She Who Must be Obeyed

It was a breezy but sunny afternoon. We decided to take advantage of the benign climate and sink a sherry or two in Yalıkavak. We sat at a sheltered table outside a restaurant and ordered a couple of Efes’ (the ubiquitous Turkish brew). Sitting at an adjacent table was a small clutch of emigreys; one woman and two men. The woman was a skeletal, severe looking creature with angular face, beady eyes, austere short cut home-highlighted hair and a shrill voice. As she held court, her emasculated companions attended her silently, nodding in submissive deference as required. She complained stridently of all things Turkish. iam innocently lit a cigarette, provoking her immediate high octave wrath.

“I can’t believe” she screeched ‘how people can smoke while I am eating. How disgusting. It should not be allowed!’

We had hoped that we’d left sanctimonious anti-smoking fascists behind when we migrated. Alas not. We tolerated her invective for a few moments but when Liam could bear it no longer, he coolly but firmly asserted

‘Excuse me. Would you mind not bitching behind my back. If you have anything to say, please say it to my face.’

Clearly, a woman unused to such a direct challenge from anyone, she stuttered out her request lamely.

‘Fine,’ he replied.

Once she had finished her meal, he lit up again and chain smoked. The contest of wills that followed descended into an undeclared war of attrition to see who would leave first. We ordered a second drink, then a third. Finally, she conceded defeat and departed with one of her companions following meekly behind. As the clicking of her witches heels faded into the distance, her liberated second companion sank into his chair and lit a long-awaited cigarette.

Something for the Weekend, Sir?

Hairdressing, like undertaking, is a steady trade which never goes out of fashion. Having sampled a few establishments in the village, we have settled on a high street barbershop run by a delightful father and son combo. Our number two cut requires only a few minutes with a hair trimmer. However, this cannot be said of the average young Turk. Generally blessed with abundant tresses, even the humblest waiter vainly adorns his head with elaborate, gravity defying sculptures held aloft by a vat of gel. Armpits though, are not always so well groomed.

Barbers

Our genteel Yalıkavak barber is a far cry from Liam’s first skirmish with a Turkish coiffeur. The fun began on the final full day of our gloriously romantic honeymoon in splendid Kaş. I persuaded Liam to join me in the exotic pleasure of a Turkish shave, an indulgence I have enjoyed many times on previous visits to Asia Minor. The barbershop boys saw us coming, and we were mobbed by eager young bucks queuing up to service us. The routine began innocently enough – an efficient double shave with a cut throat razor followed by ear and nose fuzz skilfully dispatched with a flaming cotton bud soaked in petrol. I thought it unusual to find that we were stripped of our tops for the neck and shoulder rub. My young man asked if I would prefer a full body massage in the little room at the back of the shop. I naïvely accepted thinking nothing untoward could occur in a busy barbershop on a main thoroughfare.

He led me into the room and lay me face down on the padded table. His expert hands kneaded and pounded my torso into rapturous submission, and my mind wandered into semi-trance. The spell was rudely broken by a tug of my shorts, which were expertly and unceremoniously whipped off in a single movement. I had gone commando that day which rather startled my young masseur but which only added to his vigour. His pummelling went into overdrive. I opened my eyes fleetingly to find him standing to my side inches from my face, shirtless, scarlet-faced and sweating like a dray horse and obviously aroused. For the remainder of the rubdown, I kept my eyes firmly shut and my arms religiously tucked to my side for fear of displaying the slightest encouragement. It was my honeymoon, after all.

Meanwhile, Liam was relishing an upper body rub. However, he became alarmed when the crimper’s fingers started to walk south towards the small of Liam’s back, playfully plucking the waistband of his shorts and continuing their passage into the abyss. Liam grabbed the boy’s wrist firmly giving a whole new meaning to the word hayır.

It is not hard to imagine what raced through Liam’s mind as he endured the grunting, murmuring and bed squeaking that emanated from the back room. Shortly afterwards, my tellak and I emerged into the light, me shaking uncontrollably, he drenched in sweat. We concluded our business with a quasi-post-coital cigarette.

Nick It!

Casual shopping in Turkey can be a bruising experience and should only be tried by the determined or the thick skinned. The cheaper outlets employ aggressive teenagers in tight, bright, white shirts to drag gullible punters in from the street. A firm refusal can often elicit a bellicose response. The posher shops seem to employ mostly female staff whose sales technique is softer but no less annoying. Speculative browsing is unbearable when tailed by the KGB and made to feel like a serial shoplifter.

I know customer service is all part of the culture but pushy people bring out the worst in me. Besides, recession ravaged Blighty has seen prices plummet with bargains galore and meaningful guarantees attached. We’ll be returning to London  with an empty suitcase.

Pimp and Circumstance

Splash it all over

I received an exploratory email from an old work colleague in London whom I affectionately call Vera. Clearly contemplating the changing circumstances of his looming dotage and having stumbled across my sexpat post, he asked me about the going rate for securing the regular services of a young Turk. ‘Why do you want to know?’ I quizzed. He replied bluntly, ‘Fat, 55, single and desperate.’ What am I now, a pimp?

The Barmaid Who Won the Lotto

Chrissy and Bernard invited us for dinner. They live in Torba, just outside Bodrum. They consider it a more upmarket kind of place. It isn’t. Their house is generously and expensively appointed but dressed in English country cottage naff with heavy drapes that wouldn’t look out of place in a jaded Thistle hotel. Fussy and provincial, Chrissy’s tastes are closer than she realises to her Turkish char, like a barmaid who has won the Lotto. As a couple, they are rather obsessed with social protocols and the emigrey pecking order, and they reckon themselves to be top of the heap. We have started to appreciate that they are all (little) style over (no) substance.

Baby, It’s Cold Inside

It’s colder inside than out. This doesn’t bode well for the winter to come. The perfect storm rolled across the horizon and crashed ashore caging the house with fork lightening and cutting the power. Liam screamed like a girl. Brimming flat roofs discharged the deluge like mini Niagaras and the virtually vertical access road became a white water ride swollen by instant tributaries from across Mount Tepe. We feared a landslide. The storm abated as quickly as it had risen. Power restored, Liam returned to making his spicy sharon fruit chutney.

Clement’s Little Secret

Once again, we took tea with Clement. This has become a civilised feature of Tepe Houses life. Clement took the opportunity to caution us that, even though rough men (and the rougher the better) have been his preferred choice of playmate since the end of sugar rationing, he doesn’t like to be labelled as ‘gay’. We took this to mean that he frets that our neighbourly friendship and uninhibited demeanour will cast an unwelcome light on him. We agreed to keep his sexual identity secret, since we think it isn’t much of a secret to keep.

Are You Mad?

I’ve just checked my blog counter to find that I’ve had over 12,000 page hits. I’m astounded anyone out there in cyberland is remotely interested in the frivolous ramblings of a diminutive, washed up ex-pretty boy with a distinctly perverse view of the world. As Julian Clary would say ‘I thank you.’

Fancy a Fag?

Turkey is an unlikely place to introduce a smoking ban. Nicotine consumption is an obligatory male pastime, along with rakı drinking and parlour games. Since most Turks appear to have a distinctly cavalier attitude towards petty authority, I assumed the new rules, as with parking regulations, would be roundly flouted. To my surprise, it has caught on; rigorous enforcement by the jandarma and instant fines for miscreants have both provided added incentives. It hardly matters. Life is very al fresco and popping out for a fag is a breeze compared to huddling outside a London pub in the drizzle heckled by tut-tutting passing strangers.

Delia, Daisies and Dick

Following our sojourn to Sodom, curvaceous Charlotte and dapper Alan invited us to their gaff for a late light bite. They have a luxuriant but unpretentious home overlooking Yalıkavak. Domestic goddess Charlotte served up a splendid spread of full fat tastiness. My arteries hardened with every morsel. There we met the congenial Greg and Sam, a couple of muscle marys from Turgutreis who retreated from east London three years ago, forsaking unfulfilling careers and studded thongs for peace and tranquillity. Impressively, they have been together for over twenty years contradicting the widely held belief that gay men are genetically incapable of sustaining a relationship beyond the first date. They used to be anatomically huge but have since somewhat deflated by exchanging pumping iron for jam making. However, they still have the biggest pecs on the peninsula. We share the same vocabulary of Delia, daisies and dick. They are to be our new best gay friends.