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Sunday, 8 January 2012


Wednesday, 4th January 2012

I don't know why I’m going on this date. I don't even think I like the guy, he's not even my type at all. But I endeavor to go, so I slip on my new pair of skinny leg jeans and sweater that I bought from Pull & Bear. They might be a bit too tight, but it will do. I slip a pack of smokes into my jacket, just in case the date goes badly.  

Saturday, 17th December 2011

I met him at G.A.Y Bar, Soho, a few weeks back. As I'm walking to the “dance floor” this guy grabs my hand. “Hello” he says as he pulls me towards him, in a slightly creepy way. He's not my type at all, but I was being social so I stayed to chat to him and his friend. His friend advises me that he has a thing for ginger guys. I'M FUCKING STRAWBERRY BLONDE! But if it gets me guys I suppose I'll let them call me ginger, might be a growing trend. We chat for a little while longer and then it's off to the “dance floor” with my Swedish friend so that we can stand around waiting for everyone else to dance. Since it's only G.A.Y Bar, this rarely happens. So instead we watch the screen where people text in if they find a guy hot, secretly I'd love one to come up about me, but all I get is these wise words of wisdom “Clench your left fist, it stops your gag reflex”. You know you are a slut when you instantly want to see if this works. So I look around for a guy to try it on. 

The creepy ginger addict is now chatting to a cute blonde guy with glasses near the bar. I head to the bar and stand right near them until we all start chatting, and I start getting to the stage of drunk where my standards are low, actually, non-existent. The creepy ginger addict moves in for the kill and I make out with him, not for long, maximum 30 seconds. As we are making out I feel someone rubbing my crotch. It's not the creepy ginger guy; it's the blonde boy with glasses, who turned out to be American. When I stop making out with the creepy, ginger addict, he turns to the American blonde and starts making out with him too. It gets a bit too weird so I order another drink to sort out the problem. By the time I return with my drink the creepy ginger is leaving, as he leaves his friend asks for my number to give to him, I give it to him because I'm drunk and they would probably forget me by the morning and that I had given them my number. So the creepy, ginger addict and his friend disappear into the night, to watch red-head porn or something, and I'm left there now making out with the blonde American boy with glasses (the same American that I would ditch at G.A.Y Late, right before meeting the Brazilian architect).

Thursday, 29th December 2011

I was waiting for the Brazilian architect to text me. We had organised to go to a movie to see “My Week with Marilyn”. Instead I get the text;

“How funny, I've just found your number written on a napkin in my cupboard, which my friend left there before Christmas (the first time I've cooked since). You've been living next to lentils for two weeks.”

I respond with WTF are lentils and that I have no idea who he was. We continue to send texts back and forth and after a week we organised this stupid date that I was about to go on.

Wednesday, 4th January 2011

“Thank god, you've just saved me from reading a chapter on child sacrifice”.

The first words out of his mouth. I should have run then. I should have walked straight out and saved my money. Who on earth thinks that child sacrifices are a good conversation starter? Obviously creepy, ginger addicts do.

We met at the Boheme Kitchen for a very expensive glass of wine. I was running a minute late so I offered to buy the first round. Should have checked the prices first. When it came to his round, he suggested we go to a restaurant instead. We head to Giraffe on the corner of Frith and Bateman Street. It's classy, with a modern d├ęcor, but lacking in any particular wow factor to the design, with plastic tables and chairs (I hate cheap plastic tables and chairs). The food is really good though and not too expensive, I had an amazing duck stir fry, and a dirty martini (because I'd been craving one all day, might be signs of oncoming alcoholism).

The ginger addict forced the waitress over with his constant stares to take our drinks order. We order. After a few minutes he stares her down again to order food and waves his hand at her. As someone who works in a restaurant, I really, really hate when people do this. I apologise to the waitress when she comes over. We order our food. “She could have brought our drinks over with her” says the ginger addict. Well, I had order a martini and they don't just pour it out of a bottle I tell him. We start chatting more as the meals and drinks arrive and I put the terrible introduction and his treatment of waitresses down to nerves. I try to get to know who he is, so we chat about what we do for work, I bore him with my long speech about how I'm working in a bar for now, but hate it and want to get back into event management and marketing, or maybe even PR. I see he's dreadfully bored so I ask him about his work and travel. He then starts to list all the wine districts in Italy, and I mean all of them. The meals over, and so is his talking, finally!

We go to the Edge for a few drinks afterwards. It's quiet as it's the week after NYE. The creepy, ginger addict still complains about the slow service, I'm ready to hit him. Instead I grab a copy of BOYZ, the gay scene magazine, to keep me busy whilst I ignore his arm trying to get around me and his face getting closer. I flip the pages and land on a page of pictures from an amateur strip night. In the bottom right is this really hot blonde guy, obviously the winner, and he's standing there covering his crotch. “Does he have ginger pubes” says the ginger addict. I try to ignore him and let out a forced laugh that clearly says WTF. “I bet you're the expert in that though” he says. What?!? “Well you have ginger hair so I'm guessing you must see it every day”. OK I'm fucking strawberry blonde, and when the fuck did asking someone about their pubic hair become appropriate conversation on a date. I thought this was the worst of it, next I know he moves onto the conversation of Australians. My favourite quote would have to be that “An Australian should be proud to be called a normal guy at a middle class standard”. This is because apparently Australian's are simpletons according to this wanker that can list all the wine regions in Italy.

It's finally time to leave as I've got an interview the next day. He walks me to Tottenham Court Station. “You're not very flirty tonight, are you”? Really? Did he not see how bored I was when he talked endlessly about wine regions I'd never heard of, or about his book on child sacrifice, or that Tchaikovsky’s nutcracker is some of the greatest music ever made, or that he saw a BBC documentary about the use of child labour in Primark? Maybe I'm a simple 'middle class' Aussie but I like talking about trashy TV, music from this year and books that don't involve the murder of children! I also don't like discussing my pubic hair on a first date, or being called simple, or dates that are rude to wait staff!

We get to Tottenham Court Road. I'm catching the district line and he is catching the northern, so we stop in the middle of the station before parting our ways. There's a violinist playing at the end of the walkway, almost romantic if it wasn't such a terrible date. He looks like he's waiting for a goodbye kiss. I can't do it though. The date was such an utter failure that I refuse to do it, so I let him know I will text him. He is still staring at me. I take a deep breath and give him one quick kiss on the lips, no tongue, just a peck. He's smiling at me. The creepy, ginger addict is smiling at me. Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, I think he thinks it meant something. So I run. I say I'll text him one last time and then I run past the violinist and down the corridor to the District Line. I check to make sure he hasn't followed me. I'm free! I get off the train; light my smoke and walk home, alone, with a slight fear that he is following me home.

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

Prologue: The Traveling Brazilian (Pre-2012)

So the story begins at Heaven in Soho, London, on a Friday night just before Christmas 2011, with a traveling Brazilian architect.

After being refused entry into G.A.Y Late (as my Swedish friend and I turned a simple security check, where we had to raise our arms, into a rendition of YMCA) we stood out the front in the smoking area with the American boy I had picked up earlier on in the night. As with all American's he didn't take our rejection well and after a few minutes deciding what to do, he wandered off to have words with the bouncer. 

At that point the brazilian architect walks over and starts chatting with us. I can't remember what we talked about, but it eventuated with us walking to Heaven. Once there I bought him a drink, a sign that I'm getting old or desperate as I am just used to having the drinks bought for me, not the other way around. After parting with my precious cash we walked into the room out the back that normally plays disco music. But tonight they had redecorated it into a late night theatre. So at 3am in the morning, wasted, surrounded by sweaty, horny and lonely gay men, I sat there with stars floating around the room watching the classic Christmas movie, Home Alone I with a Brazilian architect. He leaned over, and I turned my face away so that I could hear him. Then I realised he was trying to make out with me, and I had just given him my ear to make out with... I really take a while to clue on when someone is keen. 

I brought him home to my shoebox room with single bed included and we had the best sex I'd had in 2011. At one point he lifted up my legs so that my feet almost hit the roof, I'm not sure what position this is in the Karma Sutra, but fuck it is a good one! It's 5am when we finish. I start work at 8am. I set my alarm for 7 and we fall asleep in my tiny single bed. The tiny single bed that I thought could barely even ffit me, but for some reason I was really comfortable with him in it.

2 hours later.... 

My alarm goes off and it's time for work. I step out of bed and spill one of the beers we were drinking when we got home. Slightly tempted to drink it so that atleast I won't have to deal with the approaching hangover.

I write him a note that say's “Hi A (thank god I remembered his name), thanks for last night it was fun. The bus you need to catch is the 207. You just leave the house, turn right and you'll see the bus stop at the end of the road. My number is 07*** *** *** if you want to catch up again”. My handwriting looks shit. My spelling is terrible. Why did I write it in bright, red sharpie? I chuck it in the bin and start again with a pen.

More Coming Soon