Boss calls, when am en route to Monday morn mews meet, to say my presence not required; asking that I kindly drop the Circa Porsche off at the Boy’s lofty home, so he can use “to and fro for work” – he being at home today, working on his volunteering site. Which I duly do. Buzz up to him just to say the Porsche is outside; and to wish him well with his new part-time job. No response after initial “hi”, save for an awkward, embarrassed silence.

Inge pops round, Tuesday morn, when hears my news – from Kev, via Em. Kindly gives me a quick full-body massage; both relaxing and arousing, as of yore. Sets mind to thinking. Ask Inge if he could do me a favour by donning a suit and doing a publicity-driven office-crawl, offering Circa-branded head-‘n-shoulder workouts to weary city bods during lunch breaks, with press agency snapper duly in tow. Agrees, so long as his face hidden in shots – just his humungous hands and arms on show.

Woken early by both landline and mobile ringing, Wednesday morn. Kev on one; Josh on t’other – both bidding me pop out to buy certain newspapers, carrying pics of yesterday’s office crawl photo-stunt. No need to, tho’; Inge’s very own powerful arm is soon fisting my front door, he bearing a clutch of newspapers under the other. Has been up at crack, just to scour business pages and check his face appeared in none – which it thankfully didn’t! Fab shot, used by most, of a FTSE 100 chief exec: eyes shut, face contorted and grimacing like a guzzling pig - as Inge’s heaving hands claw and knead into said biz bod’s well-fed chin and neck… various headlines and captions, ranging from “The CEO and the gay masseur” to “queer relief”. Circa mentioned in all pieces; website address in most! Have to be blind or dead to miss this story. Again, Kev emails throughout day to update me on the surge of new interest.

At long last, Boss calls Thursday afternoon: tho’ not to congratulate re  my saucy massage photo-coup, nor even to mention it; but rather to ask that I return all four of my work suits to the tailor in Knightsbridge by the end of the week, so he can duly “process them as part of our Circa Suits-for-Tramps scheme”. Straight fireman on the line, last up at Switchboard stint, come eve. Claims was ordered to man a stand by his pro-gay employers at an LGBT employment fare recently; thereby supposedly being forced to suffer a “sustained barrage” of verbal and physical abuse, including drunken gay graduates asking to “feel his hose” - some even flipping their own horned-up hoses out at him! Says he’s not remotely homophobic; but could he mount a claim for sexual harassment against his employers, or the conference organizers? Say haven’t got a clue; but don’t see why not! Would a woman “manning” a stall at a rugger convention have to put up with any less? Very sexy, manly voice! On brink of saying he’s making me all hot and sweaty; and could he maybe pop over now to stoke my fire!

Second weekend away in Spain this month! Encounter mucho macho Med men at a bullfighting fest in the revitalised gay Mecca of Malaga – gateway to, and heart of, the queer Costa del Sol! Gazing down from the old Moorish Gibralfaro Fortress, one quickly takes in the mighty Malagan metropole – brick-buttressed Alcazaba, ancient Roman Theatre, Picasso’s Birth Place and the stunning new Picasso Museum, all at the foot of the hill; the shady Paseo del Parque (Park Promenade), leading to the massive Cathedral and fountained Placa de la Constitución; and the grandiose Town Hall (Ayuntamiento) and bloody Bullring! There’s something blatantly homoerotic about balletic, swaggering young men in lurid tight-fitting outfits goading, dominating and finally penetrating proud yet dumb bulls. Also bask in sunny Marina and Harbour, plus sandy Malagueta Beach due east. And no trip to Malaga would be complete without a trip out west to one of the many gay-frequented beaches, easily accessible by car, not least Las Dunas at Cabopino - the most popular local beach-dune complex whereat gay gents oft “take airs”. Olé!

Despite warning signals, major shock at Monday morn mews meet. Arrive to find until hitherto recently AWOL Boy - moody he, of childless saga - parked at my HQ PC screen, next to a sheepish Kev, who clearly knows more but daren’t let on. Boss somehow descends the wrought-iron spiral stairwell slowly, in stilettos, her long silky yellow dress trailing precariously behind – some paper in one hand, just-fed-so-docile Birman in the other – and comes to rest scarce a meter from myself. Explains she’s drafted Boy in part-time, three-days a week, to “try to move things on”, to search out whole new tactics for member sign-ups; not least via all his new charity contacts from his volunteering website – which he’ll still be maintaining the remaining two days of the week. Boy looks pretty shameless; Kev thankfully more abashed – tho seems he ‘n Kev have definitely “made up”, both equally humbled by Inge’s self-evident paternity. Overcome by an intense feeling of injustice and betrayal all-round; I swiftly swivel and leave.

Lie in bed ‘til late afternoon, Tuesday. No energy or reason to rise. Joshua rings, having heard the news from Kev - after a long chat, persuading me to mount a “fight back”, to shine and prove my worth. Suggests, for starters I join him at an evening uni lecture, in order to network with some of the more professional, part-time students, thereafter. Fascinating seminar about famous British closets who chose - even after UK decriminalisation in 1967, and for a variety of reasons, largely understandable - not to “let on”, at least officially. Including actor and writer Dirk Bogarde – who, although never afraid to take on queer characters, never came out himself; actor Alec Guinness – who, as posthumously disclosed, was charged with committing a homosexual act in a public lav in Liverpool in the late 40s; singer Freddie Mercury – the flamboyant bi, who managed to keep his sexuality secret until his death from AIDS in 1991; and Kenneth Williams – who, though hardly needing to out himself, one might have thought, described his own proclivities, in a posthumously-published private journal he kept, as “the preponderant sexual problem”; plus dear old Frankie Howard – Oo, Miss-us? We surely do Frankie!

Mercifully, last night’s nocturnal foray starts to pay off soon: not just through a number of sign-ups on-the-spot; but when am asked by media to comment on the tabloid outing of yet another closet senior politician, Wednesday morn. Delivering the usual gubbins about the rightness of only outing “hypocritical homophobes” – those that are homophobic whilst also gay themselves – I express sympathy for this latest individual since they had a good pro-gay track-record; whilst acknowledging that public figures do, of necessity, sacrifice at least some of their privacy, and that it is important for them to use their position to “lead by example, not via a process of secrecy and shame”. After yesterday, am now well-armed to rattle off some of the most dramatic and significant outings of the last two decades: Sir Ian McKellen (1988) – celebrated actor, who outed self in a peak of passion on live radio, before co-founding and spearheading Stonewall; Michael Barrymore (1995) – once one of Britain’s most successful entertainers, yet still haunted by the death of a young man in his private pool; Stephen Gately (1999) – former Boyzone crooner, whose revelation was doubtless so nobly aided by The Sun; Will Young (2002) – angel-voiced Pop Idol winner who “used” The News of the World; and, most recently, Lord Browne (2007) – former BP boss, who stepped down after admitting lying in Court. But where are all the top sporty bods and prominent religious figures, I plea?

Bike thick wad of the morning’s press clippings round to Circa HQ, first thing Thursday. Make follow-up call to Boss, post lunch. Told by somewhat distant, dreamy Boy that Boss “far too busy” to come to phone. Kev emails shortly after to say how sorry he is re current situation, adding he’s getting 50+ new sign-ups per hour, online; something he solemnly swears to relay to Boss. Also says I shouldn’t be too hard on Boy; thinks he’s undergone some kind of mental breakdown over the baby fiasco; just taking the extra job to help pay off some of his legal and interior décor debts; nothing more sinister. Dine with Joshua ‘n Charlie at Nutty’s in the eve. Passing such a pleasant couple of hours with an old flatmate and neighbour – not even dimmed by Charlie’s occasionally annoying presence - makes me forget my current woes; but also makes me feel all the more lonesome on my return.

Karl rallies round too, on hearing my news. His private judge client has already advanced him more money than he’d earned in his entire time at the gym. Karl kindly treats us both to a weekend away up at plush Prestonfield – the velvety chocolate-rich boudoir-style palace-cum-hotel just south east of Edinburgh’s centre! Pure colourful extravagant indulgence enjoyed by the likes of Elton John and Joan Collins! We sip champagne served by cute young waiters in jet black kilts in one of the many drawing room bars; fine dine at the Rhubarb Restaurant surrounded by art and antiques; and luxuriate amidst mounds of silk cushions in bedrooms looking out onto Arthur’s Seat and grounds full of peacocks all strutting their stuff. So amazing we completely forget to venture into Edinburgh itself to sample the city’s world-renowned scene and historic sites!

Boss pulls me to one side at Monday morn mews meet, purring coolly in my ear that she’s concerned about the quality of my work of late. Says I lack “essential bite and thrust” - suspects late Switchboard shifts are taking their toll - and asks if I still account myself “hungry to deliver”? Would I consider a job-share? Might that “liven things up”? Concede have perhaps been less PR-focused of late – and maybe been doing the bar rounds a little less oft – but argue I’ve increasingly been reaching the potential member masses, direct, via my many media columns. Boss unconvinced. Asks me to “ponder our little chat”. Spend evening at home, flustered; yet frantically calming Mous and Cous, as fireworks flash and echo around Soho’s already neon-lit streets.

Visit Em and her not-so-little sprog, Tuesday lunch. Sven “Thunder Clapper” already nearing Toby’s size; and almost pulling Em’s engorged breasts plain off her chest come feeding time. Em still very sore from where the not-so-mini-Inge forced his way out into this thankfully wider world; reminiscent – confides she – of the pain she’d endured at the blighter’s conception, beneath Inge’s almost unmanageable manhood.

Though somewhat shaken by Boss’ recent remarks, press on with Switchboard stints. Strangely addictive listening in on others’ woes; plus a truly worldly education. First up, Wednesday, an embattled gay primary teacher who says his school’s leadership still isn’t doing nearly enough to really change hearts and minds amongst fellow teachers, pupils, cleaners and cooks. Things like internally publicising the fact and significance of now-not-so-recent protective employment legislation; stressing that the old “Clause 28” never did apply to schools or teachers directly and was scrapped way back anyway; reviewing all practices and policies - notably the Equal Opportunity Policy and Anti-Bullying Policy - to ensure LGBs are explicitly protected or catered for; providing ongoing staff training on recognising and tackling homophobia, as well as specialist leadership training on culture change for Head Teachers; advertising for recruits in LGB media; including explicit EOP/inclusion statements in all such adverts and application packs; delivering LGB diversity training in all staff inductions etc; providing positive images of LGB citizens - past and present, famous or otherwise - in all relevant contexts; ensuring PSHE (Personal, Social & Health Education) openly and positively covers the whole range of relationship and family unit scenarios; developing the curriculum - not just Citizenship and PSHE, but also subjects like History, English, Drama and Media - to include appropriate LGB experience; agreeing how to respond to any pupil in class who uses words like “gay” abusively; marking LGB anniversaries like the Stonewall Riots in assemblies; inviting guest LGB speakers; using inclusive imagery and language in all posters, newsletters, school social invites etc; ensuring email filters don’t block LGB-related words; organising LGB interest groups for staff, where relevant; reviewing support procedures for LGB staff who wish to “come out”; and, basically, in everything said, or written, not assuming everyone is heterosexual!

Secondary teacher dials in, Thursday. “It is a personal matter,” battles the torn, closeted caller, who recently experienced a campaign of homophobic harassment by pupils which started when she was trying to stop students using “gay” as a term of abuse, but led on to students inappropriately asking her personal questions in lessons and then onto name-calling against herself - first in the classroom and then outside. “It’s undoubtedly beneficial for school communities to have ‘out’ positive role models, since that is partly how cultures change,” admits she, “and the school must now legally support teachers who chose to reveal their sexual identity. But - on the other hand - it is also no one’s business what someone else’s sexuality is!”

Swan off to spend the weekend amongst mucho macho Med men in the revitalised gay Mecca of Alicante - heart of the queer Costa Blanca! In the region of Valencia in south-eastern Spain, 300,000-populated Alicante - formerly ancient Lucentum, “City of Light” – rests, perched on the Med, attracting gay male mariners from far around. Fruity and fertile – noted for its wines, olives, almonds, oranges and dates – it is emerging triumphantly out of its Brit-gateway-to-beaches-and-Benidorm past to rediscover its ancient Christio-Muslim heritage and present-day quintessentially queer culture. I grab a cab up to gain mighty views from the ancient Castillo de Santa Bárbara castle that still dominates the bay, feasting on its excellent modern art collection, whilst up there, before descending on foot - via the oft-missed Santa Cruz district, with its stepped streets of whitewashed houses and atmospheric Plaza del Carmen - into El Barrio (Old Town), with its café-and-town-hall-dominated Plaza de la Ayuntamiento. After browsing the San Nicolás cathedral and Santa María church – I sweep across the bustling Rambla thoroughfare and down to the Explanada de Espaňa promenade, marina, heaving Playa del Postiguet beach; and – source of it all - the sea. Sample the excellent, spacious, brimming gay steamer too; provocatively tucked away beyond the testosterone-fuelled Plaza de Toros Bull Ring!

Sex, sex, sex: has the whole world gone bonking? Adrian Gillan meets the silent, simmering gays who - for various reasons - couldn’t give a f***.

Some are born not wanting it, some end up not getting it, and some just have a lack of sex thrust upon them! Some chose it, some don’t. Some pleasure themselves, some won’t. Some try it first, some never do. Some are happy, some are not.

And if you still think celibates are a homogenous, faceless minority of losers, and sex the route to all happiness, just consider the number of miserable queers you know who seem to do little else.

Mews somehow seems a million miles away from vast Welsh sandy beaches, Monday morn. Boss back in; non-bandaged hand straining to restrain her muzzled Birman, on leash. Fearful creature makes Mous and Cous seem like a pair of dormice, muse I. Pen Capital Queer column, in one of my occasional, though increasingly frequent, “anti-gay” moods, questioning the whole oft-overwrought notion of “gay pride”. Surely, argue I, “pride” in being gay is an understandable communal emotional and political response to decades of being made to feel shit about ourselves. But - not least as we become more and more equal under the law, here in the UK - and as attitudes ever-so-gradually become more pro-gay - pride loses its relevance, other than for those still battling with their own self-esteem. In an ideal world, one’s sexuality is just a part of you, like your eye or hair colour – no more, no less - nothing for a properly adjusted person to feel especially ashamed or “proud” of.

Ma calls, Tuesday lunchtime, to relay sis Kerrie’s latest mad plan: to get married to her heroin supplier - an illegal Algerian immigrant she’s got herself hooked on! Unable to marry in the UK, since here illegally, he plans – apparently - to marry her at a British embassy somewhere abroad before eventually returning, triumphant and legit, with his drugged-up wife. Appalling; not least since he might then have a claim on much of her estate. Bloody mess!

Feisty lesbian on line at Switchboard, Wednesday night – another fed-up female adamant that our male-dominated UK “gay community” is chauvinist; and that we queers can and should all do more, in terms of equality, to put our own LGBT house in order. “We live in a predominantly patriarchal society,” moans she. “And those values, and inherent behaviours, inevitably extend to the LGBT community. Just look at the way we use words. ‘Gay’ is now universally understood to refer to lesbians as well as gay men, plus bi and trans people. Yet, this shorthand short-changes and obscures those groups not explicitly mentioned. And just consider London Pride. As women, we now feel like we’re attending a lovely gay male friend’s party; certainly not our own! Most gay men are, I’m quite sure, oblivious to all this. But, as in wider society, our LGBT community needs its own infrastructure to internally examine equality issues. And, as for other aspects of equality our community has yet to fully address – re age, disability, race…”

All bulked up and nowhere to work. Karl snubbed by gym boss when goes cap in hand, Thursday morn. Can’t really claim unfair anti-gay dismissal either, say I; any employees found engaged in an orgy in their own public workspace would face the same fate! Karl firmly dismissive when I tentatively suggest he might temporarily work in porn or go on the game – pleading there’s far more to him than his mere amazing body. Suggest he go up-market, then, and troll his skills, as a personal trainer: to the rich and famous. Why be a poor cabbie when you can be a dripping chauffeur?

Karl snaps up first client, Friday eve, at informal Circa meet at Hampstead judge’s! One of our host’s High Court pals takes an instant shine. Public school type. Weaned on nannies and the fag system – holy combo of being looked after and beaten up having Karl firmly-yet-gently holding his hand in the gym – and/or the steam room – seems like a most natural progression! Overhear one guest saying that Gaydar co-founder, Gary Frisch - who tragically fell to his death earlier in the year, whilst under the influence of dugs - left an estate worth over £6.5m; most of it to his business partner and then-boyfriend. Interestingly, since the couple split up a few months pre Frisch’s death - never having entered into a civie p - the unfortunate beneficiary has to pay inheritance tax, of over £2m!

Steam with Inge, Saturday morn; Karl having been banned from ever setting foot on the gym premises again – privately or professionally. My former masseur says he’s still under therapy, working slowly but surely through his “gay issues”; and is still not at all at ease with being bi; tho’ admits having a kid has been a significant “boost to his own sense of masculinity”. Wish I could say the same re Toby. Sue’s undoubted maternal power over the tiddler has good as emasculated me. Give up trying to calm the weebie during one of his increasingly frequent temper tantrums, Sunday, in the park. Nipper basically wraps his entire clinging body around my head, raining punch upon punch, pausing briefly just the once - to strangle me. Having thus tired himself out; the sweetheart falls blissfully asleep in his gloating mummy’s arms