Gifted

This is just a quick little note to let you all know that my faith in humanity has been restored. Some people are just fucking lovely, you know! There's some good souls out there after all, and here I was thinking that the entire planet was populated with arrogant, self-righteous arseholes like me! Sometimes it's nice to be wrong.

I'm going to jump all over the place here, so don't think it's not because I don't love you as much as the guy before you if you get mentioned here. I think you're a dead-set fuckin' awesome bloke either way - this way just helps protect the folks who use a reader!

Anyway. Jimmy from Sydney came to town the other day. He's a non-blogging kind of fellow, but I cooked him dinner all the same (okay, I ordered cheap chinese from around the corner) and when he rang my doorbell he was carrying these:

Bless him. If there's one thing I loose my shit over it's fresh flowers, plus I can count on one hand the number of times I've been given roses! We both laughed and carried on about how, for a pair of gay men, our flower arranging skills sucked the big one, but we got over that quickly enough and stuffed the greenery into a vase, added water and plonked 'em on the kitchen table to make any passers by jealous!

The next gift comes courtesy of one of Adelaide's star bloggers. I'm thoroughly pissed that I missed the chance to meet the man in person, however he was terribly understanding and gifted me anyway.

Now he and I may or may not have a little something going on that involves swapping photos of underwear (and missing underwear) so in keeping with the theme he got me: 
So Yani, I'm sorry I never got the chance to grope you in person, but I hope you're happy with the results. I know I am! I'll model 'em for you next time you're in town, I swear.

The third and final gift has been on my want list ever since I saw it modeled by its creator. Thankfully, when I put in my request he happily obliged.

Last week, Gay Wallaby dropped by work for what was our first, but very brief meeting. Sadly I didn't get to demonstrate his gift in person, but he has been supplied with photos!

So, what has captivated my attention so? Two words: COCK RING, not the pierced knob kind though, just a wearable jigger . Now the following photo is an active demonstration of the ring in action (you have been warned), and incredibly for something that was manufactured without a single measurement I think GW managed to size me up perfectly. He's obviously been paying attention to some of my previous posts!

So that my friends is how my faith in humanity was restored in three easy steps! Of course there's still plenty of work to be done, so if you think I'm worthy you ought to throw me some free shit. You never know your luck, it might just end up being world famous blog fodder, or at least end up photographed at the end of my dick!

Mo Turning Back

Picture this if you will: One Mutant sitting at home on his stoney lonesome, with the Housemate in Phuket and the Husbear in Brisbane. It’ll be just like those Home Alone movies, except instead of creating all kinds of hilarious mischief by myself I’ll have the assistance of on oversized cavoodle called Kanon.

So, for the next fortnight I’ll be taking the Housemates designer dog down to the local doggy park and fraternizing with the locals and their fur-children. Joy! I can just picture it now, Kanon and I will bond, we’ll share secrets, we’ll give other makeovers and we’ll sit on the couch, watching Family Guy DVD’s and sharing a bag of doggie-chocs. Excitement She Wrote!

I’ve also got an important event on over the coming month: Movember. If you’re not familiar with the concept, Movember sees guys from all walks of life growing a moustache to raise awareness and funds for The Prostate Cancer Foundation and BeyondBlue, The National Depression Initiative.

I’ll keep you all posted on my progress and I’d really love it if you could show your support by making a donation to the cause at http://au.movember.com/donate/your-details/member_id/70359/ .

Of course, growing a mo is not without its challenges. For starters I’m gunning for a big-arse 80’s Aussie cricketer handlebar mo. Of course my growth patterns will dictate the eventual outcome and my missing facial hair follicles will most likely see me looking more like Gomez Adams.

Then there’s the issue of my multiple chins. The facial fuzz I keep at the moment helps make it look like I have a defined jawline, sadly that’s just not the case and this will be the first time in about five years that I have a naked face, oh the humility I’ll suffer!

Then there’s the Husbear related issue. In the two years I’ve known him, the Husbear has never seen me clean shaven. Not even once! With him away for the start of Movember he’s absolutely seething that he’s not going to be around to watch it come off. For him it’s a kind of perverse experience. He wants to watch me shave, he even asked if he could do it for me.

I’m not silly enough to let him anywhere near my face with a razor though, but I do have to SMS him photos as soon as it comes off. Demanding little bugger that he is.

The Housemate wants in on the action too. As she’ll return two weeks into the event and the mo should (hopefully) be quite well developed by then she’s requested a day-by-day photo diary of my progress for her return. She’s also prone to just about wetting herself at the prospect of me looking like a 15 year old again. Considering she knew me when I was 15 the very thought mortifies me. If she decides to do another series of photos of me in my ‘awkward phase’ I swear the cavoodle and I are running away from home!

I know that you guys are an understanding bunch, and that you want to see me succeed. If you feel as strongly as I do about the causes involved, donate now! I’m counting on you guys!

Another big issue just about to lob, is Halloween. American readers may find it inconceivable, but Halloween is simply not the done thing in Australia. Although there’s always someone gunning to celebrate it one way or another, and my local, the Fox Hotel is doing just that.
There’s a whole theme night with prizes for best dressed, plus The Blow Waves will be performing, and despite the fact I’ve been told numerous times that I need to see these guys perform, the very best costume I could possibly come up with will be the ever reliable hole-filled sheet. Not a winner. I may just stay in and fend off the one or two trick-or-treaters who are likely to come by and will be promptly given an asparagus spear and told to fuck off.

Unless of course they’re particularly hot, in which case they’ll be invited in and ‘treated’ the best way I know how. Extra points to anyone who turns up as a zombie with a penchant for arse eating, as opposed the usual brains request.

I happen to have a bunch of buddies ripping it up tonight at various parties across the city, but seeing as I sit on the outer edge of most of those social circles as the ‘token homosexual’ I never scored an invite. I guess the risk of me turning up as Frank ‘n’ Furter was just too great.

Then on Tuesday there’s the jewel of Victoria’s Spring racing Carnival, The Melbourne Cup. The horse race that stops the nation is always good for boozy shenanigans. If you find yourself at the Flemington track you’ll be treated to a plethora of scrubbed-up, champagne-fuelled bogans. Men who don’t know how to behave appropriately and women trying to cross the green in stilettos. Fun to watch, but only for a maximum of ten minutes.

The alternate option is to grab half a dozen bottles of Yellowglen’s finest twelve dollar sparkling, a Woolworths roast chicken and head to a mate’s place for a quasi-posh luncheon. That way you can still watch the hoards attempting to get home on public transport, without the sun burn and uncomfortable fascinator required of the attendees.
As for me, well with the two biggest Cup fans I know away from Melbourne for the day, I’ll most likely be sitting on the couch, watching the race in my knickers and becoming intimately acquainted with a cask of white. Classy lass indeed. Worse than that though, I’m working on Monday, which is utterly ridiculous when you consider that 99.9 percent of Melbournians take the Monday off for a four day weekend, and no one will be coming near the place… Oh the joy of it all.

So, you know – that’s my haps for the next week-slash-month. I bet I’ve thrilled the fuck outta you, right? Oh hell yeah!

Nice To See Mutton C

You all now my mate Stevie B, right? He’s the guy with the blog Nice To See Stevie B which, when you think about it, makes a whole lot of sense really.

Anyway, he likes to come across as this mild-mannered, all-American muscle cub who spends carefree summers in Denver, cruising around topless in his Jeep Wrangler and iPhone-photographing himself with wreckless abandon. But he has a secret. A dirty little secret.

Stevie, I’m sorry for blowing this wide open on the internets, but the world needs to know.

I spotted this yesterday and finally all the pieces clicked into place, you see Stevie is a super hero. How do I know?

Nice to See Super B

Click for enlargification

That’s how. Ever the shameless self-promoter Stevie has decked out his crime-fighting Škoda with the tell-tale Super B logo, no seriously – that says Super B – they just fucked up the spacing.

Looks like your cover is blown Stevie m’lad. It had to happen one day, I notice you’re not clever enough to iPhone youself in front of that one are ya?




What, nothing to say? Yeah – I though so.

All my love, Mutton C.

Silence

Holy stinking dog shit Batman, did I ever get put in my place the other night. First of all though, to put things in perspective, I’ll give you some background.

I’m what you’d call a classic ‘loud guy’. You know that prick in the movies who’s trying to whisper to his girlfriend except he does it at the top of his lungs? Yeah, I’m him.

I grew up in the country, on a farm, isolated from neighbours and often working at the opposite end of a paddock or cattle yard to anyone else, which meant shouting was the only convenient means of communication.

As a result, my move to the city hasn’t been entirely smooth. I don’t have an ‘inside voice’ so when I’m contained within four walls my voice tends to bounce, carry and reach everyone in the room, regardless of whether it’s supposed to or not.

The other thing about me, as you’re probably well aware is that my vocabulary is rather tinged with vulgarity. I won’t stop short of swearing or being offensive. I don’t particularly care who’s in earshot. I’m not being rude, it’s just another aspect of that raised in regional Australia thing shining through.

So anyway, back to my story. On Monday night, as I was headed home from work I stopped via the supermarket and picked up a load of stuff to cook the Husbear a ripping meal. He usually joins me on Mondays as the Housemate is at the beach, I have the house to myself and don’t need to tip-toe about the place when she goes to bed at 7:30pm.

Anyway – the light of my life calls me to find out the plan for the evening. I told him I had a fat slab of Atlantic salmon ready and waiting for him, followed up by a fat slab of tube steak, should he feel so inclined.

He ummed and ahhed and professed that he really felt like a feed at the Irish pub around the corner from my joint. I voiced my disapproval but relented, shoved my salmon in the fridge and went about tarting myself up to a point where I’d be fit for public consumption.

Before long he’d turned up and we were seated at Pugg Mahones waiting for stuffed chicken breast and crumbed calamari. With a pint in hand, we started in on a bit of conversation to fill the awkward silence before our meals arrived. That’s when the trouble started.

As usual I was delivering biting social commentary and guffawing at my own jokes. One of the wait staff breezed by, a young guy, all clean cut and runtish – right up the Husbear’s alley. I pointed him out, something along the lines of “Check the twink waiter, bet you’d love to throw one up him?”

But instead of merriment and mirth, I copped the filthiest fucking look in history, followed by a lecture about how there are some things I should just keep to myself instead of sharing them with the entire room. Hmmm, catty. I scoffed at the suggestion and pointed out that everyone else was too busy shoving a steak down their neck to pay any attention to anything I might blurt out.

You see, the Husbear is one of those self-loathing homos that thinks the world at large will want nothing to do with him if he publicly admits being a dirty old cock-huffer. Foolish lad, clearly I get by without any dramas.

Anyway he went on to mention how he just wanted a nice quiet dinner. Well, what the fuck did he think he was going to get if he ate with me at home, a Tijuana brass band in one ear and a bus load of English soccer fans in the other? Fuck me swinging!

Perhaps the most painful part was when he said: “You should know what I’m like by now” Oh, really, should I? I reckon I’ve got it pretty sorted, but you know what, if we’re going to play that game I reckon you ought to have a bit of a handle on what I’m like too. I’m loud and obnoxious and yeah, I’ll pull my cock out at a moments notice, or did you miss all of that over the last two years?

I decided I wasn’t going to be responsible for ruining his ‘quiet dinner’ and did my very best Shut The Fuck Up on his arse. Then of course he starts protesting that I’m too quiet, uh, you think? Man was I steamed. I was still talking to him, but I didn’t want to waste any unnecessary words so I kept my responses short and barely audible.

Around us the rest of the pub was filled with gossiping old ducks, rowdy construction workers and two-pot screamer uni students who’d hit their second pot and were, well, screaming. That’s what you do in an Irish pub, you fill it with the happy noise of nonsense conversation. I tried my very hardest to tune into a conversation, but wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t make out a single word over the roaring din.

As you can imagine there was no additional flippantry, we just finished dinner and went home. The Husbear politely declined my invitation to stay the night, although I can’t possibly imagine why, I was done with my cock-blocking antics for the night and was ready to turn on a whole heap of lovin’. Oh well his loss, I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson though: No one puts Baby in a corner.

Motherfucking Loganberries And Stuff

Seriously guys, WTF? I haven’t posted anything here for an eternity and yet my stats are at their highest ever. Don’t check in every five minutes… Add me to a reader and come back when the stench of festering old news has passed.

Right, well I’ve been kicked in the cunt by a few concerned readers who need their regular Mutant fix and I’m going to get right onto that, I promise. Just as soon as I’m done fucking the collection of randy men who have gathered at my door in the arse.

Because that’s how they like it. They’re mainly wogs, they invented it, so why not huh?

Anyway I’ve been trying my hardest to be all, like, on the down-low. I don’t get much opportunity to read your shiz no more. I’m trying but it happens about once or twice a week. That means a bulk blog-fest and a few less comments then usual, but you’re still getting read and I still laugh and your crazy-town lives, so chillski, mmmkay?

So I’m very seriously approaching a point where I’d like to tell one of my employers to go roger themselves with a rusty rasp. Problem is, they provide an income which I sorely need, and I like some of the boys and girls on my team. Looks like I might stay put for the rest of eternity then. Eventually I’ll learn how to handle the constant arse reaming, right?

Socially I’m a bit of a cunt. I’m all: “Yeah, we should totally catch up,” or “Okay, Wednesday night I’ll come watch you get tied up, humiliated, pissed on and skull fucked.” Then when the moment comes I’ll do my best “Can’t make it, sorry – You’ll just have to blow me some other time.” Two jobs. 12+ hour days. Volunteer work. Broke-arsed-ness. You name it; all of these things are ruining my life like a cheese grater to the gonads.

On the other hand I refuse to be dragged down. Huzzah for drugs and chemically induced optimism! So I’m gearing up for summer. I’ve just received in the mail, the Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension program. It looks fucking good and if I get the promised results I should be the world’s most perfectly formed man in a matter of weeks. Plus I’ll look shit hot in leopard-skin posing trunks. Score!

I’ve also equipped myself with the ultimate summer weapon… Wax strips. I’m usually okay with the bits of my body that have fuzz, because there aren’t a lot of them. One thing I do not like is my pubic zone. You know all those crass teen movies that make fun of pubic afros? Yeah, funny right? No because I actually have one. I swear the fuzz from my zone extends halfway down my thighs.

That shit ain’t going to look no good in budgie smugglers at the beach this summer. Its gotta go! Problem is, because I’m such a huge sook I can’t bring myself to bring the torturous wax strips near my appendage. What happens is I accidentally mummify my coin purse? What’ll I do if I miscue and seal my arse shut? The complications are frightening, yet I cannot venture out in short shorts with yeti pubes from hell!

Maybe someone should just come and drink rum with me until I pass out, then wax me while I’m numb. I’ll even pay you. In dark rum, of course.

Other thoughts troubling me right now: We’re already half way through Rocktober which means the rockstar facial hair has gotta make way for a clean-shaven start to Movember. What do you think, should I or shouldn’t I?

I’m back looking for a secondhand car under $20,000 that’s going to help me pull the laydeeboyz, err wait, no bears I need a car that’ll help me pull the bears! Make a suggestion, and make it cool. I don’t want to hear ‘Why not buy yourself a Camry and go cruising for octogenarian cock at the bowls club?’ Because that shit will not be happening!

Before the end of this year I WILL have a tattoo. I have the design in mind, but I can’t draw for peanuts, so would anyone like to help create the eyesore that’ll mar me for the rest of my life?

Early next year I’m going for my bike license, well learners permit, so I need suggestions for a decent 250cc (or otherwise learner legal) bike. I’m more cruiser style than sport bike and retro appeal works. Any ideas?

Finally, the Husbear and I are fast approaching our second manniversary (hi Honey… love you!) he’s a special little tiger so I want to get him something good. Any thoughts?

Right… that ought to fill the awkward silence nicely, and you’ve got plenty of homework to do so get commenting!

Dr. Teeth And The Electric Mayhem

You remember who those guys were, right? You know the muppet rock band, the one that Animal was the drummer for and Donatella Versace, err I mean Janice played the guitar. Yeah those guys. Well I’m not here to talk about them, although if you jump into Jay Jays right now you can buy a so-hot-right-now Electric Mayhem T-shirt. Mention this blog post for a go-fuck-yerself discount!

No, my tale of electric mayhem is a vastly different one. I want to talk to you about what happens when good appliances go bad.

It all started last week, innocently enough as I was getting ready for work. The usual procedure is shower, shave the few tiny bits of my face that need it, get dressed then hit the road.

Not this day though. The shower bit went as planned, but as I was shaving something went slightly wrong. Feel free to argue the merits of various shaving methods if you need to, but the important thing to know is that I use an electric shaver because it’s the best way to do it.

My shaver is a shit hot rechargeable item with a bunch of mutton-chop trimming attachments. Instead of rotary blades it has the foil type heads. If you’re familiar with these you’ll know there’s a tiny layer of tin over the oscillating head – and this is where the trouble started.

I must have done something to fracture the little tin strip because as I was shaving it became caught in the moving part, which had the flow on effect of causing the electric motor to blow up in my hand and shoot shards of hot, sharp metal into my face.

I stared at the smoking pile of junk in my hands in disbelief, and then went about extracting the barb-like chunks of tin out of my nose and top lip. Needless to say I didn’t bother shaving that day and went with the self-harming meth-chic look that’s so popular in Fitzroy and St Kilda these days.

It gets better though a couple of days later, while brushing my teeth with my nifty little electric toothbrush the fucker stopped dead. Sometimes I hot the off button, so I tried to restart it. Still nothing. I tapped it on the sink, still nothing. I gave it a shake near my ear but couldn’t hear anything loose. I tapped it some more, but to no avail.

The fucker was dead. I finished brushing my teeth manually (which now leaves my mouth feeling like shit after a super vibratey electro clean) and hurled the fucker in the bin, problem is, I’m a shit shot so I was aiming too high and shot it straight into the toilet. No using that one again.

My third and final calamity of the electronic variety happened to my lifeline. The one device I respect, worship and adore. My beloved mobile phone.

You know those tales people have of dropping their phone in the bogs at the pub, or hurling it from a balcony in Spain, or giving it to a mate to make a call on and receiving a handful of crumbled components back? Yeah my story isn’t like that.

I was out at Sircuit basking in the aftermath of the Mr. Leather Australia New Zealand competition when some idiotic twink staggered past, gaily swinging his beer in his limp wrist as he went. Of course he decided to take a wide berth around the group of butch looking leather men in harnesses and chaps and in the process waved most of his beer into my pocket.

I did the quickest dive I could to save my camera, which was thankfully dry, and my phone, which had amber fluid pouring out of every orifice. I looked at the screen to watch it perform its dying dance of psychedelic colours then, radio silence.

I wasn’t particularly happy about that. I’d collected a lot of phone numbers from a lot of hot men that night and was really looking forward to whoring myself out over the next week, but no. Not to be.

I pulled it apart on the spot in the hope of drying it out enough to rescue it, but I was not so lucky. The next day the phone turned on, but the keypad was cactus. As a last ditch attempt at saving my beloved I took it into the tech-guru guy at work. He proceeded to pull out a can of something and then drowned my phone in some funky smelling liquid.

“Ah, I hate to tell you this man, but you’re just desecrating the memory, and defiling the carcass of my phone in front of my face.”

He looked at me slyly and continued to spray away. Upon handing back my truly saturated phone he grinned and said, “Let that dry for a couple of hours then come tell me that you love me.”

I waited for my phone to dry then tentatively slipped the battery back in and hit the power button. Incredibly the screen danced into life and instead of the fucked up short-circuit signal it was outputting, everything was as before. I punched in my pin code and the phone greeted me with my usual 'set of boobies' wallpaper. I was over the fucking moon.

I swear I raced across to said co-worker and gave him the best rim-job of his life. Uh, figuratively of course. The screen is still full of contact cleaner so its like looking trough a lava lamp, but its slowly drying out, and until it does my phone smells like solvent, which is nice!

So my two great loves, my phone and beer didn’t love each other. Let that be a lesson to you all. Meanwhile before another appliance dies (or explodes) in my arms I’m off to join the Amish.

Man Up

I got asked a question the other day and I answered it as best I could.

But it didn’t end there. The question grew, it fermented in side me, knawing on my insides. I wasn’t happy with the answer I gave. I wasn’t happy with the circumstances surrounding it.

Basically, I had a mate around at my house the other day and during his visit he needed to use the facilities. Okay, I’m not that polite, so this dude was hanging for a piss.

Upon his return from the shitter he asked THE question: “Man, how do you put up with that toilet?”

I’d never really thought of it. How do I? You see the lid on the crapper will stay up on its own, the seat though, will not. It refuses to.

I live with a woman, so she’s probably never noticed. But I’m not a woman and damn it I’ve noticed alright.

I’m a man. We stand to take a leak. None of this sitting rubbish unless it’s absolutely necessary. Except, now I live in a house with a toilet seat that won’t stay up and I’ve gotten sick of trying to hold it with one hand and my equipment in the other.

In other words, I now sit to take a slash.

This is wrong. All kinds of wrong. Multiple, dangerous kinds of wrong. I’m a man, a sweaty, grunting, smelly, hairy man. I can stand to piss. I can stand to piss on your mailbox, I can stand to piss on your fence, I can stand to piss on your car and I can write my name in the fucking snow – while I’m standing goddamn it!

But I don’t because I have a defective throne with a seat that won’t stay where it’s meant to.

Incredibly though, I’ve linked this to another recent phenomenon. Once upon a time I could never piss at a urinal. They kind of scared me; here you are at a long open wall in full view of the world, exposed to the elements and all kinds of potential dangers, with your cock on display. No thank you.

The problem there is that urinals are quick and easy and efficient to use, waiting for a cubicle is not.

However I’ve learnt, finally, to join the ranks at the piss-trough. No more trying to hide my tiny dick. No more shyness or awkwardness. If I gotta drain the vein I’ll get right in there.

You know why this happened? Because at home I gotta sit to piss. I’ve been emasculated in the most humiliating way. My reaction is to butch it up with a good, old fashioned, pissing contest.

And by fuck it is glorious. Since I’ve started I’ve had some awesome conversations with some awesome guys, and before you get carried away in straight venues it’s purely eyes up. I at least have that much respect (sometimes).

Of course on the gay side of town anything goes, so I’ve received some ego boosting compliments on my equipment and have been treated to a visual buffet of peen in all shapes, sizes and colours. Combinations I never thought possible. It’s all a bit exciting really.

And blokey – really fucking blokey. Standing for a slash is what its all about. Followers of The Mutton-chopped Mutant, I implore you – next time you answer the call of nature, don’t take it sitting down. Stand tall and proud, man-up and piss with fury.

Oh, and always remember to keep your back to the wind and steer clear of electric fences.

Taking Pride In What You Do

Weekend madness – we’ve got plenty here. It just so happens to be one of my favorite times of year in Melbourne right now, no I’m not talking about spring. I’m referring to Melbourne Leather Pride of course.

While my collection of leather attire is actually starting to look reasonable, it could totally look a whole lot better, so when one of my mates asked if I wanted to join him for the Leather Fair at the Laird Hotel I was way ahead of him.Would you believe I actually decided to be a little bit subtle? I know, shocking right! See I decided that if I wore my cammo pants, steel cap boots and a couple of leather cuffs, that’d probably be enough for a daytime outing.

Of course I was well expecting that I could get away with as much or as little as I wanted, but I was saving something up. You’ll soon see why. Anyway I had me one hell of a fun and exciting day. Look at it this way: There was leather, there were beers and there were bears. That’s about as close to Nirvana as it gets for me.

Although I still find it odd being at the Laird in daylight, with women folk!

I finally got to get up close and personal with some of the hot ‘n’ horny leather pants from Marquis De Sade. WANT! I also discovered a goth/leather boutique that I must’ve been past at least a hundred times and never knew it existed, V & V Boutique in Lygon Street. I got sucked in by a very charming gothic tempress who uttered the magical phrase: “Custom-made male corsetry” between those magical words and selection of military style pin-stripe shirts and hats (in black of course) I think I may have fallen in love.

They also did a range of heavy grade leather and stainless steel collars, cuffs and restraints. I was starting to get pretty moist by this stage but promised myself that I would not spend a cent until I’d seen everything.

Mid-way though I had to stop to watch a live performance of Golden Shower,a rework of the Goldfinger Bond theme, and part of the comedy cabaret To Sir, With Love??? which I’m heading to see on Thursday night. If you’d care to join me then be at Neverwhere, Smith Street Collingwood by 8:00pm this Thursday 24th September. You won’t regret it. More info available here if you’re so inclined.

Not quite my thing but still fun to look at, and a must-have for any aspiring drag queen, were the leather and lace bustles and I can’t help but love the idea of a butt-plugging cock ring, or maybe a set of weighted nipple clamps? Ropes, restrains and arm and leg spacers also have a certain appeal – so too gimp masks in a variety of shapes and styles, if that happens to be your thing.

I was a little restrained with my purchases though. All I bought was a Vic Bears T-shirt and two different collars, one with square studs to match a cuff I already own, the other with ‘SEXY’ emblazoned across the front of it, although technically its more of a leather choker rather than a collar with press studs in place of a buckle.

After meeting Luke, the Vice President of Vic Bears (the hot guy with the mic below) I was swayed into returning to the Laird later that night for Brotherhood, one of Leather Pride’s dance parties. Didn’t plan on that, but decided that after the Collingwood Vs. Geelong AFL semi-final I should still be able to fit it in.
I probably shouldn’t have bothered with the footy. Collingwood went down like a lead balloon. Worst match of the season, goodbye Grand Final, but you know what? I didn’t mind so much because I had an excuse to wear my new Vic Bears shirt with my leather pants, boots and a seriously dangerous rocket-studded collar matched with an equally dangerous rocket-studded cuff. I swear, I was turning myself on I looked so hot.

Needless to say the outfit worked a treat with plenty of hot, hairy, leather-clad men coming up to check out the collar, lick my boots or give my nipples a friendly tug. In fact, so tugged were my nipples that I was worried they’d nearly fall off by the end of the night.

An event like that also brings out plenty of colourful characters too. I met a charming role-player who didn’t break from his dog fantasy all night and spent the night on all fours, chasing a rubber bone, drinking from a bowl, getting his tummy scratched and humping legs. There was also a seven-foot tall Scottish guy dressed from head to toe in red and black latex (who also happened to be quite an interesting chap) who reveled that getting in and out of the latex isn’t much fun when you’re hairy, but demonstrated the ‘quick access’ panel in the front of his trousers. How terribly convenient.

I managed to prove conclusively exactly what one wears under a kilt as well. Incredibly no one complained about my cold hands or the sharp studs encircling my wrists, which was exceedingly polite of them, or perhaps they just thought better of it while I had my hand up there, either way I have no complaints.

By far though the highlight of my night was (drum roll please) the trough pig. I’ve heard of such a thing before, but never been lucky enough to come across one. Well Saturday was finally the night. One of the bears I was drinking with excitedly returned from the toilets to inform us of his presence. I figured by the time I needed to take a piss he’d be long gone and when I did finally need to break the seal I’d forgotten all about him, until I approached the urinal and lo and behold, there he was, happily sitting up in the urinal chatting away to the leather daddies relieving themselves on either side of him and stroking his clearly excited appendage. Guess he was just happy to be there.

My night was complete! I’d spied the legendary trough pig in his native habitat, I’d been nipple-tweaked to within an inch of my life, had a large Scottish penis thrust in my face by a tall Scottish man and copped more than enough up-kilt action to last me a lifetime.

Best of all, that’s not all. I still have to check out To Sir, With Love??? on Thursday, plus on Friday there’s the judging of the Mr. Australasian Leather Man competition, think of it as the Miss Australia pageant of the leather community without a single bikini wax to be seen. Pictured below are Mr. Laird and Mr. Sircuit and I can’t for the life of me work out which one I’d rather by tied up and flogged by. Hopefully after Friday night it’ll all be a little bit clearer.
Happy Leather Pride to you all!

Ingratitude

I can be a rude little bugger at times. I try not be, sometimes when you’re battling the forces of two jobs, plus all the other bits and pieces going on the world time just vanishes and before you know it you’re late into bed as a result of fitting in everything that has to be done before getting around the stuff that’d be fun to do.

So this week I’ve welcomed the Husbear back with open arms. All my fears that he’d come back from seven weeks in Italy and Hong Kong, and leave me in the lurch, vanished as soon as he appeared on my doorstep. Fuck I missed my boy and even though he won’t say it in so many words, his actions kind of indicate to me that he might have missed me too. Awww. Mushy. Vomit!!!

Of course there have still been beers with the Bromance when I can too – that’s always nice, and like I say there’s job number one and job number two to keep me on the ball. So, never a dull moment for the Mutant.

With all that going on the blogging has been a little sparse, but I’m going to do stuff to fix that. I promise. No, seriously I am. Soon, I hope.

I do need to give a big fat shout out to a couple of bloggers who made my fucking week (well two weeks really).

First of all, Damien over at 2 Cents Worth Down Under emailed me when I returned from my Balls Out Road trip and asked if I’d be interested in taking part in his profile series. Hell. Fucking. Yes, came the reply. If you haven’t had a read of Damien’s blog I’d strongly suggest you do so. Not only is he the hottest thing this side of the Tasman Sea, but he covers all kinds of cool shit: politics, camp entertainers, hot men, you name it.

His profiles are a particular joy and there’s some great reads from everyone from the hottest bloggers to the sexiest porn stars. And now me! If you haven’t read the profile, check this out for a deeper insight into the workings, or should that be failings, of the Mutant’s mind. Thank you so much Damien – just ask the Housemate how happy I was. I’m pretty sure she has footage of me dancing around the house like a goof when I got your email… Perfect blackmail material really!

Following on from that honour, I got an Honest Scrapper award from Helen at Bonding Over Lizards. This girl has one hectic life. For starters if she’s not locked in the lab handling radioactive materials, then she’s out in the field chasing after lizards, exciting much? I think so!

She also has a fabulous social life and is battling with the complexities of mastering Tai Chi. I’m enthralled by her Seth Afrikan goings on and am totally honoured to receive this award. Of course it comes with conditions and I will be following up on those, but for now I just wanna bask in the glory that comes with it and say a big, honking thank you to Helen, who believes I should be read at your own peril. Wise words indeed!

So even though I sometimes wear the crankiest cranky pants ever, stuff like this makes me grin like a fucking psychopath and reminds me that sometimes people are just way cool. There’s a bunch of shit-hot Aussie bloggers who stole my heart when I was whoring my way around the country too, and I promise (what that’s been, two weeks now?) that I’ll dedicate a tribute to you guys very, very fucking soon. Scouts honour!

Got My Grump On

…Wore it just for you.

I try not to do this often, in fact this has to be another of my firsts, but here I am stealing phrases from lolcats and trying to play like I’m all kinds of internet cool. I’m not, but you already know that. Case in point: One of the guys I work with just mentioned his 80GB iPod… the hard drive on my desktop PC is only half that size. Cool, I am not.

That isn’t why we’re here though. We are gathered here today because I broke a promise. I got all excited about a new look blog and new look Mutant and I said there’d be photos of said new look Mutant and three days later there's nothing more than the sound of crickets chirping and the occasional cough from an otherwise silent audience.

Poor form no matter how you look at it. Y’know why though? Of course you don’t which is why I’m going to tell you all about it.

I got grumpy. I know hard to fathom that a funny, charming, likeable guy like me could ever have a day that wasn’t all sunshine and roses, but I did.

Worse still I had a weekend off work, no place to be and plenty of time to myself and yet the dark storm clouds gathered overhead and followed me everywhere. On Saturday night I was to go to a friend’s 40th and boy was I ever looking forward to that.

Well, I was right up until Saturday itself. On the day I couldn’t shift my mood. I knew what I was in for too. This particular guy, let’s call him Derrick because no one will ever connect that with his real name, is a great guy. He’s a barrel of fun, good for a laugh, super friendly and handsome as buggery to boot.

Well, the last couple of years I’ve ran into him by accident on his birthday and he always has a blast. This year I copped an invite to his big four-oh. I thought to myself “this is going to be one hell of a shindig” and was counting down the days.

Then when I finally arrived the final grump-arse piece of whatever screwed up puzzle was going on in my head, clicked into place. I didn’t know many people there, maybe two or three at the most. I made happy faces at Derrick, gave him a hug and lots of air kisses, then went to the bar, bought a beer and sat in a far, dark corner feeling like a lost little puppy.

A few of the people I knew came over to say hi, but I think I must have been punching out a fairly strong fuck-off vibe because they took off pretty damn quick. So I sat in the corner, admiring beautiful men that I couldn’t put myself in the right frame of mind to talk to, and piling up bottles of beer around me in an attempt to build a fort.

I didn’t get a fort built and after two hours I stood up and walked out. Just like that. By the time I hit the street I realised what an arsehole I was being so I ducked off for a cheeseburger and tried again.

I walked back into the party and still, nothing. I couldn’t even crack a smile. A couple of people asked me about JD Hoodie – I tried to small talk but it probably sounded more like I wanted to punch them in the throat and spit in their eye-socket.

Eventually I decided I was bringing this shit down and needed to fuck off. So I found Derrick, made up some lame excuse and took off. He did that whole “We’ve gotta catch up some time” thing which is code for: thanks for pissing on my party – I won’t ever be speaking to you again.

Can’t say I blame him. I even tried to make nice with the fags at the Peel, it was a four-stage process:
1. Buy beer
2. Get groped by old man with no concept of ‘personal space’
3. Get yelled at by drunken queen who called me enough names to hit me where it hurt
4. Finished beer, left the Peel.
About a seven minute adventure in total. I was still home before midnight.

Sunday wasn’t much better, hence the lack of rat-tailless blonde boy action on the blog. I’ll have to reschedule that for some other time. Be sure to stay tuned.