"For a beautiful half-second I thought perhaps he wouldn’t notice...."

Warning: This post is not safe to read at work (or with kids around) and your boss is probably looking at you rather disapprovingly right NOW…. 

I just had the best and worst sex of my life.

It started with an app.

And ended with white sheets stained by a transparent brown sludge.

Casual sex when you’re a gay man is an interesting ball-game (pun!) – especially when you’re meeting for the first time. You smile, shake hands and make polite small talk about the nice area and beautiful weather, all whilst silently eye-stabbing each other with daggers of vicious lusty evaluation.

You’re aiming to score in sixty seconds. You’re trying to appear confident, sexy, indifferent and internally charged with a horny, unquenchable energy all at once. You’re Billie Piper in Secret Diary Of A Call Girl, give or take an enviable British accent.

That was me barely an hour ago, as I made swift spontaneous plans to meet this great-looking guy via one of those Something-r “dating” apps which bring booty-calls into the technological gizmo orgy of the 21st century. It’s a world I’m still not quite familiar with, but the routine’s rules are universal: coffee, shit, shower, shave, taxi.

It was all immensely promising: great guy, great body, great apartment, no notable boils to speak of, no blood-stained axe hanging in the closet. Our polite small-talk about the sunny faux-winter weather and view of the Opera House lasted approximately 80 seconds before we were going at it. This is great! Straight to the point! With a good hour to spare before I had to be at work! I am a sexy, confident stallion with an animalistic passion vibrant enough to keep anybody peaking atop the edge of my raging, unquenchable sex appeal!

And then I shat. Sorry to be so crass and upfront about it. I’m sorry. That’s what happened.

I’ll put it less crudely: excreted. Relieved myself. Released a surprise, if you will. Gave way to the expulsion of Willy Wanker’s Downstairs Chocolate Factory. Goodbye, glamorous Call Girl illusion.

Look, it’s hard, okay.

Two guys roughing it out with a passion only Samantha Jones could rival, trying to be spontaneous and unpredictable. Before you know it, things are going into places. Scary places. Places only gay men and more adventurous women generally deign to explore. Places that remind you that hey – maybe that instant coffee thirty minutes ago wasn’t your smartest idea.

Yes, I’m referring to the back door. The chocolate starfish. The Hershey Highway. The dirt he drops the bucket in (credit to Offspring Season 1 for that last metaphor).

For a beautiful half-second I thought perhaps he wouldn’t notice. Perhaps he wouldn’t realise his beautiful snow-white Egyptian cotton bedsheets had been stained by my rebellious bowel movements. Maybe I could convince him I was half-man, half-Easter Bunny, and this was actually a deliciously generous offering from my kind.

But no. The deed was done, the illusion was dead, and the thirty-minute App Romance had plummeted to a fiery death by half its life expectancy.

My mind was moving faster than a Tinder swipe: do I speak? Do I just get up and leave? Do I apologise for the abrupt eruption, crying and begging for forgiveness? Will the physical act of crying and begging for forgiveness only make my bowels angrier?

But despite all the odds, it turns out the bad press surrounding casual sex is the equivalent of the Murdoch press covering Australian politics. Completely unfounded.

The guy was a complete gentleman. He stuck around for the big finish, ignoring the translucent sludge beneath us (santorum… the kids call it santorum) and then gently offered me to use his shower before work, so I could uh, “get myself cleaned up.”

And you know what? There is a connection to consider here. There is a deep and abiding connection between casual sex and my bowel movements.

Apps like Tinder, Blender, Grindr and the million Othr root-and-boot devices have allowed us to effectively dehumanise each other. To reduce the immediate population around us to a one-second swipe, a Block button, a notification, a “hay bby im horni lez root.”

We’re all about putting our most perfect self forward – the part with the filtered photo, the witty one-liner, the glamorous meet-and-greet and the heavenly climaxes. But when you dig a little deeper, there’s more. There’s someone who isn’t perfect – someone who has a one-off unseemly incident – and someone who is human enough to deal with it like a gentleman. And that, people, is as close to romance as these things can get. Because sex isn’t perfect.

That said, I think we can safely conclude my courteous “It was nice meeting you” follow-up text will not receive a response.

Alright everyone. Time to make like you’re 16 and reading DOLLY Doctor once more – want to share any horribly embarrassing sexual experiences?