Some days I think I’m a revolutionary. Some days I think I’m a failure. Some days I think I’m a genius, and some days I think I’m a dunce. Some days I yearn for the stage, while some days I hide in my bed. Some days I wish for stardom, and some days I wish for simplicity. Some days I consider myself a front runner, and some days I consider myself a waster. Some days I am proud of those I love, some days I am jealous. Some days I pour with joy and ease, and some days I leak fear and hate. Some days I don’t need to explain myself, some days I answer every unanswered question. Some days I laugh at my missteps, some days I cry. Some days I feel as free as bird, some days I feel I clipped my wings. Some days I think I’m perfect as I am, some days I think there’s so much to change. Some days I love my body, and some days I am sickened by what I see. Some days I want more, some days I want to ruin what I have. Some days I’m my own number one fan, some days I send myself death threats. Some days I’m Sam Morris, and some days I’m Sam Morris.
photo by @anailogico
As I looked down at his face straining to squeeze all of my cock into his mouth, I knew it was over.
I’d been seeing my ex on and off again for a while. We’d be going for dinner and hanging out, and it’d been really sweet, same as usual, tactile and loving. Same conversations, same amnesia of the issues we'd faced before.
We hadn’t had sex for over two years, so the ultimate test for our relationship surviving a reprise was to see if the sex was still alive, but unfortunately it was served up as something a little less than breathing. We always used to have the most amazing, passionate sex. He’s pretty hung and he would fuck me really deep & good. We chemically connected and our scents intertwined to create a cacophony of senses. Our sex was wild. We would roll around for hours covered in oil, fucking over and over again. It was mind blowing, and so regardless of our others issues, I could always count on bedroom time to save the day.
However, the reprise was not what it used to be. Our connection was off. Our kissing was disjointed, and every time I looked into his face while he was fucking me I saw the crying mess on FaceTime that repeatedly broke my heart. As he sucked my dick I looked at his face and felt weird. My dick went from hard to totally soft in about 10 seconds, while in his mouth, and it felt out like a noodle onto a plate. It was not cute, at all. I urged him to just fuck me, as he still had his hard on, and it would let me escape the mortification of what just happened. We fucked, it was alright, the bed was creaking like crazy which just added to the awkwardness of the moment, and instead of being in a romantic sequel, I found myself in a situation comedy.
The following morning we had coffee together, and then he left. With a kiss on the lips, and a close of the door, I’d found peace in knowing that it was over. After 3 years of non stop drama, extreme thoughts of sadness and love, heartache and pure passion, it was finally over. I was ready and able to finally walk away from something that had changed my life forever. I had been given the signs that I needed. I finally understood what closure meant, and how when it is delivered to you, you can’t even question it, it’s just apparent, it’s there, and it’s visible. I was free, finally. It was just me again.
The boy was too beautiful, I couldn’t possibly approach him. Statuesque like an Adonis. The height of Michelangelo’s David. The face of a GQ model. He appeared alone, just dancing with his girl friend. There was an innocent fear in his eyes, at least that’s what I interpreted it as. Someone who didn’t want to be approached, while also seemingly lonely. I wondered if the ugliest guy in the bar had the a lot in common with the most beautiful. They were both unapproachable for being out of somebody’s league. I never knew where I fit in, I was probably somewhere in the middle, but the hierarchies of image in the gay community has always fascinated me, so I’ve always pitched below and above. Sometimes I will fuck the guy who is seemingly less attractive than me, and sometimes I will fuck the guy who is more so. I feel socially inept when I walk past this boy. His flowing hair and chiselled face intimidated me, probably like most people in the club. I imagined what I’d say to him. I thought about approaching him, telling him how beautiful I thought he was, asking how his night was going, but I couldn’t. The fear of inadequacy and rejection stopped me. He was out of my league. The league I’d built for myself was inadequate. I felt like a small, average looking man, with awkward growing facial hair, oddly shaped features, sporting a bad hair day. I listened to the negative opinion of myself inside my head and I left the bar. I walked out of the club and felt sad. I wondered if he’d be ignored all night for the same reason I ignored him, simply because of his beauty, or maybe I was being naive to the confidence of other gay men.
If any one of us goes to the club alone, doesn’t meet anyone new, and goes home alone, nothing separates us. If you’re not approached because of your image, in a good or bad light, it’s all the same.
On apps we’re all brave, but in the club we’re all cowards. On an app, you’re a dick with a face attached, in a club you’re a face, with nothing attached.
Should we speak to the guy who catches our eye, no matter how much we judge him on face value? How long should the eye contact linger before you know he’s worth speaking to? At what point do we stop waiting for someone else to make the first move?
I think it’s time we all made the decision to be braver. To step up to the guy we fancy and say, ‘hi, how are you, you look really nice tonight’ and see what happens. I really doubt it would end badly. We’re all waiting for that guy we like to come over and reassure our self esteem with a simple ‘hello’, but we’re all too scared to be that guy. Until we participate ourselves, we’ll never see a change. I guess, now, I just need to tell myself that a few times.
I was up all night again with painful stomach cramps. They seem to let off in the early hours of the morning to give me some sleep time, thankfully. However I’ve woken up feeling very foggy and low. General depressed feelings of uncertainties, anxiety about my place in the world, and my future. Often I can control these feelings to a suppressed level, but when I feel low, it gives them the power to fight me and come out on top. I have a heavy depressed feeling resting on my forehead pushing my eyebrows down into a frown. I have a coffee, it helps disperse the feeling of unease a little. I go on Instagram and see others doing well, and looking happy. It makes me feel worse. I go to Twitter and see current politics and terror attacks, and it makes me feel worse. Everything can be a trigger when you suffer with these mental spurts of ill health. I struggle to escape it until it’s lifted. Sometimes you can just feel it lift, giving you a small relief. Other times it’s a slow ride out of it, like the tired feeling your feet get after walking on sand for a long time. I know that what I’m doing is for the greater good, and I know that I will look back and be proud of what I did, but in this freeze-frame it’s hard to see it like that. I need to push myself, be pro-active, and work harder. I know that if I didn’t have so many issues with self esteem, confidence, anxiety, and depression, then I would’ve been more successful a long time ago, but such is life. We are all dealt our cards and we have to play the game. I have a lot to be grateful for, and I try to list them to myself. It helps. Just writing this small memoir over my breakfast of super buttery crumpets and a banana is therapy in itself. It lifts the darkness a small amount, but anxiety is like being in a small room with a mosquito, it may not always be buzzing, or biting you, sometimes you can’t even see it, but you know it’s there, hiding somewhere, and it’s going to get you when you least expect it.
Bullying is not ok. Whether it’s online, or offline. Playground, or in the workplace. Bullying can be aggressive or passive aggressive. It can be subtle or it can be a punch in the face. The sort I encountered as a child was a mixture of the two, I was jibed at, pushed and shoved, called names, and bitched about. I’ve always been fairly hot headed so it didn’t bother to an extreme extent. The sort of bullying thats transcended into my adult life has ventured into the online arena, usually by and from what I would consider my peers. I always fairly subtle, like a subtweet, a like or a favourite of a targeted tweet or post. It subtle but it’s directed at you, whether they wanted you to see it or not, it was directed at you via means of a cloudy communication, and it was probably hate that they wanted to get off their chest in a moment of jealousy and mania. I’ve had this sort of treatment from large LGBT figures, to just your random gay guy. I’ve had people feel the need to just tear me down of an afternoon. Sometimes I think I’m an easy target because I’m so open online. I’m the easiest for someone to unload their own bullshit onto. I take my clothes off so it’s easy to brandish me a whore. I’m opinionated with a brain, so it’s easy to brandish me as a controversial fire starter. But luckily I can see through all of this. It hurts when someone you respect online decides to randomly line you up in front of the firing squad, but equally, it immediately makes me lose all the respect that I did have for them.
The only thing I choose to do now, as an adult, is call people out on it. For the sake of the child that was too scared to say anything, and for the sake of all the people who follow me who may also be too scared to say something to their bullies.
Usually they will somehow make you seem like you’re the one with the problem, or you’re trying to start trouble, or that you’re weird. Well, if it’s weird to call out your bullies for their bad behaviour, then stay weird.
Bullying is never ok, no matter what package it comes in or how disguised it is. Let’s all be a little nicer. Spread joy, spread love. Elevate other LGBT people, and you in turn will be elevated yourself.
It’s very easy to tear someone down, but it’s not so easy to stand up for others, and yourself.
I’ve always been hungry for knowledge. From a young age I used to ask my mother questions about everything. We would talk for hours and hours about worldly issues, sex, relationships, history.. you name it, we’d talk about it. I always wanted to know more.
Where and how you grow up influences most of the opinions that you develop as a teenager. The strongest opinions you have as a young adult are often those of your parents.
I’m a passionate guy, so my first opinions were strong ones, and over the past decade my opinions have changed. A lot.
I was raised pretty conservative, not hugely so, but on the edge of problematic. I grew up in a town where it’s a regular thing to hear inappropriate jokes about someones sexuality or skin colour in your local pub, and that was something I was always surrounded by as a child growing up so I didn’t think anything of it. Being around this made me detest the thought of being gay. I really struggled coming to terms with my sexuality as a teenager and pretty much hated everything about the idea of it. The internalised homophobia I had for myself was extraordinary. I would make homophobic comments about people on television, or in media, using it as a way to suppress the queer inside me. I would make snarky comments about gay sex and how it was disgusting etc, while going home and wanking over Sean Cody dot com, all because it was a great distraction from people thinking I could be gay.
I worked hard to overcome this and eventually came out when I was 18, but when I did come out I felt guilt. A guilt for harassing so many people, and myself, through my own awful self hatred. When I see people now protesting so intensely about someone being gay, I see the younger version of myself, and wonder if they’re battling the same demons that I did as a teen. After all, ‘the lady doth protest too much’.
I spent my twenties learning. As Tyra says ‘I grew from it and I learned’. I really did. I travelled around the world and met many people from all walks of life. I learnt a lot about what it is to be LGBT. What it means to acknowledge white privilege, and how you can use it to shine a light on the suffering of so many. I have had deep, compelling conversations with black friends. I want to learn their story and hear their struggle, and not in a patronising way, I want to listen, openly, to hear the truth in their existence. I have had the same conversations with the women in my life, to find out about all of the realities that women live through daily in this world. I want to be as aware as I can be of everybody’s existence. I don’t claim to be pure at all, I’m not, I was extremely problematic, only within the last 10 years, while shedding the skin of the ignoramus snake, am I reaching a point of larger awareness. The recent outcry from comments made by Munroe Bergdorf about all white people being inherently racist was not shocking to me, because I know how long it’s taken me to reach a point where I can understand and process these kind of truths as facts. I’m pretty sure 10 years ago I would’ve probably been outraged too, but I’ve spent a long time trying to educate myself and see this world through the eyes of not only Sam Morris.
I see my twenties as a pyramid. I’ve climbed a pyramid of confusion, and prejudice, and fear, to reach a richer point of knowledge, and when you get higher and higher up the pyramid, there’s absolutely no way back down because you’ve learnt too much to possibly return to base.
I still have a way to go & a lot more to learn, but I find peace in knowing that I’m probably on the right side of every argument I might have with a stranger online. Except if it's about sport, that I know nothing about.
I know we don’t need another white poster boy, but if I can use my platform to educate and inspire people to be more thoughtful and considerate of everybody's human rights, and not just their own, then that’s valuable enough. It's never too late to learn, and change your opinions.
These recent Weinstein revelations had me thinking about sexual harassment, assault, and rape, and how it can happen so subtly that you don’t even realise it’s happening until it’s already too late to defend yourself. Women have had to deal with this treatment for centuries, it’s something I know most of the women in my life have experienced, from my close friends, to my own mother. After having a lengthy discussion with my mother it brought up some thoughts in my own head. Powerful straight men aren’t the only ones exploiting their positions, but also powerful gay men. I have been sexually assaulted, harassed, and raped, by photographers, magazine editors, and others. I have had my naked body touched without permission on photoshoots, I have been verbally harassed on shoots, and this year I was raped in the house I was staying in on Fire Island. I’ve yet to speak out about this before because of the potential repercussions, and putting my reputation in jeopardy, the exact reason why all of these women stay silent.
My Instagram is overtly sexualised, and I have a website in which I celebrate my body in it’s entirety, but within the safety of my own space, and under my own control. My body, my rules, after all.
When people invite me to shoot with them, unfortunately it’s often not because they want to shoot me as a model or artist, but because they want to fuck me. I can normally judge this within the first contact, but sometimes it catches you off guard and it can be extremely unsettling.
Recently I gave some advice to a new & upcoming, younger, Instagram boy. Being almost 30 I sometimes think it’s my responsibility to look out for those younger than me. I said to him to be aware of people’s intentions, to be strong in your boundaries, and make it very clear to the people you work with what is and isn’t ok. He immediately said that if anyone ever put their hands on him he would just knock them out, well, it isn’t quite as simple as that, I said.
One shoot I did years ago, I was shooting in the basement of a photographers house, I really loved his work, and I had wanted to shoot with him for a while. I had a boyfriend at the time, and I was being strictly professional when I arrived. We shot some stuff, and then he asked me to wear a pair of briefs and stand up against one of the walls in his house. Up until this point it was a very normal shoot. I did what he said for the shot, and he took a few pictures. He asked me to turn my head to face the wall and lift my arms up, I did as he said. He promptly came up behind me, pulled down my briefs and stuck is fingers up my ass. First of all I froze. I didn’t know how to react or what to do. I was locked in this guys house, in his basement. My clothes were strewn all across the room, and there was no way I could’ve made a move that quickly. I insisted to him that I couldn’t do what he wanted, that I had a boyfriend, and that we should be professional. It makes you very uncomfortable, and embarrassed, so while you’re saying these things you’re usually smiling, or doing an uncomfortable giggle, which can usually make them ignore the ‘no’ and just continue their pursuit. He backed off and I slowly started collecting my clothes up, I said I had to meet my boyfriend pretty soon. As I was collecting my clothes off the floor, he picked me up (the guy was about 6’3 and I’m about 5’8) and threw me on his couch. He opened his trousers, pulled his dick out and shoved it in my face. I kept my mouth closed, and kept saying, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this. As I was saying this he was hitting my cheek with his hard dick and saying, ‘come on, you know you want to’. After about 15 minutes more of various forms of sexual harassment I managed to leave. There were a lot more attempts he made, and I was lucky to get out before he raped me. I left that shoot feeling like a whore that’d asked for it. I had to meet my boyfriend afterwards, and all I felt was guilt. I felt shame, and embarrassment, so I never told anyone and I kept it to myself.
Since then I have been sexually assaulted on many shoots, from people grabbing my genitals without asking, to making unwanted advances, to simply, & you might say innocently, just asking to touch me.
I have been sexually bribed by famous photographers, magazine editors, fashion designers, and more.
I was recently asked to be in a spread of a very well known gay magazine. I was really pleased and excited, but after the initial message, it soon turned into a sexual bribe, and I had the editor sending me dick pics within about 4 messages.
When I finally addressed the fact that I was sexually assaulted/raped in fire island, the word got out amongst the people I was staying with, and the owners of the house we stayed in actually attacked my friend for sticking up for me. I sent a lengthy email to the owners, mentioning that, not that it was any of their business, but if they felt they needed to know what happened, then I would give them a detailed run down of the events, which I did. To which I received the response ‘I do not wish to comment’. They not only chose to turn a blind eye, for the sake of their friend who raped me, but prior to that had insinuated that I was lying before they had even heard my story. I left it there after that email. They were all lawyers and I was scared I was going to be sued. Isn’t that crazy? Me, the victim, was scared I was going to be the one who would be sued. So what did I do? Closed my mouth & pretended it never happened.
I have many more stories like this, but the point mustn’t be deterred by the grotty details of each incident, but the psychology behind why this is always happening.
Gay men use their power to fuck. Straight men use their power to fuck. The victims always stay silent because they are scared they’re going to aggravate the power which will ultimately lead to their own demise.
I turn up to a photoshoot with a very well known photographer. I spend money and go out of my way to travel to the shoot, I know the images are going to be amazing, but after a while of being there I get told that he will be feeling me up, and he did. What am I supposed to do? Punch him and run out? Say that I’m not comfortable and politely leave. What people don’t understand is that your brain doesn’t work that quickly in these situations. By the time you’re thinking of what to do, it’s already happening. You think of the consequences, them tarnishing your reputation by word of mouth, you never receiving the pictures, you wasting your time and money, then you think that maybe you deserved it, or you are asking for it by agreeing to pose nude for a photographer. All these things are running through your head, and before you can choose one to focus on, his tongue is up your ass.
I’ve had very strong, successful female friends of mine who’ve experienced the same on photoshoots. Asked to stand in a particular pose and then subsequently sexually assaulted. They also freeze, let it happen, and then stay silent.
If someone is brave enough & believes that they should be vocal about something that has happened to them in regards to a sexual assault or a rape, then they should be listened to.
Men in power can be dangerous, gay or straight, and the victims of their deviancies should be supported, always.
I’m sharing this condensed version of my story now as way to not be silent, and hopefully raise awareness that these things happen in the gay community, regularly, just as much as the straight, and we must not be silent, we must be vocal.
My distraction’s not forgiving
it’s my core that you rattle
I live through your needs
Your skin and your seeds
an addiction I see
In you and in me
The choices I make
I despair and I ache
After you’ve partied
And ate all the cake
I’m left with the bill
while the air has gone still
And I stare at you vacantly
Missing the thrill
Sure, we had fun
The boys and the sun
but when its all done
It’s just me and the gun
My sweet reminisces
I cry when I think
Of how out of sync
We are with each other
Myself and the pink
I’d kill for your freedom
Your love and your passion
To use and abuse
With little compassion
But now its just me
left to clean up your act
And we can’t use each other
As a way to distract
its always me giving
But please, for a moment
The future of an ex dancer is a blurry one. We slowly stop using the muscles that pushed the skeleton to deform itself, and when we stop using them the way we trained them to work, they atrophy, and the bones no longer have the support to hold the deformity. People see dancers as dreamers, whereas dance is far from a dream. The pain I felt while training as a dancer will never compare to anything. The feeling of my shins bending underneath me with every step, while the calf muscle tore away from the bone. The inflammation in my wrists that would feel like a broken bone with every door I pushed open. The small tendon that I snapped at the top of my hamstring, which although wasn’t painful, gave me a bizarre sensation of something not quite being attached properly in my leg. All these things shape us as adults. Standing in front of a mirror through your formative years, studying yourself, and only looking for flaws. The praise is useless, it’s the things that need correcting that need your attention, and this notion doesn’t stop at your technique, but also into your physical aesthetic. They say that once you’re a dancer, you never stop being a dancer, I agree. Although I may not dance anymore, I have an affinity with my body that someone who has never trained or danced professionally will never have. I know the difference between good pain and bad pain. I know the warning signs that my body gives me if there is a problem, it’s an intuition that only a dancer will understand. The small amount of time a dancer spends enjoying their craft, can be anywhere between 30 seconds, to 2 hours, but the time sculpturing the body to be able to cope with enjoying these moments is arduous, expensive, and exhausting. Where do I see myself in my own future as an ex dancer? I see my spine collapsing, and the lumbar lordosis that developed while I was in training is only becoming weaker with age. The bones that I pushed so harshly to create such beautiful lines do not have the muscle strength to hold themselves anymore. I miss the art of dance. I miss the connection of my body to the music, and the feeling of freedom when you disappear into the dance, because you really do, disappear. It’s as if nothing else exists, and we are truly at one with our body and the music. Dancers are a rare breed, we have a connection to our bodies, and to music, that is incomparable. I am grateful to be a dancer, in my past, present, and future, but I think it’s time to start looking after the body that I abused so badly in the name of art.
writing my thoughts straight from my head in london town