What kind of person is the first on the dancefloor? What magical combination of chemicals and balls makes you look at a square patch of glowing dry ice and decide to own it?
Whatever, it's a fact that being first on the dancefloor makes you the most noticed person in the room. Bad if you're Uncle Bernie at a wedding, but great if you happen to do it very well. You are the most attractive person in the room, and you can take home who you choose.
So why did Derek choose me?
It was in Glasgow. He strode into the club, smirked at the room, stepped onto the dancefloor, off came the top, up went the arms and "oh!" went the crowd.
And, at some point, he noticed me salute him. I have to point out, this was just a small fingers to the forehead salute. It wasn't like I was hailing a cab. But all of a sudden, the boy who couldn't keep his clothes on was dancing next to me.
"Come home," he said in the right kind of Scottish accent. "I've just been dumped by my boyfriend, and need the company. Just talk and hash. No shagging, okay?"
Fine by me. In a world where appearance is everything, so long as you leave with the best looking guy, who cares about the sex?
As we got ready to go, someone sidled up to me. "Just a warning. That guy you're with is a total poseur."
"Of course he is!" I replied. "I wouldn't have him any other way."
And with that, we left.
Of course, it's never that beautiful. Scottish men have an amazing ability to appear completely sober until they get out of the taxi.
At which point, Derek became a little hazy on whether he owned a string of houses and a business, or actually rented a small room and worked selling electrical goods door to door. Oh, and he'd already done a bottle of wine, four pints, coke, three Es and wanted to go out with me.
Somehow I got him up to his flat ("yer know, i'm so lonely here, that London isn't too far. I can move there... I knew as soon as i saw you that i was gonna be with you..." But I live in Cardiff. "Yeah, but London, well, that's nice. I could have who I want and I want you forever.").
At 2 am, we were sitting in the courtyard, swigging vodka from the bottle, smoking dope, and playing catch with his rottweiler, Cher.
His sense of balance had gone by this point, and Cher didn't much like me. Derek was also a little hazy on his own name ("'sRichard, you fool, 'sRichard..."). I'd noticed that the bills in the flat were all to the same surname but different first names. All of them red and scary.
Eventually, Cher decided it was time for bed, and growled at me. I carried Derek/Richard/Whatever up to bed. Then went back downstairs to find his trousers. Derek lay in bed. "We're not going to do anything," he murmured into his leopard print pillow. "Go on, try it. Lay a finger on me."
I laid a finger on him. He nearly broke my arm.
I stood there, amazed at how casually my arm was pinioned. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"Ju-jistu," he sighed, eyes closed, "You need it on the streets where I grew up."
"Clacton-on-Sea. Now, get some sleep."
So, I passed a virtuous night in bed with a beautiful mad man.
In the morning, he rolled over in bed, and his hand flopped onto my shoulder. Instantly awake, he sat bolt upright. "Gah! Who the fuck are you?" he yelled.
"Just kidding. Give us a fuck, would ya? I'm still wasted and I've got work in half an hour. Sober me up."
And so, I shagged him while his rottweiler watched. Anxiously.
Later, he phoned his (ex)boyfriend. "I miss you. I really miss you. I stayed in last night, and just missed you. I did. No, I did. I'm empty." While this was going on I started to dress, but with his free hand he made significant gestures at his crotch and a pleading face.
New entry on my list of things I'll never do: Fellate a bloke while they ring their boyfriend. Yay! A new standard to live by.
Oh. And he had tits like fried eggs.