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.
Cappuccinos and Rent Boys
Our hotel is equidistant between the city centre proper and a trendy, Sohoesque district called Alsancak. No one would describe Izmir as beautiful. Much of it was burned to the ground in 1922 during the Greco-Turkish War, and the city was unsympathically rebuilt with block upon block of mediocre concrete box architecture that surely wouldn’t withstand even the slightest tremor. However, the place does have a certain appeal and Alsancak, in particular, has a real buzz, all trendy shops and pavement cafés.We decided on a trip to the Roman agora, the largest market place ever excavated from the period. We strolled through the modern pazar and delighted in confounding the catcalling hawkers by responding in German, French, Spanish, and a little Turkish, anything but English. We found the agora remains on the wrong side of the tracks and gazed through the railings. Having been spoilt by the glory of Ephesus, I’m afraid an enormous hole on the ground with a few old stones randomly scattered about looking like London after the Blitz really didn’t impress. We didn’t bother going in.
Alsancak is where the few gay bars are to be found. We had done our internet research and went in pursuit of the twilight world of Turkish deviants. It was hopeless. We found only one dismal little bar down some dark alley. It was a tawdry, dirty dive, virtually empty and pounded by deafening techno. The drinks were absurdly expensive and even the ‘free’ bar snacks came at a price with a specially prepared bill. The bar staff were so bored they poured alcohol on the bar and set it alight for a laugh. Taking a leak was a surreal experience as the entrance to the toilet was guarded by a head-scarfed granny in pantaloons demanding a lira to spend a penny. The few punters were rough rent boys in cheap shell suits looking for punters of their own. As they began to circle us like a pack of hyenas, we knew it was time to leave. We sprinted to the entrance fully expecting it to be locked. Thankfully, it wasn’t. That was Izmir.
I’m a Semigrey, Get Me Out of Here!
As semigrey hedonistas we fancied a bit of wanton decadence and set our sights on Izmir. After all, it is Turkey’s third largest metropolis with a laid back, laissez faire reputation. The drive to Izmir was a pleasurable jolly, and we rekindled our love affair with mcmuffins in Soke along the way. The modest amount of recent rain has had a remarkable effect on the landscape, transforming the tinderbox hue of pale green and ochre to a lush iridescence.
Driving through Izmir, on the other hand, was the most traumatic driving experience of our lives. The city is dissected by crumbling dual carriageways and getting off the bloody things is nigh on impossible. We spent hours driving from one side of the city to the other, then back again, trying to find the right exit, any exit. Eventually, after an unscheduled two hour excursion we found the seafront boulevard where our hotel was located.
We tried to park outside a café in the only available space as far as the eye could see. The owner was having none of it and began gesticulating aggressively to move us on. We’ve heard that it is not unusual for business owners to trash any unsolicited car parked outside their premises so we thought we best not risk it. Off we drove on yet another distressing circuit of the city centre. Then, miracle upon miracles, we were delivered a space right outside the hotel entrance. The moral of this story? Get the bus.
The Semigreys
The final clutch of exiles I’ve observed are the semigreys, people too young to retire in the conventional sense, who are living the vida loca on the proceeds of property sales. Plunging interest rates present quite a fiscal test to those trying to maintain a hedonistic lifestyle on dwindling assets while waiting for the pensions to kick in, assuming there will be a pension to kick in given the parlous position of the British public purse. That’ll be us then.
VOMITs
The mirror image of the predatory Turkish male is a sub-species of the emigrey called the VOMIT, or Victims of Men in Turkey: vintage desperate ex-housewives with a few lira to spare who shamelessly chase younger Turkish men. They jump ashore like eager Shirley Valentines straight into the arms the willing waiters who hang around the docks. Predictably, such relationships rarely last once the money runs out. Listen up ladies. Have a little fun and shag the boys by all means, but never fall in love. While he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, he’ll dip his fingers into your purse and when the takings are spent, he’ll be off like a rat up a drainpipe.Fancy a Jump?
Many Turkish men think western women are ‘easy’ and compared to Turkish women I suppose that they are. Meaningful female sexual liberation is a distant dream and girls must remain virgins (or at least pretend) until they marry. Of course, this applies to boys as well but this inconvenient fact is conveniently ignored by most. It’s a man’s world after all. So, rapacious men besiege unsuspecting solo female foreigners of any age or size in the hope of a jump. The unsuccessful may turn to each other for hand relief.
To be fair, we’ve met one or two young men whose sole driving ambition is to wed, rather than just bed, western girls. Perhaps this is the only way to break the unceasing cycle of seasonal servitude. And, from what I’ve seen of some demanding, sulky, petulant Turkish women, I’m not surprised they’re driven into the arms of willing westerners.
Perking the Pansies 