The Gay Lottery

There are times in every gay's life, when their numbers come up. It's a personal thing - maybe it's partnership legislation, a new drug, an undiscovered Steps megamix, or... well, probably it's getting the captain of the rugby team.

But you know what I mean. It's A Good Day where Lovely Happens. Friday was just such a day. A long boring afternoon of dull choices - haircut? return electrical equipment? hoover? write letter to council? - resolved itself fairly inevitably into prowling the corridors of a gentleman's sauna, wearing a towel and a hopeful expression.

Sadly, I suddenly found myself in a stalker chain. I'm not sure if there's a better way of describing it - but, suddenly, someone attractive walked in, and I followed him faily casually into a sauna cabin. At which point, I realised I wasn't alone, but that two other people had also followed him in there. All of us trying to look nonchalant, but serious and moody.

I caught the bloke's eye. We giggled. He left the sauna, chuckling.

I caught up with him and apologised. He shook his head, "It happens all the time."

What followed was a lovely afternoon hearing about someone's life that had perhaps been polished slightly for entertainment purposes, but who really cares?

Aiden was a South African money launderer, who'd been in the country for six years, professionally drifting between accountancy and porn. He was also one of those people who is very... lucky... horizontally. Put it this way - his gay lottery numbers came up regularly, and he'd frequently find himself... well, deflowering a firman on top of a fire engine, for example.

The only lack of luck he'd had was over his porn star name. I always wondered how people settled on a name - do you keep your first name but add an aggressive surname, such as, uh, "Thumper"? Or do you just start from scratch? Turns out, he'd spent a long time choosing a good name, but the director forgot what it was, and instead named him after the sadly drab London suburb he was living in at the time. Horrors. Imagine if he'd lived in Ealing Broadway?

Anyway, he was charming company and thoroughly entertaining. So much so that I lingered on a little longer than I should, occasionally trying to phone my friend Mark, who I was seeing for supper. Hampered by bad mobile reception. Which meant that I ended up wandering around with Aiden and my mobile. Which was not, perhaps, the wisest thing.

Mark actually managed to get through. "Where are you? You're not still in the sauna are you?"

"..... yeah...."

"The table's booked for eight, ya whore. You on your way?"

"....pretty much there..."

"How much longer?"

"... five more minutes.... oh!... [giggled, whispered conversation] ... make that ten..."

"Right. Hang on. Are you, ah, okay?"

"nonononoo. Everything's fine. *ow!* No, it's Great. Really good. Yup. Very good indeed."

"I see."

***

Supper turned out to be lovely, and full of stranger tales. Mark and I ended up drinking with a gay rights activist and a gay doctor. The activist explained what happens on Gay Burns' Night, while the doctor told a very complicated story about winning the gay lottery in a country mansion on a snooker table with a Swedish club owner called Hellgay. Actually, that's less the lottery, and more Naughty Cluedo.