Steven Smith. Picture credit: Graham Marin Photography https://www.grahammartinphotography.co.uk
Steven Smith celebrates turning 63 and Pride Month.
By being pictured by celebrity photographer Graham martin. Embarrassing having pride in himself and his body.
Graham Martin shoots me for Pride at any age
It is Pride month and lets all get out and enjoy ourselves. Age is just a number I could not agree more with the divine and fellow Gemini Joan Collins’ statement last month, “It is rude to ask a lady her age”. Or a man, come to think about it. Even though the divine Ms Collins never missed a moment to mention age.
Trust me, it is certainly a no, no at any social occasion. My dread at any dinner party is when age raises its ugly head and someone says, “Guess how old I am?” I just want the floor to open and disappear when that one is asked. Or when some ill-advised fellow diner thinks it is appropriate to ask a guest their age.
As for me, I am incredibly proud to have reached my age, joining the likes of Tom Cruise and Boy George. It is a joy to be alive and fully active, with just a little more knowledge in life, though I am still prone to a youthful mistake or two! Some people’s issues around age ruin it for others. At a luncheon party I was not looking forward to the subject cropping up.
Here he comes, the age phobic. It had not started off well as everyone was late including us, my friend had changed shoes at least three times and had an army of beauty things to do before setting off. We were first there. I must add my friend is also proud of their age and looks stunning. However, they did look a little perturbed to be first there and not making a grand entrance for the other guests to marvel at how great they looked.
It meant that instead of sitting with my long-term friend who is in his twenties (but I swear is in his seventies and just made a pack with the Devil to inhabit a young man’s body, being wise, intelligent and witty well beyond his years), I was sitting next to someone new.
I love meeting different people, though it did hit me almost immediately that his Instagram pictures were airbrushed to make him look much younger than in person.
But then who does not tweak their image sometimes, though there are those that go overboard and can turn themselves into an embryo. It did not take long for age to become a topic. He kept referring to my friend as “the young one”. He asked if I went out much in London.
I replied that I went out to events during the week but at weekend I was comfortable at home, although I did go to clubs occasionally at the weekend and charity dinners. It started, “Well at our age you don’t want to go clubbing, do you?” He honestly did not stop.
Moving on I shared that on holiday or before going out it was great to have a small siesta. “Oh, you mean a na, na nap,” he jested. “I bet it used to be a disco nap. But at our age…” “Darling,” I explained, “I do not do the age thing or put labels on people.” My “young” friend whispered later, “He is projecting how he feels about his own age on to you”.
It was interesting to find out the other so-called young ones felt the same way about him and meant to pre-warn me as it was my first encounter. It must be terrible to be threatened by someone who is comfortable in their own skin. I think he was one of those men who got on better with woman as he seemed to charm them.
Age is just a number, or so some believe. Sure, I am not often “clubbing”, but this is not because I am 63 and feel out of place. I always envisioned myself with a blue rinse, fan dancing with the best of them at a rave in my 80s! It is more because
I do not have the time, and that London has become so diverse there is so much else to do. Plus, my priorities with my free time have changed; bars are no longer high on my list. There is the added point that I am fortunate enough to get invited to a fair few glitzy events too. I just wish people would enjoy and love the moment they are in and stop pushing age groups into boxes. Be who you want to be. Yes, age is just a number, but there is no need to keep bringing it up.
Graham Martin is a premier gay and celebrity photographer, who, as well as shooting the likes of Denise Welch and Dame Judy Dench Additionally, makes some of his bread and butter shooting gay men’s profile pictures for online dating sites.
Yours truly with Graham
So what percentage of the men are my age or older? “It is 50:50 recently. I had a man that was 76 come for a shoot not long ago. He had been off the scene for seven years as he had become addicted to chem-sex parties.” Graham told me that the man is doing really well and is now happily dating once more.
Graham, who turns 60 this year, has been in a loving relationship for the last 32 years. He puts his success down to marrying his best friend and he does have a point. Perhaps the fact that I was with my best friend for 18 years makes it difficult to fill the void. Should I be looking for someone sexual first, developing a friendship second?
Graham told me that the dating scene has changed so much that he gets inundated with men wanting pictures for their profiles, as well as portrait shots. Men, whatever age, want to look their best. “Keep it real!” Graham informed me when giving tips for my shoot.
Do not ask for it to be Photoshopped so that you are an embryo. If you are a chunky, beer-bellied daddy, then do not take yourself down to a thin man. When you hook up it will just be one big disappointment. Equally, make sure that you prepare yourself in conjunction with your age when you are getting ready for the shoot.
Do not spray tan because the look can often be uneven, but do make sure that you are groomed well. Do not have a drastic haircut unless you plan to keep the look.
Lets all have Pride in who we are.
He says that it is vital that you stand out and . So, my first attempt at dating starts with a shoot undertaken by Graham, who rather nervously laughed and said, “You’re practically a chicken compared to some I shoot,” which put me at ease.
Many men do the Full Monty, but that’s not me. We settled for a taste of sexy, though, to be honest, it is not a natural feel. Forty-five minutes later and the photo shoot is complete. I love the results and my friends all rave about the final images.
Stephen Merchant as Stephen Port in the BBC drama 'Four Lives'
Stephen Merchant stars as Stephen Port in the BBC drama Four Lives
This article was first published two years ago following the conviction of rapist Reynhard Sinaga.
Reynhard Sinaga was convicted of 159 sex offenders. Picture credit: PinkNews
Now, with the release of Four Lives starring Stephen Merchant and Sheridan Smith, which looks at the bungled police investigation into the dreadful crimes of Stephen Port, it couldn’t be more relevant.
Ten years ago, on a warm summer’s afternoon I am in a well-known clothes rental store getting a kilt for a Scottish friend’s wedding (I have since bought one) laughing and chatting with the lady who’s serving me. She is about to measure me up when a male assistant interrupts. “Oh, I can see what size he is, I’ll pop down and get a couple for him to try.” There is nothing unusual here and the lady shuffles off. Minutes later the man returns and ushers me to the changing room. “Try that one on first” – and he leaves me. Barely seconds before I have it on, he is back. This time he has tape measure in hand. “Oh, that’s too loose, let me double check the measurements.” Are you gay? To be honest, I really loathe trying clothes on in shops, so my thought was, at this point, that was what that girl was doing before you interrupted.
Before I know it, he has the tape measure around me and as he releases it his hand goes up the kilt and he grabs the Crown Jewels. “Sorry, it slipped, I’ll get you the right size.” Now I feel like a rabbit in the headlights. “Did that just happen?” If I am left in any doubt, he returns with a third kilt in hand and whispers, “Are you gay?” I lie and say no!!! Taking the kilt I close the curtains on him and just stand there thinking “What the fuck?” Funnily enough, the lady who was originally serving me checks me out while he is nowhere to be seen.
Anyone reading this may well say, “The man doth protest too much.” But unless you have been sexually assaulted, you have no idea how you will react. My first thought was, what did I do to encourage that behaviour? Second, if I complain, it is going to be, “You’re a gay man, you must have encouraged it.” If you were that traumatised you should have run out of the shop.” My gay friends were not any help either. One laughed and said, “Lucky you, dear, you’re no chicken but the boys keep coming.” and the other said, “It can only happen to you, do you have his number?.” This is not the first time this kind of thing has happened to me. I don’t want to sound like a victim but I always blame myself.
Much as I have been out since 15 and a spokesperson for LGBTQ and Walk with Pride, due to various experiences there is still some shame and trauma around my sexuality. But I built a wall around myself so nobody can tell. Terrified this experience is common to so many gay men I have spoken to who have been sexually abused or raped. They say, “We must have done something to deserve this.” Trust me, this is not unusual. There are men, gay and straight, walking around who have been raped and are terrified anyone finds out. My heart goes go out to the bravery of Sam Thompson. What a man. Sam was raped by two men in Manchester. He has led the way in encouraging reporting and talking about sexual abuse and rape.
Sam Thompson. Picture credit: BBC
Although in macho British society men are raised on the “big boys don’t cry” motto, we are getting better. Talking about feelings is hard for men because society’s labelling of what a man should feel. It’s almost impossible to live up to. What really stands out about Sam’s horrific ordeal – he is heterosexual – is there are so many comments claiming that it must have been so much worse for him as he was straight.
Internalised homophobia.
This shows a complete lack of understanding. And exactly one of the reasons there is so much shame around reporting being raped among both gay and straight men. It’s as if it was “not as bad” if you’re gay. Almost as if we would take some pleasure in it. Another human forcing them on you is wrong, no matter what your sexuality is. The fear that you’ll be judged can be as bad as the act itself.
Sexual-awareness experts say that probably only nine percent of men raped or sexually abused will report it due to the fear they won’t be seen as “real men” or, perhaps, because of internal homophobia. In fact, many of the men who commit the act of rape don’t identify as gay. They are not typically to be found on the gay scene, though they may hunt on the periphery for victims.
Who could forget the film “Shawshank Redemption” set in a prison when Andy, the hero, hears that the nicknamed “Sisters” (three men) have taken, “a shine to him”? Andy replies, “I don’t suppose it would help if I told them I am not homosexual?” Red replies, “Neither are they. You’d have to be human first. They don’t qualify.”
Shawshank Redemption. Picture credit: IMDb
Male rape has been seen as a taboo subject in the media. It only raises its head in the prison genre of movies. It caused shock revelations when the movie “Scum” came out in 1979 (it was set in a boys’ reformatory) due in part to the male-rape scene. Seventeen years ago, Channel 4’s Hollyoaks tackled the subject with the Luke Morgan storyline. The victim was brilliantly played by Gary Lucy.
It remains their most popular storyline to date. A recent, horrible turn of events has forced the subject of male rape to hit the headlines, with Britain’s worst rapist, Reynhard Sinaga, 36, found guilty of luring 48 men from outside bars and clubs in Manchester back to his flat where he drugged and assaulted them. In many cases he filmed them. The actual number of victims has been estimated to be in the hundreds, but fear, guilt or just not realising what happened meant that many assaults went unreported.
It is so important that these assaults are reported, and that men talk about sexual assault and rape. I know what the risks are because now I am going to talk about the rape of a 16-year-old boy. Me! And just how easy it is for it to happen.
My home life was a nightmare. I had come out just before my 16th birthday but those details or for another day. Needless to say, I was desperate for some kindness and positive male role models. We had moved from Whitley Bay to what was supposed to be London, but it was Surbiton and I knew no one, let alone having the chance to meet another gay person in suburbia.
Earl’s Court Pic
Earl’s Court station in London. Picture Credit: Tripadvisor
There were no apps or dating sites. The rules of my house, apparently there to protect me, actually put me in more danger as I had to be home by a silly time and could never stay out overnight in case the “homosexuals got me”. But it was fine to leave me and go to Spain for two weeks before I came out. Still, we all make mistakes and I am sure my folks meant well. I’m not judging, just giving you a bit of background.
Being a resourceful sort, it did not take long for me to come up with a plan, and I discovered Earl’s Court and a bar called The Coleherne on Brompton Road. Apart from a pint with some of the people at the theatre school in Newcastle I went to when I was 15, I had never really been to a bar, let alone a gay bar. Honestly, it felt like entering the genie’s cave. It was overwhelming – people like me! – and it was exciting.
It wasn’t long before a lad a few years older than me approached me and asked, “Where are you going next?” He thought it was hysterical when I said I had a curfew.
The Pembroke, Earl’s Court, London. Picture Credit: Tripadvisor
He said, “Well lovely, you have time to get down to Catacombs. They don’t sell booze, but we can have boogie and coffee.” He was called Ian and he was going to be my “sister” (gay slang). Oh god, I fell in love with the Catacombs. The rich music of Grace Jones’ La Vie En Rose came bursting up to greet me as I walked down the stairs into the small, vibrant club. I felt free and safe as I danced and laughed with people that seemed to be like me. Honestly, the music of Donna Summer and the like meant I could not wait to go back the following Saturday. It insulated me from the often-miserable time during the week.
One night, one of the guys running the club who was older starting chatting. He told me that hanging out with Ian, I might get myself a reputation. It was a shame as I was “a nice lad”. He said, “Listen, some of us are going to lunch tomorrow, around one o’clock. Why don’t you come too? Don’t tell your mate though. I’ll fill you in when we chat tomorrow.” I was getting what seemed to be approval and he seemed so nice. I honestly could not wait to get home that night and then back to Earl’s Court.
I arrived a little early to make a good impression and had dressed up. He was a few minutes late and patted me on the back, so smiley. He said, “Do you mind if we nip down the club? I need to do a bit of cashing up, the others are running late.” Mind? Of course not. I was actually excited to go.
Once in, he popped some music on, and he had some alcohol behind the coffee bar – hidden, as it had no licence. “Drink?” he said. Who was going to refuse, and he was so interested in me. He was counting money and he eventually topped me up and next thing I feel like I am spinning and in a dream state, and my body was almost limp with the red lights of the club beaming on me.
In my hazy recollection there were two men on me. Luckily, they took me to Ian’s car (worse could have happened). I was being very sick. Ian knew I was a not a big drinker at the time. Honestly, I could hear him going mad and the men saying that too much drink had been consumed. “That’s not drink,” he screamed. He had to give me saltwater as the sick was black. We got a friend of Ian’s to take me home, but I was in an awful state. I dared not tell anyone what had happened and – to be honest – I was not sure what had happened at the time. But I knew it wasn’t good.
Of course, I stuck to the story that it was drink. However, my parents decided that on top of me being gay, I was now a drug addict and mum started calling helplines. This had given them all the ammunition to confirm that everything about being gay was bad.
Of course, it was all my fault. It was my fault that in my need for validation from a male, so sadly lacking, I had listened to gossip and not told my friend Ian. My heartfelt apologies went out to him and it was a lesson. There were other consequences, and luckily Ian helped me see a doctor so I could keep what had happened covered up from family and work. Yet who did I blame. Myself, of course.
So, as in other traumatising situations from my childhood, I internalised it and coped. I moved on and never spoke about it ever again, Of course I apologised for being such a terrible person. Bless my parents, they really were not to know. Still, one of the best things that happened was that I moved out a few months later to Chiswick and was much safer and happier.
But only a month later, one Monday night was Bangs, the UK’s biggest gay club night and I managed to persuade my parents that as Tuesday was my day off it would be easier to stay with Ian. Dancing was my escape. I loved it and quickly I was approached by a young air steward who asked me to a party in the countryside. It was being hosted that Sunday by someone famous who “would love me”. Well, he was young and nice, and it was different, and it was someone famous.
They would even pick me up. Of course, when I got there, and my host greeted me it was straight off to the tennis court. It was only the four of us and we quickly moved into the disco room and drinks flowed. But in all my excitement and nerves, wanting to please, I got drunk on gin and tonic. There was no food, but it became clear I was the main course for the host.
Only later in life, when my nephew got to 15 -16, I thought never would I do something to a young person and take advantage of them. I honestly don’t think I would be responsible for my actions if anyone touched my nephew. It is funny, the celeb is busy dishing the dirt on so many people. I won’t name him, but according to a celebrity pal of mine her friend says he still has young people shipped in.
Trust me, there is another Prince Andrew story out there. It’s only now I don’t blame myself, but I could not talk about things till now: what happened in the Catacombs club, even my best friend and sister don’t know.
What is so frightening is the rise of chem-sex parties in London, with so many deaths and stories of apparent rape. I have never been to one and I am not judging, but it’s just not what would turn me on.
But I guarantee there will be a line crossed and men will leave blaming themselves for just being there or feel they asked for it for just being gay. GHB, one of the common drugs used at the parties, comes in a clear liquid form and was apparently used by Reynhard Sinaga on his victims (and also by gay serial-killer rapist Stephen Port).
It’s incredibly dangerous and can either kill the user or invoke a sensation of euphoria. It’s a fine line, though. With the rise of this drug and the rise in male rapes too, is it possible we can all talk about it and start to make a difference? No means no and it’s never okay to put anything in anyone’s drink.
It was the night when Coatbridge Town Hall burnt down. It was the 27th of October 1967 and I was six years old. Mum had taken me to what they call now “Kids club”. It was a cold night and before dropping me off she announced, “You’re a big boy now and you can get yourself home. Come straight back and do not talk to strangers.”
A bit of me had always been an adventurer so it was with trepidation and some excitement when the club finished, I stepped out into the cold dark Scottish night air. Everyone seemed to be going in the other direction with their parents.
I can remember even now being proud that I was big enough to come home on my own even at night as I was now six. My mum, like many parents of their generation, took me to school on the first day and that was it. I still remember her complaining that I had not waved goodbye when they took me to class.
As much of my life was to pan out, the journey was not so straight. As I walked the cold night air took on a warmer texture and my eyes started to hurt. It became harder to see as I turned a corner the air became thick with smoke: the town hall opposite the street was on fire.
It was like something from an amazing movie; part of me was filled with excitement and the other with fear. Running fast up the road to find a safe spot, I really wanted to stay and watch as the fire brigade came, and the town hall burnt like a magnificent bonfire.
It was the same building in which my doctor was housed and I had passed my, “Tufty Club “road safety badge. Looking to my left, I thought my mum would have come running, having seen it from the window of the terrace flat in Laird Street, but she had not. Much as every bone in my six-year-old body wanted to stay and watch the building where “The Bee Gees” had appeared just a month before turn to rubble and cinders, taking one last glance, with full force my little body dashed for the safety of home.
One thing you learnt in the 60s was “BOY’S DO NOT CRY”. I had gotten into trouble for crying a few months beforehand. “What will people think?” was another very 60’s double standard.
Climbing the stairs to the flat, I banged the door and could hardly get the news out. “WHAT IS IT?” mum looked cross. “The town hall is on fire!” Mum had a look of disbelief and I followed her as she charged to the bedroom window which had a slight view of the hall from the right. Sure enough there it was, all ablaze.
29 A Laird Street Coatbridge Scotland my birth home.
Boys in the 60’s were supposed to look up to the macho man, the heroes of football, movie stars like John Wayne, and enjoy manly sports although my father teaching me football by heading the ball to me in the bedroom was not a great introduction. Quickly I grew to loathe the beautiful game, as the boys at school seemed to kick the ball at me, rather than to me.
Being a red head made me a prime target for bullies from day one. Even at the Saturday kids’ cinema it dawned on me that something was not right when other boys wanted to be “The Lone Ranger” and I wanted to be under his wing and be Tonto. One of my Christmas gifts was an Indian costume. Wow, though only six I quickly discovered that dressing up was addictive and it took me away from less than happy times.
You learn as a child to make sure everything looks OK and that you are doing well. It was the 60’s -70’s as the new middle class boomed. The fear of being seen as working class whilst not quite fitting in with the upper class gave birth to the likes to copious “Hyacinth Buckets” in every neighbourhood. “You should have had my childhood “and “Do you know how lucky you are?” were common sayings, whilst drilling into you ‘Do not to mention that to anyone”.
As if things were not bad enough at school, the bullying extended in the worst way possible. Two older girls in the year above became obsessed with me and would kick, punch and throw things at me. Two girls bullying me was just not something I could share. I found a new route home that they did not know, and made a dash for it. But they found me a few days later when I was halfway home with no one around. They pulled my glasses off and stamped on them, then chucked them over a hedge and spat at me. Hitting them back I was hysterical and they ran off. For the life of me though I searched but the glasses were gone. My mother had told me about the sacrifices that had been made to get them for me. Needless to say, she was furious I arrived home, lying that I had lost them. She did not stop hitting me till she noticed I had chicken pox.
After convalescing, on arrival back at school, the two girls had reported me for bullying them. It was quite terrifying. I was in the hall with my class and teacher when the girls appeared with their teacher and my name was called. My gut reaction was to run, the teacher caught me just as my little body arrived at the school door gates. Somehow the whole awful event ended by me being hit with a ruler on the back of the legs by a teacher. My dad always said “If you do not hit back, I will hit you” As a young boy this taught me that was it was better to deceive, as when everything looked ok, things were better.
Boys grew up quickly in the 60’s. I was what they called a latchkey kid. My mum was very glamorous and went to work as promotion girl for “Dutch cheese” “No6 cigarettes” and “Bells Whisky”. Whilst Carol our neighbour looked after my baby sister Karen, it was deemed better I let myself into the flat. I can still remember being desperate to learn knitting. My mum kept her knitting in the top drawer of her dresser and I would pick it up. I wanted to ask to learn but it was not the done thing for boys.
The extra income meant my sister and I were always the best dressed and best-mannered kids in the area. Mum working meant they could afford the things for us that they never had as children. I must add here that being self-sufficient at an early age made me a stronger person, although me and one my best friends both laugh when our mums raise objections to their 14 year old grandchildren going to the shops. Times change.
By age nine, I was moving with my family to what was touted as the big time. Livingstone was a new town that promised a utopia of living in the heart of Scotland between Glasgow and Edinburgh. We were now apparently officially “Middle Class”. It was the 70’s and mum wore hot pants, smoked St Moritz, and sipped exotic drinks. Sergio Mendes, Jack Jones and the Beatles would blare from the record player and “The Abigail’s Party “era was upon us. Much as mum and I always got on, my dad and I had a strained relationship.
There are two possible reasons for this. The first one is that when I had chicken pox, I infected him too. The other is that when he came to pick me up from what was painted as “The Nemesis”, my grandmother, I had run off. Either way the man, who I used to run to meet on his way home with such excitement, could now switch in a second and if mum was not around, he could get volatile. He sent me one Saturday morning to buy potato scones (Scottish dish) and it was quite distance. On the way back two had fallen out of the wrapper into the shopping bag. He went mad and I was not allowed breakfast.
It had a profound effect on me, having to walk on eggs shells with the man that I idolised as a kid. Looking back, I think I can remember the first time that I found a man attractive. Dad had taken my sister and me to the swimming baths. As we were getting changed to go home Dad was in a mood and as he was struggling with my sister’s thick hair and made her cry. My whole body was desperate to protect her, but Dad frightened me so I was looking away to avoid his gaze. There was this man laughing and his kids were having fun. He was naked and looked like Elvis he smiled at me and to this day he is in my mind as the first man that I wanted to be with.
It was not till later in life, when dad came to live with me when he had cancer, that it became clear. When he was a musician (he played the trumpet) he got a gig playing in an orchestra. “I used to have to have two glasses of whisky before I went on”, he told me, still smoking away at 74. His nerves got the better of him and he dropped his dream to have the idyllic modern family. My dad worked every day of his life, and we never went without, but I cannot remember a time he did not have a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. Even picking him up from hospital after an extensive lung operation, he was nice in the car to my place, but as soon as I got him settled on the sofa with the kettle on, he shouted out “Worst two weeks of my life! Get me a whisky and a cigarette!” Challenging him that he did not want to do this or he might end up back in the hospital made him explode. “ARE YOU THREATING ME?!” My dad lived with functioning addiction. Personally, I have yet to meet an addict that does not have extreme mood swings and explode on occasions. That, I must point out, is my personal experience.
My time in Livingstone was worthy of a novel and there is only so much room in my column. All I will say is that the voice of Marc Bolan singing “Ride a White Swan”, blaring from the TV, showed me there was a light somewhere that would be the place for me, as it did for many of my generation. A few years ago, when talking at “Shell Oil” in Glasgow, a friend took me to 29a Laird Street in Coatbridge, my first home. It looked so small; even the wall I fell off as a child, when my life flashed before me (I still have the scar today), looked nothing like I remember.
Boys do cry. And they should cry whenever they want, and speak out when they are scared. Everyone has a strength: being sensitive is one and not a weakness. It´s no longer the 60’s or 70’s and boys don´t have to put on a brave face. They shouldn´t have to pretend everything is fine to make life easier. Always ask kids if they are OK because there is no shame and saying please help me I am struggling. You have let know one down being a man or human is having empathy and being able to say who you are with out fear.
2Shades Magazine 