What follows is my third letter to Henry in the London based gay magazine reFRESH. Appearing in each publication, tackling relationship issues and written in a "Dear John" format, Henry - like a bad rash - just won't go away.

AND THIS LITTLE PIGGY…

Dear Henry,

You never cease to amaze me.

After I expressed to you in my previous letter the pain and fear I endured when applying your anal bleaching cream to a certain private part of my body, to show your apologies and concern you went out and did the most romantic thing. You got a tattoo. But not just any tattoo you'd find on an arm, chest or a leg. No, you chose the image of an extremely large bull's-eye with multi-colors and had it excruciatingly tattooed onto your exceptionally small bum with the epicenter guiding me right to your point of entry. (I guess in case I got lost?) And above that you had my name written as a tramp stamp. I'm never going to judge a gay man by his cover, again.

I was moved to tears as I'm sure you were too while they were soldering the indelible ink into your body. But Henry, you spelled my name wrong. AUTHUR. You must have found a copy of my latest novel. My "former" publishing house charmingly misspelled it that way, too. But I'm not a complainer; I'm a problem solver. So I was thinking you could try to turn the first "u" into an "r" but maybe it would be easier to change the second "u" into an "o". AUTHOR. If you do that, it's probably best you keep having sex with writers from now on.

But what you did next totally baffled me. I know that body piercings are common even among children. We see it all the time. Ears, eyebrows, navels and noses. But why did you go out and get a Prince Albert? And then adorn it with the world's biggest and heaviest titanium circular barbell? I find it amusing that you have to sit down to pee because you're spraying all over the place and I understand you did it for me but dear Henry, I'll never go down on that thing. I'm not chipping a tooth.

Still, it is important in relationships to push one's limits and step outside of your comfort zone to keep things fresh and alive. So, when you suggested that I go out on the town with you and your so called A-list friends to help you forget about the fact that you've recently lost your job and run out of money, of course I said yes.

The hippest, hottest, most happening bar you dragged me to is one that I was at when it opened almost 15 years ago. But when we walked in, there were only five people there. Us. So you scurried me downstairs to the lounge. There we found a gaggle of boys barely of age all dressed in floss like g-strings ogling three men in jock straps who were being interviewed on a stage. I still say it makes sense that I thought they were playing the "Dating Game". How was I to know they were porno stars? And why were they so short?

I admit I was a bit uptight so I took you up on your offer to swallow a little something that you said would take the edge off of things but darling, that was not a sedative. Why are you and your friends taking mixed amphetamine salts? A drug prescribed for children with attention deficit disorder? It kept me up for 14 hours in a state of euphoria and I still haven't gotten my appetite back! Hmm, I should send some to my Mother.

But I digress. After swallowing that bitter pill I was shocked to find out that you and your A-list gang of steroidal looking bodybuilders were all diabetics. I'm sorry that I walked in on you in the men's room with each of you injecting each other in the butt. My bad.

After I made my way back to the stripper lounge and ordered another drink suddenly things got a little fuzzy. The stainless steel bar felt just like your Prince Albert and as I stroked it lovingly, I slipped and fell knocking down one metal stool after another, just like dominoes. Everyone looked over including the vertically challenged porno stars and then they all promptly ignored me. Stuck to something on the floor, it was the bartender who eventually came around to my rescue and asked, "Are you OK, Pops?" Pops!

Finally when it was time to leave and you asked if I'd engage in a "spit-roast" I felt like a pig heaven. Who doesn't like a nice juicy slice of pork loin? You know I'm a huge foodie. What I didn't know is that it was going to be a threesome with you, your ex and me in the middle. Sorry, I'm not interested in that kind of sandwich.

Exhausted, I left the hippest, hottest, most happening bar alone and was horribly concerned when I couldn't reach you for days. You didn't answer your phone. You didn't answer your door. I was about to call the police when I realized they had called upon you. In today's paper there you were in all your glory. They had found you in the park hogtied from your genitals to your neck and buck-naked. They didn't name names but there was reference to a bulls-eye and the assumption that you were a writer who couldn't spell.

I may look a little conservative on the outside, but I'm just as piggy as the next guy on the inside. I'm sorry the authorities found certain illegal drugs stuffed into your clothes strewn about the bushes but now that you are incarcerated, I must think of my career and reputation. I can't date a convicted felon and I must turn down your offer for conjugal visits.

And it's imperative that we not see each other again.

Look at it this way Henry, jail is not a bad thing, especially for you. It's free rent, free food and I'm sure a lot free sex – whether you want it or not.

All the best,
Arthur