass band played through the night just outside my bedroom window until the sun crept up over the horizon the following morning. Now of course I understand the very affordable monthly rent. The nature of my work of course requires above all else peace and quiet and so naturally the shocking realisation that the full vibrance and violence of the fiesta in all it’s drunken, noisy glory would be played out directly outside my front door caused me a great deal of anxiety. Much as I love my new found country and it’s fascinating and delightful idiosyncrasies to say I was pissed off would be the understatement of the century.

A prisoner in my own home, I paced up and down across the wooden floors of my living room. I closed the shutters and tried to calm my shaking cat. Poor little guy, he has no idea what all this noise is. The arrival of Armageddon itself perhaps! I played my own music to try to drown out the dreadful sound of drunken teenagers playing trumpets and banging drums but to no avail. The sounds merely merged together into one great syncopated soup and my stress levels reached boiling point.

I pulled on my trainers and grabbed my wallet and keys angrily slamming the door in protest as I left. My local coffee shop offered a brief refuge but I knew they would be waiting for me there, outside my front door, upon my arrival back home. And as I sat there, my frustration and anger once again rising inside of me like a monster I felt it again. That craving, there in the dark. That voice that once again whispered… “Drink…”.

Six weeks previously I had stepped into that room at the back of the Social Centre behind the town hall and the little tram station on the line that ran between Denis to the north and the bustling resort of Benidorm to the south. It was to be the first of many AA meetings I would attend during that time.

As a teenager I had experimented with alcohol and drugs as I’m sure most teenagers do. But as I grew older I realised that other people did not drink in the same way that I did. That switch, that dreadful switch had not been flicked in their heads. For them a few drinks would suffice, but not for me. My thirst was deeper and alcohol seemed to affect me in a very different way. It was the same with drugs. They transported me into a very different place, some kind of higher mental plane upon which I would feel like the most creative and amazing individual. Drugs and Alcohol have always affected my mind in powerful and profound ways. Not only releasing me from the agony and awkwardness of my insecurities and seeming to bolster my confidence, but actually changing the very world around me.

Colours seemed brighter, the sun would burn in the sky warming my skin, the sounds of the world around me seemed to crisp and become ever more vibrant and clear and magical than before. Most of all my intoxication would cause time to slip by in the most pleasing and delightful way. Hours rolled by like waves on the ocean and as the vodka slipped down my throat and the candles burned silently in the background I felt a kind of peace and tranquility that I had craved so desperately as a child.

Then the darkness came. Rolling in a like a storm at sea. Depressions like I had never known before came upon me. The alcohol that had once been my best ally now became my nightmare, my monster, my nemesis. The voice that had once whispered such soft and encouraging words in my ears now tormented me like a sadistic torturer chipping away at my very soul. The sadness, the hopelessness, the guilt, the disgust with one’s self is indescribable. And worst of all I had created this prison of loneliness and self hatred myself.

Hangover after hangover, drink after drink, argument after argument my life continued in this terrible rhythm. The lower I sank and the more hopeless life seemed the more I wanted to drink to try to release myself from the pain. It was all I knew. You see, as crazy as it sounds, the reason I believe that alcohol addiction is such a hard, terribly hard monster to overcome and to free oneself from is that regardless of the horrible destination one will invariably end up at with each drinking session, the first drink provides relief and release from the torment of one’s thoughts and one’s fears.

It works so effectively and the irony is that one can simply walk to the supermarket or bar or cafe and for a few euros purchase that glass of pure, unadulterated pleasure, that shot of morphine for the pain that one is suffering. It is everywhere and is so freely available. Unlike drugs which one must hunt for, needing to know the right people and places and nightclubs and of course needing the necessary funds to get a fix of the desired substance, alcohol is legal and ubiquitous in the world today.

But back to my story and the fiesta. That hunger took hold of me in the isles of my local supermarket and that afternoon I purchased a bottle of red wine. I arrived home, lit some candles and incense and found my bottle opener. It had been six weeks since my last drink, since I had sworn never to drink again and yet there I found myself pouring a glass and feeling the red, warm, velvety embrace once again. And that first glass gave me peace. I exhaled lying back on the sofa with my cat on my lap purring softly and the noise from outside seemed to melt into the distance. All I could think of was the feeling. I drank a second glass and poured the rest of the bottle down the sink determined that that was all I would have. It’s now 6 days later and I have been drinking every day. The monster has me in it’s clutches once again and will not let go. I am going to try to get to an AA meeting on Saturday and I shall read these words and pray that I find some way to release myself from this.

I know what you are thinking right now.. Why? Would would a relatively intelligent person do this to themselves knowing how much damage it has caused them before. After being sober for more than 50 days? Why? I’m searching for that answer myself. There could be many answers.. Fear. Weakness. Curiosity. Boredom. Frustration. Perhaps deep down if I’m honest the fear of losing my old self, the fear of sobriety, the fear of not having that release valve. All I know is that fear plays a very big part in my life.

My greatest fear right now.. Judgement. It is almost worse that the fear of the dark slippery slope that lies before me if I cannot stop drinking. Alcoholism is an illness we are told, an illness like any other for which we should feel no guilt. But I can tell you from my experience of the past week there is not a great deal of sympathy outside of organisations like AA for the alcoholic who relapses and finds himself once again in the jaws of this monster. The world has a long way to go in it’s acceptance and understanding of this illness. The psychological effects for me have been so profound and frankly devastating. I want to scream for help and at the same time want to isolate myself as if I have contracted a contagious and life threatening disease. It’s horrible, dark, lonely and soul destroying. I find myself thinking of suicide most days. It seems the only way to release myself and my loves ones from this beast inside of me. And the knowledge of the pain that action would cause only increases my feeling of shame and guilt and despair.

I hope these words help others who find themselves in the darkness, suffering and feeling alone. The truth is you are not alone. There are so many of us out there fighting the same enemy, the same wicked and cruel and manipulative illness that is addiction. As I write these words I am so tired of punishing myself and I am so tired of the fear. The fear of my addiction, the fear of myself, the fear of judgement and most of all the fear of fear itself.



Love…. An equal mixture of pleasure and pain. It is the Sun and the Moon, the day and the night, the light and the dark. It is the sunshine and the rain, the heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter, the sweet and the sour. We cannot have one without the other.

Without love our lives are so simple, we feel nothing. There is no risk, no joy, no sadness, no connection, no pleasure, no uncertainty. And yet we search for it, long for it, feel jealous of those around us who have found it, who have each other, who seem to flaunt if walking hand in hand on those Summer nights, hand in hand, the occasional glance which only they can understand, their secret language just for them, that bond between them like an invisible cord. But we are safe without it. We are free. We are in many ways truer versions of ourselves without it. We express ourselves freely and indulge in all the pleasures of the flesh without worry or care. There is no other heart to be hurt by our actions. We are sexual warriors manoeuvring ourselves from one bed to another, from one conquest to another, from one profile to another. And afterwards, once the pleasure of our ejaculation has subsided and we have said our goodbyes.. we are left feeling void, feeling empty, feeling the lack of that connection. How quickly we forget those names, all of those names and perhaps even faces. Lost in the mist of time. Forgettable. And then onto the next, and the next, and the next until we are sicken by our very lust, like eating too much chocolate cake, at first sweet and rich but eventually…. sickening.

And then one day it comes from nowhere, he comes from nowhere. This other heart. This other soul. This other mind. Our other half. This other version of ourselves standing in front of us like a mirror through which we see our very soul, our dreams, every desire in our heart reflected before us in one beautiful, perfect, radiant image. And we melt into them.. our heart burning with desire and passion and longing. Like a drug that we simply cannot do without. The very smell of their skin and their hair, their touch like magic, their kiss upon our lips the most perfect wine we could ever hope to taste that has been created just for us. In face every inch of their body seems to have be created by celestial beings just for us and we want to lose ourselves inside of them… forever.. never to be seen again. Our bodies entwined under those sheets wishing morning would never come and the night could last for an eternity in their arms, his body pressed against yours and his heart beating just for you….

Our words of love seem to flow from a hidden magical bubbling well inside of us, words we have never spoken to another, words we write… just for him. Just for his ears, for his heart, for his eyes, words spun from gold and silver threads in our heart, in the deepest recesses of ourselves.. just for him. My muse, my heart, my soul, my constant inspiration.. And his words, like a million kisses upon our skin, like rain falling on a hot summer’s day to cool and refresh us, like music, the sweetest most perfect notes falling into our ears. Paradise.. Perfection embodied in another human being. A thousand words.. A thousand hours of talk about nothing and everything. And we hold onto every word…

And then one day… Pain. Anguish.. Devastation.. Arguments.. All that beauty and perfection crumbles before our very eyes and our heart grows dark. We lose the virginity of our own imagination. And suddenly we see this angel, this vision of perfection, this ethereal being… as the man he is.. And suddenly we realise.. he is just like us, he is just like me.. His hair greys like mine, his skin grows older each mine, his desire and insecurity, in fact his very masculinity which I adore and I find myself so drawn to causes him to make choices, to make mistakes, to tell lies, just like me, just like all of us.. because ultimately.. we are lovers, we are capable of such love, of such romance, of such feeling and passion, but alas we are men and the hearts and minds of men are dark and beautiful and complicated things.. We must accept this in order to love.. We must accept our own faults, our own imperfections, our own limitations and those of the one we love, and to love him regardless. For a world without love, without feeling, is like a canvas without paint, a dawn without sunrise, music without notes.. It is a void….

And so.. our illusions shattered, our romance novels cast aside, the movies portraying the agony of singledom and the elation of prince charming saving the heroine from her sad lonely life drawing to their inevitable Hollywood conclusions as the credits roll and we switch off our television screens and slide into bed, our dogs or cat curled up beside us, what message of hope can I write to send us off to sleep and ease our dreams…?

We are human. We need love just as we need to eat and sleep. Why else would the great poets and writers and artists and musicians of centuries past have dedicated their lives to the expression of love, the dutiful descriptions and interpretations of it’s beauty, of it’s depth, of it’s pain and it’s complexity? It is what drives us, what inspires us, what creates us. In order to smile at the sun we must also cry at the moon. Herein lies the paradox of our humanity and our emotions.. This is life, this is us… this is love….

The Dark…


Three white candles flicker and dance quietly through the darkness on my coffee table. There are in fact four.. But being a Virgo I naturally strive for balance and order in the general chaos of life and so for the purpose of the story we shall imagine there are three evenly spaced across the hand-painted tiles…. Three candles to represent a beginning, a middle and and end to my tale tonight. However in this case the writer is as much in the dark as the reader as to the ending of the story… So we shall continue as see where this takes us..

The power is out yet again. Fuck… No internet, no light, phone battery dying.. The joy of living in a tiny village in Spain during a thunderstorm in September. “So why not use this opportunity?”, I think to myself. Why not put on some nice chilled music, pour a glass of wine, cuddle my cat Oscar and write… So I suggest you do the same… Light a candle, pour some wine or grab a nice cold beer from the fridge (go on your deserve it), and let’s begin… For tonight is an investigation, an analysis some would say… And I know I’ll need a drink for this one…. It may be a rather rough ride back in time.. All the way back to 1993…

Now you understand the title! Altea is know for it’s power cuts sometimes lasting 5 minutes and sometimes 5 hours. However it has a secondary and much more significant meaning in this case. You see it’s my birthday week and whilst most of you out there would be planning a party or get together or having a meal to celebrate, I ignore it, or rather try to ignore it each year. Friends and family are confused as to why I do this, they are frustrated with my requests for no mention, no cards, no gifts… and to be honest I’m still trying to work out why I feel so uncomfortable about it myself, hence this meandering and rather strange blog this evening. It should be such a happy time, one’s birthday.. But for me it’s not. In fact I start getting anxious around July and as the date draws ever closer my anxiety increases to the point where I dread the entire month or even the mention of it’s name.

Anxiety is a strange and unusual beast often understood only by those who suffer from it in their own way. The tiny seed inside of us which at times roots and grows, spreading slowly upwards and outwards until it becomes a weed and then a vine which wraps around us and will not let go, growing ever tighter and tighter around our chest. Our rational selves transformed into this weak, shivering reflection we see before us perplexed and then frozen by our seemingly completely irrational fears. And that is the problem you see.. Anxiety is invisible, it is a ghost, or a monster only visible to the sufferer himself. It is the monster under the bed. The shadow in the corner of the room. It is not a cast on a broken leg n’ore a bruise or a black eye. There is no outward physical sign of the tremendous trauma this person experiences. The paralysis of their own emotional torment. And worst of all it happens not only once, but over and over again and can strike at any moment, at any time, without warning. And for all of us it is different. A unique and hand-crafted cage of self-doubt and self-punishment from which it seems almost impossible to escape. A creation of the monster in our minds only visible to ourselves.

The best explanation I can come up with for my own anxiety is that each and every September, my dreaded birthday month, I had to go back to school to begin yet another torturous year as a child and then as a teenager (naturally an even worse and far more complex time in my life). I remember waiting in fear for the dreaded trip to the dusty and depressing and old fashioned clothes shop in the next village which sold the school uniforms. My Mum practically having to drag me there to try on the ill-fitting and often oversized grey shirt, grey trousers, purple and black striped tie (which years later I burn with great pleasure), purple jumper and purple blazer and those awful black shoes. And all the while I knew what I was in store for. Like a prisoner standing at the gates I knew that for me there would be no immediate escape from this new and horrendous reality of the prison I had been sentenced to. As Summer’s light began to fail and the days grew shorter the cold harsh darkness once again began to creep in..

As a teenager I decided to rebel you see. I grew my hair long, pierced my ears in a dozen places, smoked cigarettes and used those dodgy gay chat lines at the back of the papers and magazines (not being so familiar with the internet back then) to contact older men for occasional sex in the back of Ford Mondeos and although I got good grades passing all my GCSE’s with flying colours I did everything I possibly could to distance myself from the cool crowds, the prefects, the sports days, the social functions, preferring instead to spend my time in the Art Department or the Music rooms. I read books constantly hungry for knowledge and escape. It’s amazing how words can transport you to a different time, a different country, a different place where your own world melts away. All the problems, all the fear, all the hassle and for a short while all the pain just melts..

When I was young I was punched and kicked, but as I grew older the bullying became less physical and more psychological chipping away at my very core. They were clever, even at that tender age of 14 or 15. Those fuckers knew just how to hit your weakest points. Words.. Words like ‘Queer’ and ‘Fag’ and ‘Bender’ and ‘Freak’…. It was not a single blow but death by a thousand cuts. Monday to Friday, 9am to 5pm, every week, every month, every year. The pain and isolation and loneliness and self hatred were almost unbearable. From that moment I stepped foot on the school bus in the morning until I arrived home in the evening, having walked the two miles up the winding single track road that ran out of the village and up into the dark hills high above, there was pain and fear. And even in the dark, in the night, lying there in my bed, there was the fear of what was to come to next day. I was the perpetual prison on death row… waiting… terrified..

Governments realised a long time ago that Psychological Warfare is one of the most effective forms of attack against another country (or indeed it’s own citizens), one only has to look at September 11th 2001 for a perfect example of this. Fear can be a tremendous weapon because the thing about instilling fear in a person is that it stays with them long after the event itself. It’s eats away at the victim’s mind like a virus like a parasite. It destroys all sense of emotional stability until only the brittle exterior of the person remains…. A shell, a faint outline of their former selves. A faint reflection….

Sitting at the large wooden desk in my bedroom, my santuary, one night, staring out into the darkness, the night sky filled with stars and the moon filled with sadness looking down upon me, I made the first cut. I can’t remember the pain only the sweet relief, although there must have been pain also.. It wasn’t deep but blood seeped out from the long straight line on my forearm and I watched as it ran slowly down the curve of my arm and pooled onto the cold wood of the desk.

At first it was just one. Just one scar that would never heal. A reminder perhaps that I could survive, that I could heal, that somehow this pain would go away. But then there were more growing up my arms like souvenirs or perhaps medals of war… My scars.. An outward image of my internal pain. Visible finally…

I took to wearing shirts and sweaters even in Summer to hide the many scars that ran up and down my arms. I wish I could be more consistent in the details of this time of my youth but I struggle to remember most of that time. My mind has blocked out most of my memories. Now at the age of almost 38 years they are no longer painful, but it is almost like recalling the scenes of a movie one has watched whilst completely and utterly trashed on class A drugs. I was prescribed a cocktail of anti-depressants you see from the age of about 14. The combination of the trauma of that time, the suicide attempts, the three month period I spent in a Psychiatric hospital (for my own good and to avoid more self harm) and the medication has made my memory so fuzzy, so broken, like searching for polaroids in a dark attic. It is like looking back at another life, another person.

After many years of shaving my head I decided earlier this year to grow my hair. I’m very lucky in that it’s still pretty thick and healthy, thinning slightly at the temples but of course that is to be expected in a man of my age, compared to my father who began to lose his at the age of just 21. My hair was red as a baby, flame red. It quickly turned blond and my eyes were very blue, I looked almost Scandinavian perhaps something to do with my mother’s Jewish roots. And then as I hit puberty it grew darker with more gold and copper tones. Since arriving here in Spain it has lightened with the help of the occasional application of lemon juice and a blast of Spanish sun. Why am I growing it? I guess mainly it’s my last shot at having long hair and I want to make the most of it but perhaps to shove a finger up at the bullies at school all those years ago who taunted me so much.

I imagine them sometimes, growing old and fat and bald, having never left that tiny sad little village filled with regret. Closed hearts and minds all around going about their day. Always the same, never changing. The coldness of that sea air wrapping around them, biting into them. Their lives wandering down famililar paths. Each night in the pub downing another pint of Guinness, perhaps the disappointment of their lives staring back at them, perhaps not? I wonder if they ever think of me?…. I’d like to hope for happiness for them.. I’d like to forgive the damage they have done. One day…

That day outside my history class I had no idea the boy behind me had the lighter in his hand, his mate had distracted me, I only became aware of what was happening when I began to smell the burning hair. Luckily I turned around quickly enough and was able to put out the flames before my skin was burned. But it was pretty bad. I cut it soon after, perhaps even the next day. It had taken years for me to grow my hair but in an instant it was gone, destroyed… And I humiliated in front of 30 laughing kids. They say school is the best days of your life, but not in my case….

Clippers for me became a way of getting rid of the pain and I used them often at times of great anxiety in my life. Clippers replaced the razor blades and Stanley knives I think, a way of punishing myself without the physical pain or scarring. In my previous blogs I think I’ve written about the reason I have tattoos on my right arm, to cover the scars of my youth.

Where am I going with this blog tonight? Maybe just to get some of it out. A release. I’m not really sure. I find it uncomfortable to write about my forthcoming birthday but what I will say is although this week is sad for me and very hard, I am happy that I am now into my second year living in Spain on my own, completely alone really apart from my cat Oscar. I am proud of myself for doing such a crazy thing on such a small budget and taking a risk.

I’ve always loved Spain and it is nice that I can look at this world around me and not be reminded of the past. I love being surrounded by a different language and more than anything else the anonymity that comes from being a stranger. Effectively I have crawled into the pages of the books I used to read at school, whilst hiding from the bullies during lunch hour, never to be seen again….

But the question is.. Can we ever really escape the past and indeed ourselves for here I sit writing for you by candlelight in this strange, hot, sweaty, foreign land and all these years later I dread a day that should be filled with happiness and celebration. Yet I am no longer that boy sitting at the back of the class, at the back of the bus, at the back of the assembly, hiding his scars and his pain with over sized sweaters and wishing he could escape, for he has escaped… His attackers left far behind across oceans of time and space and experiences.. Distant memories..

Perhaps we all keep that 14 year old version of ourselves inside of us and sometimes he returns to haunt us. I guess the only answer is to embrace each and every version of ourselves across the span of our lives, each stage, each year, each metamorphosis because we are never simply a moment, a snap shot in time, we are a collection of memories and states and versions of ourselves and our experiences whether good or bad make us who we are.

So I am going to pour a glass of wine and salute that 14 year old version of this 38 year old man who writes for you tonight, for without him, without his strength, his courage, his fight for survival in those dark days and without his persistence and unfailing belief in something better in a place where he wouldn’t have to be afraid all the time and in a world were he could finally be himself and express himself however he wished, I would not be here today.. Thank you and Happy Birthday A. x

Touch… (continued..)


Standing naked in the sunlit, dusty studio at the top of the large house that stood at the top of the tree lined Kensington Street, I cast my eyes over the figures, their gentle faces staring back at me, each one so perfect, so real in it’s portrayal of the human form. On the wide antique desk in the corner of the room lay large tattered anatomy books filled with beautifully detailed drawings of the various bones and muscles in the human body and intricate descriptions of their role and function, an incredibly complex machine stripped down to it’s bare parts for analysis by the artist, in this case, a sculptor…

Five and a half months like this, stood in a twisted contraposto pose, gripping the short wooden rod that was suspended by rope from the rafters of the ceiling. We had thought carefully about this pose, the artist and I, for many weeks beforehand. As a model you have to make sure you can actually hold the pose for days and weeks and months on end. This figure was to be sculpted in clay, life size, and then cast in bronze. He would last. He would remain. Many years after my bones have turned to dust, he will remain. A legacy. An homage to a prisoner.. a soldier… I try to fill this pose with all the emotion I can. Every morning doing pushups and sit ups to try to get my body as tight and knarled as I can.

Each day I watched as she stroked the clay, forming an ever tightened surface, every more detail appearing through the dark grey mud.. The figure slowly coming to life like Victor Frankenstein’s monster, but this time without the stitches but feathers that would eventually fall down around him, cascading as they pierced his skin. The ropes growing ever tighter as he struggling against his bonds… Frozen in time…..

I think of her work so often as I am performing a massage.. I think of he time and care and attention to detail as each muscle is gently and carefully crafted and sculpted. I try to follow the contours of the body, moving my hands slowly but with confidence as I mould my palms to his shape.

Men’s legs are such powerful and sensual structures, their shape so subtle and yet each curve such a beautiful thing to explore. Sometimes I close my eyes and I love myself in the shapes, the form. I feel that energy emanating from the root chakra as my fingers approach his hole.. And then, slowly gently, with plenty of lube I carefully being to open that ring of muscle, easing my way inside to find that pulsating mound of his prostate.. With the other hand I gently stroke around his balls and the root of his cock wanting him to experience the powerful sensations from both inside and out…

As a top, I often grow hard, my aching shaft sometimes brushing against his finger tips. Sometimes resting in his hand. I am by no means huge but I think the straightness and thickness of my member makes it seem much bigger. Perhaps it is that I shave my balls and clipper the hair that grows about the veiny shaft. They seem happy in any case to have such a sturdy hand rail to hold onto. I like a client to know that I enjoy massage, I take my own pleasure in this dance of my hands over his skin. It is a performance in many ways, it is the creation of something beautiful. An experience, unique each and every time. I do as I feel each time, sometimes with eyes shut, sometimes with eyes open breathing deep in concentration.. It changes every time.

I work my way down to his feet, the point at which his body connects with the earth and for me the most vulnerable and beautiful spot on a man’s body, his soles.. At first I press and hold my thumb against the soft skin, allowing him to get used to the pressure. And then slowly stoking down adding more and more pressure. Always accompanied by satisfied groans of pleasure from the top of the table.. I feel so much from a man’s feet. His pleasure, his fear sometimes his regret, his sadness… So many emotions pulsing through his body. It is such a privilege to touch someone in such an intimate way.

As he rolls over I hold the back of his neck for support and gently lay his head back onto the pillow. Tracing my finger tips over his erect nipples, I pause and circle the hard tips of pleasure, and then allow my hands to trace lines down his belly to his balls. Not yet touching his cock, already aching and dripping pre cum from his head, I gently stoke his balls and tickle his perineum that beautiful spot just between his balls and his ass.

I am not fond of quick rough hand jobs, the “Rub n’ Tug job” I call them. A man’s Lingam (penis) is to be admired, adored, touched in the most respectful way. Always with empathy and tenderness. I hold the sides of his shaft between my thumb and fingers and begin to vibrate my hand, I was a cellist for many years remember.. This gently shaking awakes his shaft, prepares it for the massage.

A watery mixture of J lube and a little oil is perfect for cock massage I find. I pour a generous amount into my hand, then placing the bottle between his thighs, I hold my hands above his cock allowing some of the silky fluid to pour over his shaft and balls, before rubbing my hands together ensuring they are wet and slippery. And then it begins….

What happens next…. Well, you’ll have to come and try for yourself…. x

Touch….. Part 1…


My hands rest gently on his back, the right between his shoulder blades and the left on his sacrum (that beautiful place on a man at the base of his spine just above the soft globes of his ass cheeks, that little crevice where, during a massage, his sweat mingles with the oil to form a tiny glistening pool..), and I ask him, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, to breathe…

Those moments of stillness before the massage begins are so important, so beautiful. They allow us both to relax, to connect, to disconnect from whatever is racing around in our thoughts. We leave the world outside. His journey, my frantic preparation, the searching for my address on google maps and the frustration of little Spanish streets whose name are written in both Spanish and Valenciano, the lighting of candles and incense.. We try to leave behind the nervousness of two people who have just met for the first time, the face we have never seen before, the unfamiliar surroundings, the curiosity of what is to follow… And we just breathe, together. Just breathe..

The first touch with oil is the most important for me, it sets the scene and the tone of the session. I try to be confident but not too confident. Concious not to take my hands off his skin for too long, not to lose to contact when he may be feeling vulnerable face down on the table, as I pour the oil into my hands, then slowly rubbing them together before those first long strokes down his back. I close my eyes and follow the contours in my mind, try to remember them. At first softly, like a whisper across his skin, always imagining myself on the table being touched by a man, imagining how I would like to be touched, and then a little more pressure.. I blow softly on his skin, tracing his spine all the way up to his neck, I love to give different sensations… Then slow as I gently knead his shoulders, stroking over and over, always connecting.

Spreading his feet a little wider on the pillow and gently moving his knees slightly further apart opens up a gap between his thighs. The Perineum is my favourite place on the body.. It is the magic button and if touched properly can cause ripples of pleasure that run up and down the spine. At first I simply blow, at first cold breath from slightly further away and then hot, my mouth almost touching his ass. And then, my fingers, slow, gentle like a snow flake, stroking that place. One movement following another, gradually sliding deeper and deeper towards his hole. To brush a man’s hole so softly is to kiss his ass with your finger tips, so sensual and passionate. Like a whisper..

From the age of about 10 I played the cello. I think of this often during a massage. The pressure, the movements, the feeling, each stroke so similar to music.. I suppose there must be elements of Reiki involved, that universal energy moving through us. It feels amazing.. I feel so centred at that table. So calm. So myself. For me a guy’s feet are the most important place. When I touch his feet, lay my hands upon his soles, I can feel him, like I can feel how he is feeling, I feel the stress, the pleasure, the pain, the anxiety whatever it is, I can feel it. It is such a powerful emotional place to be in. It is beautiful.

Sometimes I think about how my sister recently told me that I should get a “proper job”.

My family think only of money and keeping up appearances. I doubt any of them would know a tantric massage if it hit them in the face! I think about something my brother told me when I was 12 years old, one day in the garage connected to our house, whilst I was trying to help him as he replaced the engine of his car. My brother, the tall, muscular and very heterosexual mechanic who always smelt of sweat and grease and Golden Virginia tobacco, and who I looked up to and admired so much and still do.. He said to me “If you love what you do for a job, you’ll never do a day’s work in your life..”.

How those words stuck with me across the years and countries and changes.. And so here I am. I love massage. I love it’s purity, it sensuality, it’s power, it’s simplicity, I love the connection, I love it’s ignorance of race, religion, sexuality, secrets…

It simply is… Touch…..   

(to be continued….)



My ‘Boyfriend’ came to stay a few weeks ago from London. I write ‘Boyfriend’ in inverted commas as we have reached that point in our relationship, Thursday 8th September marking the one year anniversary of the eve of our meeting, where we are looking at labels, questions about monogamy, freedom of expression… but that my dear readers is another blog for another time. Most importantly he is the most important person in my life, a shining light, a breath of fresh air, beautiful and I am so grateful for him. I love you so much P. Thankyou for being you… Fuck labels… Anyway onwards….

So each time he comes to stay in my little flat in the picturesque town of Altea, he of course sees what I have come to call the behind the scenes action prior to my performing a massage. Any of you who have experienced a good tantric massage will not have seen this.. The cleaning of one’s flat, the lighting of candles and incense, wondering if I have enough clean towels, checking the oil (do I need to make a frantic dash to the Farmacia to buy another litre or do I have enough?), setting up the table, making sure the music on my trusty mac is at just the right volume, dealing with my hair (which I am growing out at the moment and which rarely looks decent especially in 38 degrees plus humidity), a quick gargle with mouthwash, a quick spray of aftershave, making sure the cat is outside and doesn’t disturb me… And then, finally, make sure the phone is on silent (I learned this from my days as a life model, once leaving my phone on during a very intense sculpture class only for me to receive a call half way through! They were not impressed! And never again did I leave my phone not on silent!)…

Anyway, you get the picture! It doesn’t just all happen as if by magic! Now picture the scene… Everything is prepared. Candles lit, music ready.. I sit an wait for the doorbell….

And I wait, and I wait and I wait….. 5 mins pass, 10 mins, 15 mins!!!!!! Half an hour later I blow out the 20 candles I’ve just lit, if it’s Winter time I switch off the expensive heat in the massage room not wanting to waste electricity. Rather than being a calm and serene tantric masseur I am pissed off. I am fuming.. Worst of all the text message I have sent, or Grindr message, or Hornet, or Scruff, or Wapo or whatever bloody app I have been using to talk to this person on, has not been replied to, or even worse they are clearly online and still 20km away!!!!!!! Groan…. All that work, all that preparation, all that time wasted…. No reply.. No apology.. Nada…

And the worse thing about it is that I had another request for a massage at roughly the same time that I turned down as I thought I had a definite booking…. So I have not only lost out on money but I have disappointed another person. That’s the thing you see about being a freelance Tantric Masseur is that there is only one of you. You only have two hands. You can only see one person at a time and in between sessions real life must ensue… You need to eat a sandwich, feed the cat, have a shower, go to the bank or the supermarket or the post office, or call Mum and Dad…. Real life….

I’ve wanted to write this blog for a while.. I have been very lucky in the five years that I have worked as a masseur in that most of my clients have been wonderful, respectful, amazing, genuine guys and I am so grateful for them. However the occasions where I have been left if the lurch sitting there twiddling my thumbs and gradually growing more and more frustrated have been pretty soul destroying… If I say I’ll be somewhere, I’m there. I’m a Virgo so we are pretty fussy about time keeping and punctuality. And more than anything else it is about respecting your fellow man. If I can’t make it I’ll tell you well in advance.. I will do my very best not to keep you waiting or let you down. You know why? Because you deserve it. Because I don’t want to waste your time. Time is precious and I want you all to have joyous fulfilling lives. I’m not gonna waste your time.

So I guess this is a request… Don’t waste people’s time folks.. Whether you have arranged a massage, arranged an escort, arranged a dentist appointment or dinner with a friend of family member. Either show up on time, or let them know if you are gonna be late or can’t make it, and give them the gift of time, let them arrange something else.. Don’t leave them sitting for an hour staring at their phone or the clock and wondering where you are. Just tell them. We have the technology now that allows and enables us to communicate so easily and so freely. It only takes seconds and very little effort to send a message to say “I’m gonna be late” or “I can’t make it tonight” or “I’ve changed my mind”… It’s easy.. So please respect others. Send a little love.. And look after yourselves and others. Sending much love and light from Spain… Aaron xxx

13 Months

Yet more heat rises to add to the already sweltering heat and humidity of my September Spanish night, the air so still it is almost frozen in a moment of time, from the pale yellow glow of the Citronella candle (my warrior against the mosquitos) that glows quietly in the hammered aluminium bowl that sits of my very heavily tiled coffee table in my little two bedroom Spanish piso. I’m tempted to put on the fan, a ten euro bargain I found last winter at the local rastro (flea market), but I’m trying to keep the electric bill down. You’d think I’d be used to the heat by now, having arrived here 13 months ago, and yet this time of night… 23:35 by the clock on my laptop, feels the hottest. It’s a strange heat at night, a kind of dampness that seems to cling to one’s skin and permeate every pore, every inch of you. It is relentless, only to be escaped from temporarily by a night time walk along the promenade.

I love evening walks here. Back in London as a cyclist I used to love watching men as they cycled past, their legs powerful, beautiful… How I longed to run my tongue up the inside of their calves, their thighs to that place, to that scent of sweat and cock… Man smells… My nostrils pressed deep against that place between their balls and their ass. Lost in them. Here I watch the men as they wander up and down the promenade to escape the heat, their faces usually with bored expressions, their wives or girlfriends walking just a step ahead pushing smiling children in expensive prams, they have what they want.. Offspring, a grandchild to show off at the next family gathering.. But he… He is still so full of lust and energy, his legs brown and lean and long, his feet.. perfection in his trendy sandals, a far cry from the sad dark sock covered feet of the sandal wearing English man on holiday in Margate or Southend-on-Sea.

So Yes… I have a leg and foot fetish.. But only particular feet you see. The soft, smoothness of Spanish skin is just so beautiful, so sensual… But I’m getting away from the point of my story tonight.. 13 Months in Spain… What is it really like??

Well… it’s a fucking blast at first. To go from a damp, over-priced studio over a car wash in London Bridge where the only source of comfort is the moderately priced bottle of Tempranillo and the marked down Cottage Pie from the Sainsbury’s local and the occasional hand job from Grindr to distract one’s attention from the fact that one is never going to be able to afford one’s own flat but instead has to deal with the dodgy Cypriot landlord who hasn’t renovated or painted the flat since 1975 and insists on telling you his entire family history each and every time you meet.. all for the modest price of just £870 per month (cockroaches,mould and temperamental electrics included in the cost!) to a paradise of swimming pools, sunshine, palm trees, big Spanish cocks and very willing assholes, bars with glory holes, cheap booze, cheap fags, cheap rent (in comparison – 350 euros a month for a two bed flat) and a much more relaxed and less draconian way of life.

However, the downside of arriving in Spain to start a new life in July is that one must then go through the first winter in Spain. And oh boy is that different! I never realised I’d need a scarf! Yep it gets cold! And without heating a Spanish flat can get pretty chilly.

The promenade clears of people and you find yourself along, having your coffee in the morning in your jumper and shorts waiting for the sun’s rays to warm up the street.

It’s pretty lonely at times, and despite the Facebook posts wishing you well and the word of encouragement from people, it’s hard. I felt like an alien for the longest time. And I started learning Spanish years ago so when I arrived here I could at least have basic conversations. But yes it is tough going at times.

But then the Spring arrived and the people started to come again. At first the older Norwegians doing their tours past my building as the pebbled street leads up to the church square that sits high above Altea and looks down upon the vast expanse of blue that is the Med. And then the fiestas, the endless church bells ringing and the fireworks and the playing of horns and singing and chanting (only some of which I understand). I must say at first I found the fiestas a pain in the ass as I just couldn’t sleep through the noise but now I love the passion and intensity of the celebration. These guys sure know how to party. However I haven’t really slept properly in about 4 months I must say!

And the Summer.. The heat. The sex… I’ve never sweated so much in my life.. I’m mostly top these days and I do love fucking but my god 38 degrees almost killed me! Especially as I take ages to cum, great for the bottom but not so great for me, we are talking rivers of sweat and near cardiac arrest! I was bottom for years before and at times I am jealous of you guys! Being a top in this heat is hard work, fun, but hard work! It reminds me of the one session of hot Bikram yoga I did once while living in Hampstead.. I’m looking forward to fucking in 20 degrees!!

So where are we…? I must admit this is one of those slightly drunken blogs.. Sometimes it’s interesting just to write after a few glasses of wine and see what comes out. So what is the moral of this story.. Well… Yes living in Spain is fun, it’s is incredibly challenging. I had 3 days of plumbers a few weeks ago (and not in a good way) none of whom spoke any english and I am proud to say I have now learnt that ‘grifo’ means ‘tap’ but my toilet still leaks!!!

Perhaps in a way this is my admission that I am a real person. Amongst all the perfectly photoshopped torsos on that glowing Grindr grid some of us are just regular human beings. I don’t spend every second of every hour at the gym, in fact due to 4 years working as a life model in London and a now quite dodgy knee I rarely go to the gym favouring instead a quick swim in the sea most evenings. I drink alcohol, I make mistakes, I forget people’s names (one of my worst habits), I forget to buy cat food and have to dash to the supermarket to buy some for my rather pissed off and impatient Bengal Oscar. He always forgives me though and I hope you will too.. You see I think we should embrace our imperfections and indeed the imperfections of life in general. So if you’re planning on moving to Spain and changing your life just remember that plumbing breaks here too! But your ‘Grifo’ can always be fixed and back to perfect working order… 😉

How to have Better, Cleaner Sex…


So I would describe myself as mostly active these days. In the past I was passive for many years and I think that the experience of being in both roles has given me a unique perspective on gay sex. Gay penetrative sex is completely different from Straight sex in that we really have to educate ourselves and learn how to have better sex through the experiences we have. Over the years and especially in my days working as an escort I picked up many tips and learned through mistakes.

As a bottom I was very conscious about being clean during sex. The knowledge that I was clean meant that I could relax more, enjoy sex more and I knew that my partner would enjoy sex more. I saw it as being a responsible bottom. Learning how to douche properly and quickly meant that I could prepare within just a few minutes and focus more on my partner.

I guess I transitioned to being mostly top after the breakup of my last longterm relationship about 4 years ago. As a top I try my best to be sensitive, caring and sensual, everything that I expected from my active partners in the past. And I assume that my passive partners would prepare properly for sex in order to avoid any messy and uncomfortable situations. However I have found that this is not the case. On occasions I have been fingering a guy during foreplay, I feel something, and I diplomatically suggest that he have a quick ‘shower’, he showers but doesn’t douche and 10 mins later it is a mess! Maybe I should be more straight forward and say ‘You need to douche’ but I just assume that guys would know to do this. But I guess if a guy has not had a lot of experience of getting fucked then perhaps he just doesn’t realise that he has to clean himself properly beforehand.

So I thought about writing a step by step guide to douching quickly and properly, I even considered making a video to demonstrate how I go about this. But thankfully a few guys on YouTube already have! So I wanted to share them with you. The first video is in German but there are subtitles available which you can turn on in the video settings at the bottom, the second uses an attachment connected to the shower but you can just as easily unscrew the shower head and use the pipe, just remember you want to water pressure to be low and Luke warm or cold and you don’t need to insert the hose into your ass, just hold it against the hole and the pressure of the water push it inside, hold the water for a moment then sit on the toilet and let it flow out. One tip I discovered is that once you have douched a few times, put some lube on your fingers and ass and insert your finger to have a feel around and check that everything is clean, it only takes a second and will make you feel more relaxed knowing that everything is clean and good to go.

Your active partner will be grateful, the sex you have will be better and there won’t be any unexpected messy surprises! I hope this blog has been useful and you all have better, cleaner more passionate and sensual sex. Aaron x