Would you tarry with young Prince Harry? From ginger minge to strawberry blonde, Circa’s own resident red-head Adrian Gillan on a crimson fetish, gay taunts and jibes and why reds now have cred, not just in bed.

Look around. One of Nature’s rarest assets, Red is reserved for emergencies and maximum impact: for strawberries and rubies, blood and brothels, roses and robes, fire and foxes, danger and devils, lipstick and wine. From dusky dawns to juicy cherries, Nature is saying “watch out boys” or “come and get it”!

So is it jealousy perhaps that has somehow subverted the genetic grace and birthright of a red mop into some risible curse, not least amongst boys? The jokes in the showers still echo, the last resort put-down still hurts - up there with my worst nightmares of gay-hate, and still widespread, not least amongst gays.

As queers, above all, might know: to be different - to stand out from the jeering crowd - is indeed a mixed blessing. And the pressure has proved too great for some with crimson curls. Instead of flaunting their crowning glory, internalised ging-phobia has mislead many a red-head into denial, wearing silly closet hats, shaving or dying their pubic follicles or turning into that colourful clown to deflect demeaning darts.

The result? We’re hair-brushed from history and porn mag alike! There’d be hoards of horny red-haired role-models - from Greeks and Jews through to Scots and Celts - if only their colouring hadn’t been hidden or suppressed, except where used to abuse. If only queer Michelangelo had painted onto marble David’s ravishing red locks; if only Nero’d been photo’d or Cagney and Tracy shot in colour. Moreover, for every Robin Cook, there’s a Iwan Thomas; for every Chris Evans, a nice Nicky Butt.

And ironically - should a red’n stand his ground - for every boy who flees or jeers, there’s also one who drools and leers. I’m for ever astounded at the number of guys who fancy us as fetish. Red hair denudes and exposes. At high risk of ridicule, it’s vulnerable, striking and strips you quite bare - like some “I’ve got ginger minge” sticker slapped to your forehead, as honey lines draw down the bee.

Dubbed “Duracell” at school after my “copper-coloured top”, I’ve always felt a soft-spot and solidarity for my red-maned mates - an unspoken mutual and almost carnal knowledge and communion. Naturally, there’s red and then there’s red: a spectrum from pale strawberry blonde, through auburn and ginger to luminous carotene neon - the redder, the more stripped and brazen, shameless and teasing, sexy and risky, so often set off against deep-dazzling sea-blue eyes! And as for two reds in a bed!

Of course, gay red-tops Andy Bell and Jimmy Somerville can croon for England, but there’s only one Gay Icon in the land these days. Blue-blooded cutsie, fiery Harry - who doubtless gets his red creds from feisty William the Conqueror or Henry VIII - has stolen a march on hunk Prince Willy, inspiring countless private moments amongst a whole new generation of young male red-blooded red-rinsers.

Top Five Red Male Horns

·          Prince Harry (royalty)

·          Nicky Butt (footballer)

·          Ewan McGregor (actor)

·          Iwan Thomas (athlete)

·          David (smote Goliath; sculpted by Michelangelo)

Bolly exploding in office when arrive for usual Monday morning report. Celebrating 10,000^th Circa member, so smiles and congrats all round – to me for my “blue sky”; to ex-pal Will for his “member management”, said Boss, with not a little innuendo, and leading naturally enough into my suggestion for a “Circa Birthday Suit” naturist break, at which Boss laughed so much, I almost called a doctor. When calmed down, she pulled me to one side and whispered, “So sorry to hear ‘bout you ’n Willy. Prob for the best, tho’, hey? Never wise to mix business and pleasure.”

Drive Smart the 300 meters to my GP for the DNA swab on Tuesday morning. Takes ten minutes: the drive there that is - not the swab, which took ten seconds. Am anxious. OK: so I gave Sue my sperm. But maybe she was using other guys’ at the time of conception? Could have been bucket loads of the stuff swilling about down there, for all I know. Time will tell – should know in 4-5 days.

Make mental note to remove that lipstick from car door when get a spare moment. Lucky Boss missed it yesterday - “Gay W****” doesn’t exactly project core Circa messages. Woken by strange sound around 3am on Wednesday. Think Cous or Mous trying to get out. Noise coming from outside – kind of scratching at the door, mixed with occasional groans. Drag sister Kerrie in. She’d slumped and dozed off on the landing, reeking of Vodka. Place her in recovery position on rug by sofa. Stays unconscious throughout massive row at breakfast with Josh, who spends most of his time at Will’s these days. I suggest - if he’s hardly staying here, and isn’t paying the rent - he may as well move his things out, so I can get a proper lodger in. He accuses me of emailing Will that personal online profile, out of spite – adding that the rouse failed: ‘cause “we love each other”! Puke. I deny all knowledge and say I’ve no feelings for Will whatsoever – he’s just a boy. Whereas the Boy Next Door is “a real man”. Girl Next Door screams through the wall for us to, “Shut the f*** up!” I tell her to go f*** herself. Finally get “Gay W***” lipstick scrawl cleaned off Smart, on Thursday

Just cruising Soho’s periphery, lapping up attentions, when, who should I meet at the lights on Wardour Street but Izzy Cooke  - at the wheel of a swish new open-top Smart, emblazoned down the side with “Cake TM”? “As in ‘caked in mud’?” I shout across. “As in ‘having it and eating it’ – look out for the ads for the new restaurant,” he shouts back, before revving off as lights change. What a crappy name, think I, resolving to egg the motor, or smear it in some eponymous creamy cake if I ever spot it parked near mine

Kerrie still unconscious when get back early evening, snoring soundly. See Adam for first time since our night of lust – bump into each other on stairs, Friday noon. Says Girl’s been giving him hell. Tell him all about the lipstick and the photo I took. Have quick catch-up lunch together at Mucho Macho, the new gay Spanish diner on Frith Street. Boy confides Girl’s especially frantic these days since been trying to have a baby for months – doc says his count’s low, so they may have to use a sperm bank. But that takes time and money; and they’re getting desperate. Say I’m sorry, wish I could help - but no way after Toby saga! Says doubts what happened last Friday night will happen again. Having tried it – at least with Josh and me – he’s not sure it’s really his thing, “no offence”. “None taken,” say I, thinking, “Who the hell’s he kidding.” He heads off after coffee

Suddenly feel very horny – been a drought this last week. Cruise Old Compton Street; back to flat, stepping over sis (bless!) on way to bedroom PC, for online encounters. Beg anything conscious and under 35 to “come and get it”. Rather obsessed with one guy, who “blocks” me after I start offering cash. Back to lounge to fix self drink. Kerrie gone. What a girl!

DNA results letter drops through door on Saturday morning. Physically sick as open. Apparently I’m 99.999% likely to be Toby’s father; only a 1 in 640,000 chance I’m not! Good enough for you Sue? Drag Adam along to gym health suite, where he flops around, starkers. Could still smell Girl’s perfume on his cheeks en route; makes me restless. Only as relax in steamer do I realize how stressed out the DNA test had made me. Mightily relieved to still be a dad; although had mentally prepared self for a kind of grieving process, had needs must! Also muse on how things have changed between me and Josh in recent weeks; resolve to try to sort things out asap. Go down a storm at informal Circa-dominated drinks party in the evening – photos spotted in Capital Queer!

Lunch with Josh on Sunday who gives me cash – “rent pays his rent” think I! First time spent time together in ages. Says Will off on some week-long Buddhist retreat. Says now given up escorting - kept catching things! Now thinking of retraining – as a councilor! Also says wants kid, though will “do it properly, not like you”. I mention the Boy-Girl situation, in confidence – think a bun in the oven might calm mad Girl down. Say I’ll sensitively raise with Boy. We even have a giggle - first time in ages. Agree to take break in Gran Canaria next weekend – shared room, twin beds… just like old times! Book online.

Phone mum. She says Kerrie apparently woke up in strange flat on Friday! Got out quick! “How funny,” say I, “Not spoken to her in ages!”

Pop into office Monday, as per norm, fair skipping up the spiral steps, daringly vaulting Boss’ treasured fluffy puss-balls.

Present latest Big Idea: Circa could press release its “Top 100 Gay Male Professionals” list – a bit like the annual Indy list, but just featuring gay male professionals; and actually voted on by gay male professionals, rather than the back-of-a-fag-packet, fingers-in-air, back-stage, smoke-room poll that title churns out. Boss, half listening, points out of window.

I walk over and stare: the Circa Smart! Yippee! Rush out to view, all shiny and dark blue – just like the website. Circa globe logos on each door and bonnet – plus very discreet “club for gay pro men” round the back. Dart off in it back to Soho before can scarce say thanks. Wanna start grabbing attentions - plus late for therapist, whose latest theory is that I’m mildly transsexual - says explains my desire to be dominated by very butch men.

Walk to car Tuesday morning, parked round corner from flat – just outside the pedestrianised area, near one of Soho’s many “pungent” alleys.Take to car-wash; then drive all of two hundred meters to a big charity fundraiser just off Oxford Street, in aid of EuroPride. Park car next to some Jag or Roller (hardly know my Minis from my Bentleys), from which Lord Ali emerges from, along with a couple of bright young things. He’s always got a few in tow when I spot him in the clubs – lovely guy, very clever. Admires my wee car. Am too in awe to mention Circa; or even point to our logo. Some networker me!

Carwash again on Wednesday. All scrubbed up, put it in the secure underground car park opposite my flat. Not cheap, but Boss gives nod. Back. Exhausted, after intense day meeting-n-greeting London’s top bar managers, wooing them to host joint events. Crash out. Cruise online. Josh! Dog-walking my arse! “BentRent69: around the clock, in or out”! They’re all at it! Profile pic shot in heavy shadow but I’d know those eyes and that little pear-shaped chin mole anywhere. Well-equipped; bigger than he looks down our gym showers. Make contact using one of my (many) own anonymous profiles; agree terms; then send him off to some fictitious address in Mayfair – probably some MP’s home! Whoops, email profile to Will too - too late now! Sleep well.

In hurry Thursday, late for business lunch. Rushing down to car in secure bunker compound. Spot Girl Next Door bending down, scrawling something on the Smart door. She turns, on hearing my mobile click as I take a gloriously incriminating photo. “GAY WHORE” on door. Nice writing. She stutters that it’s payback time for the postcard I obviously put through her door. “No time to talk now,” say I, getting in, ostentatiously slipping my mobile away, tapping it the while. “But, boys will be boys and better the devil you know. Any more trouble from you… you’re SHOPPED!” On way back from long lunch, early evening, see Boy Next Door exiting Tottenham Court Road tube. Offer lift back. Jumps in, noticing lipstick on door. “Some secret admirer,” I jest. Get chatting en route back. “Must be tough having a woman around all day - and night,” say I. We pull in, down quiet side road. Fall silent. Snog. “What a slapper,” think I, whispering, “Come, stay over. Your girlfriend  won’t be any problem.” 

Up Friday early-morning with Boy Next Door for unhurried breakfast – after a very long and noisy night; wonder what the Girl made of that? Boy about to leave… as Josh bursts in, with Will. “Thought you were in Sardinia,” he gasps. “Head off this evening,” say I, adding: “Nice time? At Will’s I presume? Day off work, Will?” 

Fly to Cagliari, main town on Sardinia, part of Italy; settle into old town hotel. Grab a bite, then booze at gay bar Nautilus; followed by gay club Fish. Lots of snogs – Italian’s love red hair – then bring one young Claudio back, very fit, with olive skin and a jet-black mane. Try out some of my so-so Italian with Claudio at breakfast on Saturday. He shows me around town on his moped, me knee-gripping his slim hips tight, – the lofty Piazza; the Duomo, where a wedding is progressing, not a gay one ; and archaeological museum, full of hunky statues of nude gods and emperors. Then on, to a nearby naturist beach, where Claudio jokes he needs shades to soothe the glare from my snow-white skin; and where – lolling and reddening – I get another idea for Circa (do I never switch off?!?)… a trip to a UK naturist beach for a Circa “Birthday Suit Party”? Good PR stunt. Will run past Boss on Monday. We dine. We bed. Hard to leave Claudio on Sunday.

I love Italian boys, even more than Spaniards, I think. Fly then tube it back to flat. Red light shows two messages. First from solicitor, left late Friday afternoon, just after I headed away – Sue’s latest ploy is to suggest I might not be Toby’s dad (apparently, I could have given her someone else’s sperm; perhaps a mate I had hidden in my flat!) and demanding a DNA test, parallel with any ongoing psychological assessments! Second message from sister, Kerrie – very slurred, hard to make out – says she’s leaving 5-star “Windows” clinic… says they’re all mad and making her worse… asks if she can stay… with… me. Delete both messages. Straight to bed, for sleep – my new best friend!

Willy wafts off to office Monday morning, leaving me draped in bed, beautifully drained. Will see him in a couple of hours anyway, since due in for my weekly report. We agree to keep our liaison hush-hush, since both dead against office affairs, as is Boss.

Josh drifts in for breakfast; clearly irritated and jealous by my romantic coup. Flares into row as he threatens to spill my beans to Boss. I call him a lazy, unemployed bum, and moreover – vis-à-vis the Boy Next Door - a dirty, cheating “bi-baiter” (am chuffed with that). I remind him he’s also a fortnight in arrears on my rent. Cats upset at din, and Cous pees off balcony.

Into office. Say have been busy, although rather taken up with domestic issues (well-nigh winking at William). Boss points to wall – ZXN cover, bubbles and all. Passes me a copy - suggests I pop downstairs to read. Not bad, apart from the bubbles being spread too tantalisingly thin in places. Kittens look great. Shame about “Curca” misspell, growls Boss. Also moans she’s been sent another Italian invoice.  She reminds me I‘m scheduled for a webchat with members on the Circa site on Wednesday; plus a Capital Queer gay London mag photoshoot Friday afternoon. Take my leave of all, not least Will, suggesting we do another lunch soon (wink, wink). Pick up suit en route back. Can hardly see tear in the crotch. Tailor says has sewn a dozen spare buttons into lining, in case I have another “late night scuffle”.

Up Tuesday early-morning: Answer-phone light flashing. Separate messages from miserable newly-weds Alaistair & Matt; slagging each other off and inviting me out to respective drinks-cum-bitch-fests. Tricky since we all go back years, daren’t take sides. Have to say, all fills me with dread. Can’t see the point of marriage now, gay or straight – why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to lock themselves together for life. What are they trying to prove? Who to impress? Apart from the tax man!  Love is what love is. And rich Matt could lose a fortune to poor Alaistair! 

Meet Will for lunch on Wednesday. Just sipping coffees when – now, there’s a coincidence - Josh strolls past our table, and greets us through the open window. “Looking for a job, they’re short-staffed here?” I ask. Josh ignores and passes paper with number through to Will! Then trolls off. Damn! 

“Webchat anyone? Anyone there?” I type nervously, having arrived early, even – how committed am I? – wearing a suit, though not even on cam. A few seconds later, the screen flickers to life. AmazingStud says, “Need advice… joined a firm, moonlighted as escort; when found out… blackmailed into leaving. What would you do… Spencer?” Damn: Tom, come back to haunt me. Click on “BLOCK”; apologise to any other chatters, that we seem to have lost AmazingStud. Converse with others online for next hour or so - about gay employment rights.

Meet rich Matt for a late night drink – distraught; says can’t wait for divorce; accuses poor Al’s eyes of straying and fears could lose his holiday home on the Costa d’el Droll. “Not bad for three weeks’ ‘work’, the poor lazy bum!” he spits of Al.

Bump into Boy Next Door on stairs Thursday morning. Not spied since girlfriend back – they must have been very busy! He’s embarrassed; and clearly irritated about that stray postcard. Say sorry to see him so agitated (tho’ secretly not had such fun since ousted Tom). Card must have been a mistake, say I; probably originally delivered to the wrong flat, whose owner then likewise mis-delivered it. Add that arguments often bring people closer together – “chin up”. Ask when girlfriend’s next away? Not for ages. Shame. 

Evening drinks with poor Alaistair. Distraught – says Matt can’t keep his eyes off boys and is already accusing little him of being a gold-digger; but how’s he expected to go out and work, what with his chest and back? 

Bump into Minty on Dean Street Friday afternoon. Rich fellow; minor gay celeb; made fortune from some dull Art Gallery in Mayfair also stood (unsuccessfully) as Tory councilor, in Barking or somewhere; penchant for pheasant shooting. Mentions thinking of setting up an Erotic Art Gallery as there are only so many landscapes you can look at in your life. Invite him to our next meet, he declines. Wish him luck and say gotta dash to photoshoot for top London mag, doing a profile on me… he struts off in his tweeds. Head onto weekly Bridge gathering, straight after shoot. Some Circa crew present - life insurance man hitched himself along, still hanging in there – introduce him to our Reverend. They’re both forever banging on about mortality!

Pop down to gym Saturday morning, since missed last week when too busy food shopping ahead of big romantic meal with Will. Strangely: can’t wait for chanting at Queeros of Soho in eve. Not seen Will in a week. Will’s late. Time passes. Will doesn’t show. Mobile on divert. Stroll back to flat around 11pm – ravenous, couldn’t eat that veggie hash. Josh out. Book trip to Sardinia for next weekend. Fall asleep next to kittens. 

Up late Sunday, after refreshing sleep. Pop out to get some milk and a paper. Use newsagents at Leicester Square since regular Soho shop sold out. Spy Josh, brunching outside at a corner caf in the distance. With Will. Go home. Can’t read or eat. See Josh later; mention nothing. Says I’ll soon have my rent - starting some dog-walking biz, or something, with a friend - to tap the Pink Pound. Says is mut-mounds of cash to be made in Soho, what with all those big-muscle gay pro guys, all too busy to walk, or even show-off, their little toy dogs. Don’t bring any back here I warn; Mous and Cous’d have kittens. Despite being spayed. And male.