Sleaze ball virgin

I thought being a 21-year-old bartender in a gay stripclub back in America had provided me with everything I could possibly experience in the gay scene. Boy, was I a Sleaze Ball virgin!

Four words summed up my Sleaze Ball: queues, booze, boys, and toys -¦ It was the sleaziest yet most fun dancing, drinking, and dilly-dallying blur of my lifetime fused together by cheap white wine.

That night I wore black Doc Martens, loose blue Union Bay jeans, a black metallic belt, and a black singlet, as you Aussies say. I doused my freshly shaven self in Victoria’s Secret’s Very Sexy For Him cologne, and spiked my hair. I could almost hear the cheesy pornographic music when I saw my reflection -¦ until I got to Fox Studios.

Between the vibrantly flashing lights, the amazing dance performances, the buzz of stimulated voices, the combined scent of Gillette deodorant, sweat, and Hugo cologne, and the taste of the pungent moist air mixed with the sour after-taste of liquor, my body uncontrollably moulded into the heartbeat of the enormous dancefloor.

This was nothing like I, Justin-nocent, the little American boi, had ever experienced before.

Everyone I had ever seen from any given day on Oxford Street was here, now, completely transformed into their pornographic element.

There was leather everywhere: straps, whips, and ropes. There were thousands of bare asses and chests of all types: big, small, fat, skinny, buff, lanky, shrivelled, tight, droopy, lopsided, hard -¦ hard indeed!

Justin! But there was no holding back. I was suddenly dancing on a stage pole that had no purpose except to be sexed. Even though I had had a lot to drink, there was still something much more than just the alcohol now ruling my body. With the flashing and sweating, the pulsing and spinning, I was a part of the 10,000, the 10,000 were a part of me. We were all Lust-ralian Sleazers and I loved every minute!