Buck$ Night Photo Album

Fucking brilliant night!!! And even better friends.




In fact, making the call early, most fun party of 2011!




Buck$ Night was an Australian Marriage Equality fundraiser so they can continue their amazing work fighting for gay marriage recognition. Congratulations and thank you to Alex Greenwich and AME, not only for a fabulous night but also for working so hard on behalf of the gay and lesbian community.




Now they say a picture says a 1000 words. I think you'll agree that these pictures show exactly how much fun Buck$ Night was. Enjoy!

My boys... Paulie, Shaun, EnGy, Dimples, TheFlack, Dazzle, Miles, Brad, Ross, Jonny, Adam, Rhys and our new favourites Alex and Victor - LOVE YOU GUYS! Thanks for a fantastic night for a brilliant and worthwhile cause. 




xoxoxo

St. Murphy




P.S and thanks so much EnGy for letting me use some of your photos. x

Not good with new people. But Grindr...???

As a general rule I like people. When I am
around people I know I have a good time. I’m relaxed.

I’m not good with new people. New people
scare me. The running joke at work is that it can be years before I remember
your name. It’s the whole polite thing that makes me nervous. I’m not very good
at being polite. In fact for a Communications Professional it is an outright
miracle I’ve ever been able to hold on to a job at all. Let alone be any good
at it.

Around my friends or in the office I am
possibly the rudest, crudest man in the world. Familiarity for me breeds
offensiveness. My ‘go-to-one-liner’ will always be crass. It’s how I role and
30+ years of conditioning.

But online, with the giant buffer of the
computer screen, I am nowhere near as uncomfortable with new people as I am in
person. Taking even the briefest moment to compose a (semi) polite response
makes a huge difference for me. I’m even sure some people who don’t know me in
person could actually think I am quite lovely from what they know of me online.

Which leads me to my problem.

I’m newly single as of earlier this year
and slowly but surely I’m putting myself back out there again. I’m jumping on
the dating Merry-Go-Round. And having been ‘coupled’ for such a long time it’s
a whole new world compared to the last time I was single. Now, everything
happens online. And I mean EVERYTHING! Especially for the gayers. Just Grindr
alone has completely and dramatically changed dating in the gay community.

An example of a Grindr homepage

For those unaware of Grindr… It’s a
GPS-based messaging system for the hummersexuals. It’s an iPhone app (the
reason why all gayers have iPhones!) that when you turn it on it tells you how
far away other gayers are – within metres. It is truly the greatest invention
the world has ever seen. And as it is culturally acceptable within the gay
community, everyone is incredibly direct about what they are looking for –
chat, dates, relationship, a root, any and all of the above. It’s the envy of
all straight men.

You check out their pics, you check out what
they are looking for, you check out if you know anyone or have been there
before. You then instant message with who ever and as many as you want while
you find what you are looking for. Basically it means that you can pick up
without leaving the comfort of your own lounge. My theory is that it has made
gay men the laziest species in the world. It’s easier for the gayers to find
‘company’ than rabbits.

A Grindr profile

But back to my original story.

So I’m putting myself back out there.
Chatting to boys all over the place. Online I am somewhat polite,
semi-intelligent, mildly amusing. But as you know, in person I am bordering on
being a complete asshole. So I’ve been chatting away for a while now but at
some point you have to put your money where your mouth is (or where you want it
to be) and actually meet the boys your chatting with.

A Grindr chat

Which, finally, leads me to my dilemma. Who I
am in person can be very different to who I am online – especially when
flirting with boys. When I actually go on these dates, and with the existing
familiarity we’ve developed online, is my opening line going to be “What the
fuck have you done with your hair?”. Or “Ohhhh, I see you’ve stacked on some
weight!”  

I just don’t know if I can trust myself to
be polite with new people. On a date. The thought of being polite throughout a
whole meal sends shivers of fear up my spine.

This is all too much for a 39 year old to
learn.

I am starting to think that my Grindr profile
should come with a warning…

“May seem like someone you’d like to meet
now but chances are he’ll be VILE by dessert.”

This ended up much longer than originally anticipated
so ‘the actual dates’ will become Part 2 of this post at a later date.

Also, its really important to me that you know I have taken all these pics from the Grindr website and haven't breached the privacy of anyone on Grindr. 

Cause that would just be fucking rude!

Buck$ Night

Just cause we can’t get married doesn’t mean we can’t have a Bucks Night! Why should the straights have all the fun?

If there’s one thing the gayers know how to do well its have a good time. Only natural then that there would come a time when we’d want to put our own spin on this homo-erotic, straight-boy tradition.

The very, very smart people at Australian Marriage Equality (AME) are holding a fundraiser this Friday, Buck$ Night and Hen$ Night. GENIUS!!! AME need all the support – and cash – they can get as they are leading the charge to bring about marriage equality in Oz. They are good people doing phenomenal work. And I think this event is just the most brilliant idea to raise money and awareness.

So all our little Twitter cool-gang are going. I’m moist with excitement. And any other boys who’d like to join us you’d be more than welcome. I’m expecting that Buck$ Night could be my absolute favourite night of the year! Even topping the night I split my head open at the Imperial after JoThornely’s 40th.

Slide Bar & Cabaret

I do love a party. And I especially love a party with a purpose. You are making a difference while drinking cocktails rather than just getting drunk.

Wouldn’t it be ironic if I met my future husband, who I can’t marry, at a Bucks Night to raise money so that we can marry.

Obviously it won’t be a debauched, tacky night like our straight-brothers organize. I imagine it will be very glamorous and stylish and the strippers will have doodles. And dance music! And strobe lighting. And of course there will be drag queens dressed all mother-of-the-bride.

I could live out my dream of being a Flower Girl, it would hardly be inappropriate at such an event. I’d love to turn up in a little pink frilly dress with Baby’s Breath in my hair. With cute little white patent pumps. But I’ve never done drag in my life and I’m not about to start now. Even though I was mistaken for a Lady Boy twice in Thailand.

So boys (and girls) if you are not doing anything this Friday night you’d be mad if you missed it! And if you don’t come I think you should be donating to Australian Marriage Equality anyway.

Buck$ Night

Friday, September 23

9pm to 4am

Slide Bar & Cabaret

Click here to buy your tickets

Severe Identity Crisis!

Just a quick look  back over some of my blog posts lately and it’s a mix so turbulent it could make you sea sick– electrical appliances, poolside gossip, family stuff, a Bear party, boozey nights, food, gay marriage and Lady Boys. Now that’s an identity crisis.

I’m so confused as to what I’m doing here. I need your help!

There are Mummy Bloggers, Food Bloggers, Tech and Gadget Bloggers, TV Bloggers, Fashion Bloggers, Business Bloggers… all make me feel like the outcast kid sitting alone at the lunch table. I don’t fit in.

I’ve always thought that when I grow up I want to be a Mummy Blogger. They are so cool and have got their shit together. A real community. They have stories about the most random stuff but it all seems to make sense for their page. They are hilarious, insightful, brutally honest and direct. Me, while I do love a penis its clear I don’t have fallopian tubes. Therefore, me no can be a Mummy Blogger as I’m presuming one of the defining characteristics is being a Mummy.

While I certainly care for my Little Sammy like you would a child, he has four legs not two. Doesn’t quite cut it. Perhaps I could be a Dog Daddy Blogger?

Any excuse to include a pic of Little Sammy

Another key factor in my identity crisis is that most of my blogging buddies are Mummy Bloggers. Its bad enough I’m a minority in the real world without being one online as well. I go to Mummy Blogger functions and conferences and stuff, usually as a Mummy Bloggers Plus 1. My three best-blogging-bitches - Mrs Woog, StylingYou and Edenland - lead me through this world and I am their fabulous-gay-best-friend. Perhaps I should become a Hag Fag Blogger?

The stuff I write about most is gay stuff. Truth is, being as camp as Xmas leaves me very little room to move on this one. I lead a particularly homosexual lifestyle. Even my home is called Man Pit. In fact all the best homo stuff I can’t write about here cause it would put hairs on the chest of my Mummy Blogger mates. I’m sure the wider blogging community doesn’t want to hear about Grindr, gay porn, ManHunt, seedy bars, bad one nights stands, etc. Could possibly also paint me as somewhat immoral (coughs, chokes) which would hardly be true.

I wanna be a Gay Super Hero

But it is undeniable there is a very big gay theme running through this blog like a feather boa on the Mardi Gras dance floor. Its what I know best. It’s why I call myself a professional homosexual – I love the ambiguity of that tag! Professional could mean either ‘has a career’, ‘very good at’ or ‘slutty’. I’ll leave it up to you to define for yourself. So probably the most apt description is a Professional Homo Blogger.

I’m also deeply passionate about gay marriage equality. I write about it a lot and that is only going to increase over the coming months in the lead-up to the Labor Party National Conference and CAAH Rally on Dec 3. I’ll be flying the Rainbow flag high and proud between now and then. AND I’ll be expecting lots of support from the blogging community. So this subject leaves me thinking I should be a Gay Activist Blogger, at least for the next 3 months.

Strangely, when I first started this blog 6 months ago, I thought I’d be writing about television (my great love) and pop culture (my great weakness) a lot more than I have. These subjects have lost relevance just like Britney Spears. It seems they just don’t hold my attention like I thought they would. I got too much other shit to talk about. So sadly Television Addict and Pop Culture Victim should not be on my calling card anymore.

So where does that leave me?

Gay as hell, that’s where it leaves me.

So I think from now on I am going to define myself as a Professional Homo Blogger. I’m gonna rally the troops of other Gayers and start our own little community. We may not be as numerous as my dear friends the Mummy Bloggers but goddamn I bet we could match them in vodka consumption and shopping skills.

So my questions for you my lovely readers… 

Have I solved my identity crisis? 

And do you know any other Professional Homo Bloggers?

My First Wife

I got married once.

It was in a bar.

My first wife was Mrs Woog.

It was a sultry Bathurst eve at The Eddie Hotel in 1995 when Mrs Woog and I , fuelled by a 1000 vodka’s, decided to marry. I do believe it was Sawhole who performed the ceremony and I do believe we had shots to celebrate.

The harsh reality of my homosexuality meant it ended by last drinks as I went off to find boys to pash and Mrs Woog passed out in a cab (I’m guessing).

Now 16 years later after our love for each other was re-ignited over Twitter my first wife is more a part of my life than ever. I am her hag fag, she is my fag hag. Now Mrs Woog is Sydney and blogging royalty and I am completely riding on her coattails. I am her Plus 1 cause I am never invited anywhere and Mr Woog can obviously trust me with his wife.

That is until our third Stoli cocktail. The third means there is a steady downhill slide to number 10 and the next thing you know you’ve got a kebab in your hand and staggering home with a broken belt (self-inflicted unrinating injury).

I was Mrs Woog’s Plus 1 at a Stoli Vodka party. You can imagine my joy. Mrs Woog understands that if I had to choose between her and vodka I’d choose voddie everytime. I was the perfect date.

Plus’s: free vodka, lamb chop finger food, schmoozing the boss of Stoli, laughing at each other cause we think we are real funny.

Minus’s: Oldest in the room, choked on signature cocktail, bartender wouldn’t sleep with me.

Eventually we realised we were the drunkest in the room so carted our tired old asses out the door, in a cab and up the road for a bar opening, The Standard, cause obviously we needed another drink on a school night. It was a who’s who of cool people. I should have worn my sunnies. We had a little gang there so heaps of fun.

Mrs Woog eventually bailed on me cause she thought I’d fallen in love. Truth is, I did very briefly, but once again St. Murphy strikes out. The muso-type had no interest in this tired old queen. Stoli made me think I looked hot so I broke another one of Mrs Woog’s rules and tried for a third venue, the smells-like-vomit Stonewall.

And this time I did fall in love. Well, as much as you can while you are swaying side to side with one hand on a table to hold my bodyweight upright. This boy kept my interest long enough for it to even cross my mind that we should go on a date. Now that breaks one of my key rules – no dating. But I’m toying with the idea. After all it has been well over 6 months since ‘the break-up’.

But its gonna be real tough for a boy to be a better date than Mrs Woog. I just don’t think its possible.

Yes, yes, I know all you regular readers of Woogsworld will have heard this tale yesterday, but my recovery has been so slow that to come up with anything new or creative was just too difficult. Sorry. It's Mrs Woogs fault.

Poolside gossip, my favourite.

Lady M and I. Some may call us judgemental. Others may even call us bitches.

We much prefer the terms ‘people-watchers’ and ‘social commentators’. That gives us an air of dignity we feel appropriate.

The very glamorous Lady M.

We are at the end of our 2 week flap around Koh Samui and Koh Tao and SOOOOOOOO much of our fun times have been around 'commentating' on others. It is ridiculous fun.

We both love people-watching! We come up with their backstories, we give them personalities and professions, we are Carson Cressly when it comes to their wardrobe. All in whispered tones and behind upheld hands.

For example, we spent half an hour in this town’s biggest nightclub the other night and for all of that time we tried to work out who was a prostitute and who wasn’t. We had two definites and many contenders. Prince William was there with two mates who all wore pants and loafers – the Green Mango is not the place to play posh. Three girls in front of us, we decided a church group, didn’t have a drink between them. We didn’t trust them at all and almost asked for them to be thrown out. We were aching for the Russian construction workers to undo another button for our amusement. And the poor guy who got dumped by three ladies because he couldn’t even buy their attention. So much fun.

Our biggest cause for 'discussion' this past week has been the frightful German lesbians at our resort. They seem to be following us everywhere. They are in their late 60’s. They burnt us Day 1 when they stole our umbrella and table and Lady M saw red. As Lady M says "you can’t trust anyone who doesn’t use the pool and beach in front of them but instead only the showers to cool down".

My personal favourite group has been the four unbelievably beautiful boys who arrived on Day 3. Tall, blonde, tanned, buff. Despite us sneaking around behind shrubbery to perv on them we still can’t work out their indiscriminate accent. As long as they have their shirts off I don’t care what language they speak. But there was a late entry in the 'Hot Boys of the Pool' comp who I think took out the title...

Our biggest cause for mirth has been age-inappropriate dressing – which seems to go hand-in-hand with resort holidays. Lady M has some hard and fast rules. Lets not forget she is an incredibly stylish Melbourne fashionista. Women over 45 should not wear bikini’s. Sparkly wedges on anyone over 30 is a big mistake. Brief European Speedo’s on older men is disturbing. Larger women should always wear a one piece. And these are just the rules for around the pool. On the street it’s a whole different ball game.

This town comes alive at night and it seems everyone lives out their fantasies. And of course, we ‘commented’ on it all. We’d be sitting facing each other in a restaurant and then the now familiar smirk of Lady M would sweep across her face. I knew immediately there was something for me to see. A casual turn of the head and 9 out of 10 times I could spot it immediately; a grandmother in a mini-skirt, Eastern European ladies-of-the-night, Aussie footballers in Singha singlets, English lasses in 6 inch stiletto’s on cobbled streets. Koh Samui has it all for judgemental bitches like Lady M and I.

We will miss Charlotte and her family the most though. They have intrigued us greatly poolside. Charlotte is a 3 year old; some days she was a delight, others a complete brat. But she’s a Daddy’s girl through and through and he works hard to keep his bitch-wife in the life she thinks she should be accustomed. They brought on holidays Dad’s heavily pregnant sister who needed a break for we thought she was about to become a single-mother. Than low-and-behold on Day 4 Aunty’s ‘partner’ turned up!  A brute of a man in a tight trunk who spends too much time in the gym. Well this threw us for 6. Aunty’s baby has a Daddy after all. Charlotte’s gone now and we miss her.

This is how we pass our time, coming up with stories like this.

I love a resort holiday! Especially with my dear friend Lady M.





Home time now. xoxoxo

They think I'm a Lady-Boy!

Twice in the last two days I’ve been mistaken for a Lady-Boy!

What the fuck???

I know I can be camp but I hardly think I’ve slipped into full drag with an hourglass figure. I’m hairy, rotund and can’t walk in heels.

But twice! That’s a pattern.

The first time was at this beach bar Lady M and I stumbled upon. One of those places with day beds, cocktails in a bucket and a swarm of locals selling you plastic shit. Of course I bought myself a set of pink flashing Minnie ears.

So Lady M and are lounging with our Sea-Breezes when this annoying 10 year old little pretty girl comes up to us again. And again, I said ‘No thanks’ to whatever she was selling.

“You a Lady-Boy!” she says to me.

I turn to Lady M, “Wha…?”

Lady M whispers… “She called you a Lady-Boy”

The little girl points at my Minnie ears and then says…

“…Yeh, and you’ve got boobs!”

Then she grabbed my man-boob. Twice.

HONK! HONK!

I nearly died, I was completely mortified. Lady M was hysterical. She nearly passed out from laughing so hard. In fact, she’s still laughing about it today.

The second time was a little more subtle. I went to a rather up-market spa, well up-market for Koh Samui, for a much needed facial. I needed to reverse the signs of aging caused by the sun. Gay much???

I chose a lovely after-sun care package. The treatment was spectacular. I loved every second. Layer after layer of moisture. I didn’t even mind her squeezing my blackheads on my sunburnt nose. But then towards the end it started to get a bit weird and there was some giggling from the girls behind me.

It felt like she was painting my face. Then I thought “Surely not, is she putting foundation on me?” but I was too embarrassed to say anything.

Next came a powdering. Then some colour to the lips.

I was laying in the chair thinking I’m gonna look like Bozo the Clown and was dreading looking in the mirror. Truth be known when I finally got to look in a mirror I kinda loved my new flawless complexion, shading and lip colour.

On exiting I checked the brochure and it said ladies get a light make-up with the treatment. Did they think I was a lady? Surely not. So they must think me Lady-Boyish.

Now I know I’m currently sporting a brilliant Smurf-blue nail polish and never go anywhere with out my headband but surely this doesn’t completely over-ride my extreme masculinity. I wasn't even wearig my new gorgeous Moo-Moo.

Perhaps there is a little Lady-Boy in me after-all.

Amateur drag here I come.

There's a Bear in there!

Oh dear. I am a princess after all. I thought being nearly 40, carrying a few extra kg and not shaving as often meant that perhaps I was manning-up in my older age.

No. It does not. I am as big a princess as ever.

My friend The Sculptor has found a community he loves hanging out with, the Bears. They are a community-within-a-community of the Gayers. In a nutshell, and with sweeping generalisation, the Bears have lots of facial and body hair, tend to be large, wear lots of leather and flannel. And drink beer. And they love to party together.

Bears are hairy. Fact.

I’m sure there is much more to it but as I’ve only just dipped my toe in at this time I am far from an expert.

The Sculptor roped me into going to one of the Bears annual dance parties this weekend, I was dead keen at the time. Never really found my clique on the gay scene even after being a professional gayer for so many years. Hardly a Muscle Mary or a Gym-boy, indie/alt inner-West scene is completely foreign, Drag Queens scare me and I am two decades past Twink. I was excited / scared about this party. There ended up being a clash of dates with my little resort holiday with Lady M so had to pull the plug on The Sculptor. SI instead I took baby-steps into the forest full of Bears.

They're recruiting! But do they really want me?

Instead of the big dance party I went to a warm-up Bear gathering on Friday night with The Sculptor. He was up from Melbourne and staying with me at Man pit. He practically dressed me. 90% of my wardrobe was not Bear-attire. What, a low-cut disco top, skinny jeans and a dress boot don’t cut? No.

After about 4 costume changes I’d never looked or felt so butch! I had to take all my jewellery off and use as little hair product as possible, can you imagine? I felt primitive. Then the cruncher – no frangrance. “What, no Chanel??? Are you fucking kidding me?” I would have no friends The Sculptor assured me. I was willing to risk it, I snuck a quick spritz as we walked out the door.

Talk about fish-out-of-water! I had no idea so much facial hair existed. Did I miss a memo? And tight t’shirts filled with either huge muscles or beer guts. Why was everyone so tall? Once you get over the incredibly intimidating look of these gents it was a delightfully friendly crowd. For an aging-wannabe-twink like me this was a whole new world. After 15years on Oxford St I’m still spreading my wings.

The Sculptor is sooooo in his element. I went to a bar with a  similar crowd in Melbourne and one of his friends said to me “he’s this years IT Girl!”. So true, The Sculptor is on Fire. He knew loads of gents. I even had some friends there, but sadly they weren’t wearing leather. Granted, I got very little attention. They could see through my fake wardrobe and probably smell my Chanel, they could tell I wasn’t one of them.

Me and The Sculptor

So at a very respectable hour for me I packed my self off home with only a slight wobble to my step. Smiling. Very glad that I went but even more glad I’m not going to the big dance party. I think that would have been too much for my virginal ways. Dance parties for me are mini-skirts and tassled arm braids, not leather harnesses and chain mail.

Well not yet anyway. But if you see me with a beard and ripped flannel shirt than you know all bets are off. 

One of The Sculptor's sculptures and yes that is a giant penis.

If you want to know more about the work of The Sculptor, head here!