A single man

For the Single Man, it’s a jungle out there. But in between the big weekends, terrible hook-ups and shit advice from friends is a lot of pleasure seeking, a load of cringing, some sort of self-discovery.

There’s always a fear of catching pink-eye when someone’s sat on your face – even if the bloke on top has spent a solid few minutes beforehand in the loo with a wet-wipe.

More terrifying? Doing a booze-free month in your twenties. When so much of your life relies on getting pissed, four whole weekends of being a social pariah isn’t too thrilling. Besides missing the obvious things – like necking a pint of vino with colleagues after work, or going on a lacklustre midweek date but still snogging the fella after three pints – there’s also the fear of not getting royally fucked up the arse for a whole month. If you’re single at least.

You see, for the single gay, ​“meeting points” revolve around dancefloors and drinking. Then there’s Grindr. The tap-a-shag app cuts out the middleman altogether, with the potential of a one-night stand delivered to your door at the speed of a Deliveroo. But a sober Grindr hook-up? Doesn’t carry the same thrill as a 3am booty call, staggering off the bus and straight into deepthroat. Or does it?

On the first weekend of Dry Jan, I was perched up against a bar, sipping a Diet Coke, telling anyone who’d listen that I was on a newfound path of discovery. While my gay mate blethered beside me, and another mate was absolutely sure I’d cave any minute, I took the liberty of opening Grindr – vision and common sense intact.

The mating call of the Grindr dun-a-lun, and an anonymous, pictureless profile. For all the thrill, there’s always a touch of trepidation when dealing with an anonymous profile. He could just be discreet (“straight” but doesn’t want his work lot finding out). He could also be a murderer. But then ​“J” sent a picture: tanned, curly blonde hair poking under a bucket hat, blue eyes. Looked a bit Aussie, actually.

“Fuck me, you have to shag him,” said Gay Mate.

“He’s quite fit, isn’t he?” said I.

“Yeah, I shagged him last year,” Gay Mate replied. ​“I think he’s got a boyfriend – his flat’s way too nice for a single guy.”

That’s the nice thing about gay mates. Most of the time, they just want you to get shagged. It’s no biggie if they’ve already fucked the guy in question, unless he was really rubbish and had a smelly cock.

Now: I’d only done a sober Grindr hook-up once. That was with a married writer I already knew who lived down the road. I went over, sucked him off, had a nosy around his (very chic) house. He came all over my nice T‑shirt and I left with a copy of his book. Every other Grindr in my back catalogue is a bit of a blurry memory.

But, new year, new me. So after agreeing to go over to ​“J”’s house, a 10-minute walk from the pub, I chainsmoked three fags and listened to Love Hangover en route. When I arrived at his, a top-floor flat in a Victorian terrace, I stuck a Wrigley’s in my mouth and pressed the buzzer. Door swings open. ​“Alright?”, ​“J” said, wearing a half-zipped grey hoodie, around an inch taller than my 6ft, and acting ever so coy – which should have passed for an aloof cool but came across like constipation. And it turned out the Aussie was actually a Geordie.

His place was plush, and huge. Stacks of photography books, a grand painting which I told him was nice (turns out his granddad painted it – lucky I didn’t say it was shite, eh?) and Aesop hand wash in the loo. All dead giveaways of a boyfriend, unless ​“J” is minted. On a TV on a wall overlooking his bed, The Real Housewives of Atlanta was kicking off.

After around 15 minutes of sucking him off, playing with his balls, licking his bum and letting him spit in my mouth several times, he ended up mounting my face on the bedroom floor, knees on either side of my head. Look, rimjobs can be fun. But when you have a 12 stone-ish man planted on your head, there’s the issue of breathing, a predicament made all the more uncomfortable when NeNe Leakes is bollocking someone in the background.

We chatted a bit in between shags. His mum still lives in Newcastle, his dad in affluent Hampstead (the latter perhaps a more plausible explanation for his sizeable flat, rather than a suspect boyfriend tied up in the attic). After fucking, he laid back on the bed, came all over himself and talked about the job he hates: designing floorplans for a supermarket.

It was then that I realised a sober Grindr hook-up isn’t bad at all. In fact, it’s way more enjoyable. You can keep it hard, focus on the task at hand and be attentive at all times. But what really set it apart from previous, bleary-eyed shags was the chat afterwards. We spoke about everything: from Greggs up North to a recent bike accident he’d had, where he shattered his collarbone cycling along a river in East London. I’ve never been in a relationship before, but I can imagine that’s what the loved-up do; staring into each other’s eyes for some intense connection. It’s stomach-turning, really. But it felt nice, too.

Two days later, sitting at my desk, my left eye was itchy, with the slightest tinge of pink. Now there’s a sty there that won’t budge. Turns out, feeling fucked is possible during Dry Jan. It just comes in different forms.