The elephant in the room

I'm starting to believe in curses, and here's why.

I recently went on a trip to India. It was an adventure, an eye-opener and all-in-all a rather great experience. My old pal Z joined me, fresh from a month in Kenya, and as I flew back to London, it was with a pang of envy; she was moving on to Thailand. But I digress.

I brought back some gifts for my friends and family, and among them were three small wooden elephants, all from a tiny shop in one of Jaipur's many bazaars. I'd haggled shamelessly with the shopkeeper and got them for a steal - looking back, I suspect he may have wrought some kind of supernatural revenge.

The first carving, I gave to the man I was seeing at the time. While I was away, he'd moved into his new place a few neighbourhoods over from my own, so I gave him the elephant as a housewarming present. The second elephant I gave to Al and Kay, a lovely couple that I've known for years. And I gave the third to my good friend Cleo, who had just moved in with her boyfriend.

The mojo took a few days to work. I spent some time with my man, happy to be home and even happier that he was now living so close. Then, one rather chilly Tuesday, an innocent conversation turned serious. We had a difference of opinion. The conversation went on, and ultimately we decided we weren't right for each other. I brushed it off as best I could, and chalked it down to experience.

The next week, I got a call from Al. Kay had left him, after two and a half years, with no explanation other than he didn't love him anymore. Al was devastated, and my heart went out to him. A part of me couldn't help feeling the slightest bit culpable - after all, all had been well in our love lives until I brought those little wooden elephants back from India...

That was a few months ago. Now I hear that Cleo and her boyfriend are fighting. I'm usually a very rational person, but under the circumstances, I've advised her to burn the gift I gave them.

Harlot's Web

I made a joke earlier today about how online dating is like looking for a job. I then followed this up with a comment about online dating being for losers... until I realised that I fall into that category.

For some reason, I've never seen myself as the looking for love type. The online dating websites that I see all over the telly - Match.com, eHarmony - seem completely separate from the kind of sites that I've been frequenting since I was a teenager - namely, Gaydar and Fitlads.

These are pick-up sites for gay men, who let's face it, have a very different approach to "dating". If a woman were to sign up for a site like this, she may well be shocked to be asked questions about the size of her vagina and how open she is to the idea of anal. Gay men exchange photos of their genitals before they do phone numbers. Internet dating may have been conceived as a fairy tale for the modern age, but when it comes to my experience of this particular corner of the web, there has always been a distinct lack of romance.

I was fifteen when I first met up with somebody from the Internet. It was eight years ago, but the media was already abuzz with talk of online predators. It added an element of risk to what I was doing, a cheeky thrill, that made me even more determined to see what the big deal was.

The whole experience was rather awkward, for a number of reasons. I had, of course, lied and said I was older, and my age, nerves and false bravado had failed to prepared me for the very adult expectations that come with that kind of meeting. I went home later that night feeling ashamed and slightly exhilarated. It was a very rude awakening to the kind of life that a lot of men lead, and after allowing myself a few more years to grow up a little, it was a world I re-entered with a much healthier and more mature attitude.

The Internet is invaluable to a lot of gay men. If you live in a small town, what is the likelihood of bumping into Mr Right in the supermarket? Or, you could live in a vibrant city, and detest the gay scene. Have you ever, like me, felt a pang of jealousy at the ease with which your straight friends can meet people spontaneously, fall in love, break up and start all over again, simply because it's all there right in front of them?

Sure, there's a lot of sleaze out there. I choose to find the humour in it rather than let it enrage my inner Puritan. Just as the Internet's primary use seems to be for porn, so gay dating sites are for sex. It's just one of those things. I've enjoyed it at times, and hated it at others. But I don't think it's going to change any time soon.

The world of mainstream online dating isn't just for perverts anymore. My own mother met her current fiance on the Internet. She likes to think of herself as something of a pioneer, as she met her previous husband through a dating agency in the very early Nineties, back when it was a bit racy. Nowadays, dating agencies are a thriving industry and looking for love (or sex) online no longer carries a stigma.

Which is something of a shame, as I always enjoy doing something more when I feel like I shouldn't.

J. x

Have You Heard?

Amber Heard, the foxy nymphet from stoner flick Pineapple Express and this year's creepy comedy The Joneses, has come out as gay. I called it! No girl that hot or that clever could ever be straight. She reportedly told the media: "I personally think that if you deny something or if you hide something you're inadvertently admitting it's wrong. I don't feel like I'm wrong." Well said, Amber. I can't imagine the number of hipsters crying into their pillows tonight...

In which I learn the meaning of NSFW

Twitter has become my latest obsession. I joined a whole three days ago, around the same time as I started this blog, and it is a source of constant fascination, amusement, and morbid curiosity. What kind of magic is this, I find myself thinking, that one gets to practically spy on willing figures such as Stephen Fry, Russell Brand, Joss Whedon, and of course Snooki from Jersey Shore?

I soon learned that Twitter is also a devil's playground when it comes to the original and truest purpose of the internet - porn. People, you can follow adult film stars. Voyeuristic thrills abound.

And it's something of a pick-up ground. Within minutes of joining Twitter, I was "followed" by several exotic sounding women, none of whom had a single tweet to their name. Prostitutes, I would imagine. And there also seems to be a thriving, incestuous community of gay men. Needless to say, I was in my element.

This afternoon, I decided to avoid my work for a little while and indulge in a little harmless surfing. I was browsing one particularly attractive gentleman's Twitter feed, and followed a link he had posted to one of his TwitPics, unaware of what the #NSFW warning might refer to. Seconds later, a window opened with a close up of this lad's newly waxed anus. It was a very nice anus, I must admit, but I think I pulled a muscle in my hand trying to click the X button before anybody in the office could turn around and see what had made me audibly gasp. I then hastily Googled the term NSFW, only to find that it stands for "Not Safe For Work".

Better late than never.

Go hard or go home

So we had our work Christmas party the other night. And I was put in charge of organising it. Now, when it comes to parties I'm your guy, if you want to wake up in Scotland married to your dog. I wasn't entirely sure what my boss wanted when he gave me a budget and just said "go for it". So I went for something vaguely sophisticated; a three course meal at a posh local hotel, followed by a disco.

It began well. The entire workforce turned up, dressed snazzily as requested, and we were seated for a delicious meal. Where we fell down, however, was when my boss told the waiter that I was the organiser and therefore the wine list was to be handed to me.

I'm not a big wine drinker. It messes with my head. With beer and spirits, I know where I am. But it was a special occasion, so I ordered three bottles each of the house white and house red. These were promptly decimated, so I ordered another six bottles. Then another six. And so on. I realised at some point that about half of the people there weren't drinking, as they had to drive home. I looked around, and all of the wine bottles seemed to be on the table, in front of me and my other twentysomething colleagues. And it occurred to me that I was very, very drunk.

I've never gone into work on a Monday morning with such a mix of fear and excitement. Will the boss remember our dance off? Will he remember that I won? And does everybody else remember how the night ended?

Myself and about four others were holding up the bar, with another hour to go before our taxi showed up. One of the new guys, a self-professed lad, was catcalling suggestively at a cougar in a blue dress. "Blue dress! Blue dress!" He hollered. I decided this was fun, and joined in.

"Blue dress! You filthy slag!" Time stood still. Then Blue Dress's husband was towering over me, and I knew we had to get out of there.

Which is how we ended up waiting an hour for our taxi outside, in the snow, swigging from a bottle of red wine that a colleague had smuggled out in his coat. We took turns doing roly-poly's in the road, waving and making other gestures at passing cars, and generally acting like a bunch of louts. The cab eventually picked us up, and the others started giving the driver directions to their homes.

"No fucking way," I bellowed. "We're going to a club."

Work was interesting today. The boss did remember our dancing, although he seems to think he's got more game than me. I've allowed him to continue believing this. The others have laughed off our hour-long sojourn in the snow, in the small hours of the morning. It's been deemed, all in all, our best office party yet. Although I'm not sure I'll be given control of proceedings next year.

And we certainly won't be welcome at the hotel.

J. x

Suck My Blog

Well, there goes my blog virginity. I'm running out of V-plates and fast!

So what's happening on the big wide blogosphere? Be honest people, how many of you are sat hunched over your screen, typing one handed while pleasuring yourself to photos of Robert Pattinson or a pre-jail Lindsay Lohan? I won't judge.

I suppose I should introduce myself. My name's Johnny Hudson, alternately JayJay, J-Dogg, Rubber Johnny. I'm twenty-three and work in marketing. I'm a big believer in living life to the fullest, whether that entails doing a tandem skydive with your best mate, shagging your way through your entire hometown or partying so hard that Ke$ha is forced to write a song about you.

One thing you might want to know, is that I'm a boy who likes boys. A lot. A fair number of my stories revolve around my sex life, which is colourful to say the least. I've started this blog in the hopes that some of my mistakes can become a learning experience for others, but if you're the kind of person that takes offense to man love, then feel free to wander off. Or stay, your choice. You never know, you might see something you like.

So I'll be posting soon. See you there? There will be vodka.

Oh, and Ke$ha - call me.

J. x