Tug of Love

Last night, two men fought over me. Or, more accurately, sulked.

I finally went out for a bit of Edinburgh gaying. Wherever I went, there were these two guys sat together. I got talking to them, and they turned out to be old friends, rather than boyfriends, and we got to talking, and drinking and talking.

Mike was an archivist from the Lake District. Peter, the more Irish one, said he'd been sucked off on Calton Hill by Gerry, the Big Brother gay. But nearly everyone I meet in Scotland's had him. There was a guy stood next to us, dancing in only a pair of tasselled leather trousers. He had a lot of muscles and no expression. He's out every night apparently, off his tits. He works in a store selling bodybuilding powder, and likes himself as much as he hates everyone else.

I forgot about Scotland's relaxed licensing laws, and suddenly it was half past four. Mike announced that he was annoyed. "We both fancy you," he said, despondently.

I pointed out that this wasn't necessarily a problem, but Pete was horrified. "Oh god no! We're just mates. We've never done... that - not even in Gran Canaria."

This was not perhaps the best time to start asking about the difference between circuit diagrams in series and in parallel, but I was very drunk and trying to make a point. Eventually, they started sketching out a rota at a cab rank, and I started to laugh.

Mike didn't think it was funny, at all. They were still rowing when they got in the cab. I always like it when men call. But never before have two men argued over who's going to call me first. And yet, at the same time, I'm sweetly convinced I'll never hear from either of them.