The Comedian

The Comedian turns up on my doorstep just as my cold is finally going.
"Hello," he says.
"It's been a year," I say.
"There's never been anyone else," he says.
We both laugh.

The Comedian is fun. He's from the north, but studying theatre in Brighton. He's a stand-up comic, is about eight foot tall, and just seems to potter around amiably. His Dad lives somewhere in London, so every now and then he drops by.

He has a student flatshare in Brighton which has an internal stalker. "It was creepy originally, but now it's kind of reassuring. You know - if I ever fall over in the bath, I know there'll be someone on the other side of the door to call the ambulance. And, if I ever forget my keys, I know he'll be sat in the kichen in the dark, just waiting."

I once dated someone at uni who had a stalker. It was his ex, Piers (it was Oxford, so everyone had an ex called Piers). I remember after a house party. Mark had taken a lot of drugs, so we cleaned the flat until 5am, and then crawled into bed.

"Can you... smell cigar smoke?" I asked.

"Oh," said Mark.

Sat in a chair at the end of the bed was Mark's ex. Watching us. While smoking a cigar. "Please, don't mind me boys," said Piers, "Just carry on." PUFF.

It's creepy realising that stuff like this feels like it was just the other summer, but actually happened two decades ago. Almost before the Comedian was born. That's not funny.

Lessons I should have learned by now

HIM: "You won't be all weird in the morning, will you? "

ME: "No. Wasn't planning on it."

HIM: "Good. I hate it when people go all weird in the morning."

In the morning, he goes all weird.

Eurovison Prong Contest

"So," I say to Lee, "Have I told you about the Brazilian Lawyer?"

Lee rolls his eyes. "You realise there's a formula, don't you?"

What do you mean?

"Nationality + Profession, then some random detail and giddy clapping."

I go very quiet.

"Honestly, go check the shag rolodex that is your blog and you'll see."

Hum. Brazilian Lawyer, Czechoslovakian Punk Baker, Portugese Programmer, Romanian Rentboy. I'm really not sure what this means. Maybe I should try and learn a few more names, or just not ask what they do for a living. Or settle down. Or write about the cat more.

I go home. Some time later I sleep with a Polish Barista.

The best of times

I have been going to the gym for quite a lot of years now and in all that time, neither of the following things has happened:

1) I've never developed arms like squirrels in a sack
2) I've never had sex

Apparently there's a lot of nookie in gyms, but maybe I go to the wrong ones. I did once go to the notorious YMCA gym on Tottenham Court Road which looked like an secret underground base for a gay Bond villain. The changing rooms had quite a number of very naked men displaying their obvious excitement - but they also contained several young children getting changed. Frankly, there's a time and a place, fellas.

I have twice *nearly8 pulled at the gym. The first was at the BBC gym at Television Centre. It was all a bit embarrassing. I was being obviously cruised but was at a really funny bit of The News Quiz and perhaps my best look is not laughing on a Swiss Ball. Undeterred, he followed me into the changing rooms and then lost interest when he I changed into my beloved Marvin The Martian boxers (quite why novelty pants with a "surrender you strange life-form, you" slogan are a turn off I dunno). The next week we bumped into each other at the Filling Station salad bar. Turns out there's no etiquette for "Hi! I haven't seen you since you hated my comedy knickers". I never saw him again - I like to think he left.

The second time I nearly pulled at the gym was very embarassing. I was chatting to a friendly and very good looking man. We got on like a house on fire. We walked out of the changing rooms together and he went to the water fountain. Now, here's where social skills would have helped. I could either follow him to the water fountain (which would have looked stalky as I clearly had no reason to be there), or I could leave. So I left, so as not to seem rude.

At which point the good-looking man gave me a look of disappointed disgust and said "Oh, so it's like that, is it? Bye then." If only Nancy Mitford had addressed this topic we'd be celebrating our civil partnership this weekend.

Instead of which on Sunday I did what I normally do. I went to the gym, tiny bit hungover and wearing my pyjamas (old t-shirt and trousers so baggy you can call them pantaloons). Merrily, I plonked myself down on the rowing machine.

Which is when HE turned up. You know what they're like - people who are so muscly gravity bends around them. He strolled in, lifted some very heavy weights with a fingernail and then dangled from the pull-up bar without a care in the world.

I tried not to watch him and instead rowed (a trifle unsteadily) through to the end of The Archers Omnibus (oh, Lillian...). Then I went and showered.

While I was showering, Mr Muscle wandered into the changing room and glowered at me angrily. It was a look which said "I know your sort. Yes, these are the biggest arms you'll ever see in your life, but the gun show is over. Now fuck off." This seemed perfectly fair, frankly. To minimise contamination I stayed in the cubicle until he'd gone into another of the showers, and then slunk into the sauna.

At which point he came into the sauna. How utterly, hideously embarrassing. It's not a big gym and the sauna is the size of a microwave oven. There was barely enough space for one of his biceps and oh dear me, just look at those thighs. How was I going to try and comfortably share warm oxygen with an alpha male? Paging UN goodwill ambassador Geri Halliwell.

I was just contemplating making some weak small talk along the lines of "oh dear, the light bulb's gone in here again" when... it all went a bit porn.

The next few minutes were among the happiest and yet least satisfying I've ever had. Sadly for my univesity education, I discovered that men with very large arms can do pretty much what they like. Annoyingly, I'd like to say all I could think was "You've made me feel like a princess" but instead my brain just went:
- Why me?
- Never ever leave me
- Do watch out for those hot coals

He kept on muttering "Gotta go. Really gotta go" which made it all the more urgent, but also all the more transient. Clearly, men with big arms have busy lives opening fetes and saving the world, but all I could think was "Must you? This is possibly the most exciting thing to happen to me this year. If not ever."

Afterwards we got changed. It was awkward. We still hadn't actually had a conversation. Neither of us was looking at the other - he seemed suddenly shy (which was a bit like Optimus Prime playing peekaboo). And yet again, Nancy Mitford remains tight-lipped on what is the right thing to say to an anonymous stranger you've just had sex with.

In the end, I settled for a grisly attempt at a matey pat on the shoulder. "Thanks," I said.

And he made that half-grunt half-laugh sound that men make which means "Yeah, that was a laugh", "You too,", "Don't mention it", and "Don't Mention It".

Daft Punk

The odd thing about the Czech Punk is that he looks so normal. I mean, utter pocket gay you could take as hand luggage on RyanAir without raising an eyebrow, but normal.

For a start, he works at an organic bakery in Chelsea. That's hardly spit and bin bags. He's wearing Abercrombie. But he keeps mentioning how he's a punk, and I just assume that he's picked the word up.

Later, I find out that tattooed across his back in the Sex Pistols font is the phrase "Punk is not dead" so I guess he must be.

Lingua Franca

Some things are surprising. Some things you just want to boast about. This is both of the above.

Saturday went off the rails. There I was, in the middle of revising a project about the ghost of a music hall singer who fights demons, and suddenly, I'm in bed with a stunning French student.

Well, "suddenly" is nearly right. A site for interfiddling is on in the background while I'm searching for the words to the second verse of Jerusalem. Occasionally up will pop someone auditioning for Britain's Got Serial Killers, or someone from Ghana "looking for good rich friend abroad. I like travel etc. Chat me" you know, the stuff that can be ignored and just exists to prove that really, you have nothing better to do with your time than write a scene where a headmistress gets drunk with a ghost.

And then up pops The Stunning French Student who suggests I come over as he's only just up the road. I sail out, get to his apartment block and realise that I haven't got a flat number or his phone number. And facing me is a doorman.

"Yes?" says the doorman.

I realise. I'm standing outside a very posh block of flats and I have no idea of the Frenchman's flat or even his name. "I don't suppose there's a French guy living here? He's 6 foot 2. Nice smile, vivid imagination, wears Aussie Bums."

That's not going to work. And the Doorman carries on looking at me. Shrewdly. I suppose I could try "I don't suppose there's a guy who has a lot of male friends who only ever come round once, is there?"

Instead I shrug, and mumble something about "He's not given me the flat number, I'll email him," and wander off round the corner.

It is that point that I discover that, yes, my phone will actually connect to the site, but that T-Mobile think that the site contains adult content and I'll need to phone them to get it unlocked. What can I say to them? "I'm just a boy, standing in front of another boy's house, asking him to shag me?"

So, I stand in the street. And then, thankfully, my middle-aged nature kicks in. It is Saturday. I am in Islington. There's bound to be an antique store open.

And then the Frenchman texts. "Was that u?"

"Yes. Help."

He comes down. He is 6 foot 2, which is surprising (gay men having such trouble with knowing what an inch is), and you can tell he is from the continent. It's only the first day of Spring and he's dressed for the beach. An expensive beach. "Come up," he says. We walk past the Doorman. "Ah Georges, forgive me," purrs the Frenchman, "I forgot to tell him my number. I hope he has not put you to any trouble." And as George practically bows with apology, we sail away in the lift that has been waiting patiently for us.

The Frenchman is not real. He is young, dashing, and lives in a flat that I'm not even sure I can afford to breathe in. He shrugs. "Drink? I have only water or champagne."

He apologises for not giving me his flat number, "I forget your way," and he explains why he's not told me his name. He's named after Justinian. "In France it is not so odd, but over here..." And he shrugs.

"Not at all!" I exclaim. "I've read a book about Justininian - he's the emperor who married a showgirl who was famous for an act where peacocks pecked grain out of her-"

Justinian gazes at me blankly. "As you can see, I have no grain," he shrugs. "Why are you telling me this?"

I smile awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably on his sofa, while trying not to mentally price it. It definitely didn't come from DFS.

"Come," he says, "I shall give you a tour of the flat."

Only it isn't really a tour of the whole flat. The curious, very curious thing I learn about Justinian over the next few hours is that, while his English is very good, he has one quaint linguistic tic. Instead of what I'm hoping is "Formidable!" he says "Awesome!".

It is wonderfully like being in bed with Captain Awesome from Chuck:



And then, at some point the sun has long set. He goes off to to drink an "Awesome" amount of wine with friends from Paris, and I head off to a dinner party. I turn up and Lucy is pulling a large bird from the oven. "In your honour I've stuffed a chicken and got a tart."

"Awesome," I say.

Sad Face

I remember once laughing at my friend Lee when he announced that he was stopping seeing someone because of "their appalling sex face".

You know what, I thought, surely it can never be that bad? I mean, I've seen a fair few, some of them quite 2012. There was Craig the Builder in Oxford who had a bed made out of an old car. His "moment of pleasure" was so extreme that it was like an epileptic fit, which means that I've been in an indoor car crash. It's true. The whole thing tipped over like a smart car in a hurricane and Craig landed on top of me still spasming like a landed trout with his foot stuck in the glove compartment.

But anyway, that's not my point. My point is that I could never quite see how anyone could manage to find a sex face so deeply appalling that they'd stop seeing someone... and then....

Well, I was dating this guy over the summer. And he was lovely. Cultured, smart, nice. Only he reminded me of someone. Just a bit. And especially when he was approaching lift off.

But I couldn't quite put my finger on it when I was putting my finger on it. There was definitely something familiar about him, but I just couldn't quite work out what. Until one day Lee asked me to describe him.

"Oh," I said, "He's like a sexy... a sexy... Martin Clunes."

Lee stared at me. And I suddenly realised the full horror of what I'd just said.

Work displacement activity

I've run out of work. Honestly, genuinely run out of work. I'm waiting for feedback on about five different projects and to hear if another couple are commissioned. So, in the meantime, I am twiddling my thumbs.

It's maddening. It's like being on holiday without, you know, being on holiday. Reading a book feels like skiving rather than relaxing, and the only thing I can legitimately do is go to the gym, so I'm suddenly avoiding it like the plague. There are about three different left-over DIY projects I should be doing, but who really feels like sorting out hanging baskets in November?

So, instead, I keep finding myself in strange corners of London with gentlemen of leisure. You know, foreign students, music producers, IT consultants with a day off, bar men. We're a strange, shiftless bunch and, after a few days of it, I'm thinking "you know, honestly, I'd rather be playing around with Lego and working through all those DVDs I've always meant to watch". It's enormously exciting, and there's a certain joy to suddenly being in Croydon, but it's also... curiously pointless. I guess, like Loose Women and ebay, it's an obsession that only comes around when there's nothing else on.

Plus, I've come up with a new rule for internet dating: The keener they are to come over, the less likely. "I'm heading out now" means "I'm heading out never". It's the laid-back ones who are the low-hanging fruit.

Hanging out with afternoon vampires has a certain charm, though. Especially if they're reassuringly nutty. Take Eduardo the Spanish Programmer. His living room is full of games consoles. He's paused some driving game seemingly mid crash, and a giant steering wheel sits on the coffee table surrounded by condoms. "We play on the couch," he says. I've always worried about gays who "play". I guess it lacks the anglo-saxon brutality of some of the terms, but there's also that slight naffness ("We love to play together" ranks up there with "I don't bite, unless you want me to lol" in cyber-drabness).

It's like we have to make the extraordinary somehow boring - pausing an afternoon's gaming to order in a total stranger for sex - utterly natural. Of course, then Eduardo says something totally unnatural: "Please don't kiss me. I find two men kissing... I don't like it, yes?" And weirdly, I wonder if Nick Griffin would be pleased or not.

Pony tale

There's a running sketch in the new series of Armstrong and Miller about a suave man with a ponytail which induces nausea:



So anyway, there I am at the weekend in bed with an Italian, and I suddenly realise he's got a pony tail. This is a puzzler which sets three things off in my head.

1. How did I not notice this before?
   
2. It's really a very, very short pony tail, and honestly, I've shagged mullets from Swansea so this shouldn't be much worse, but somehow it really truly is.
   
3. That Armstrong and Miller sketch.

Gay of the Week

It has been a while since I last won the gay lottery. Well, a couple of months, really.

I have avoided writing about this because... okay, I was waiting for him to call. He didn't. I never really expected him to, but you now how it is. Every now and then... Anyway, several men have flowed under bridges since then, and I've decided that he's simply moved back to Australia. But, just in case, I'm avoiding the pub he works in for the rest of my life.

Anyway, he was brilliant. For a start, he didn't just work in a gay bar, but was "Boyz Bar Stud Of The Week". That's right. I was shagging Boyz Bar Stud Of The Week. Read that and weep, 20 year-old me.

He was too good to be true. Eerily so. Apart from being good-looking and Australian, and a post-graduate psychologist, he worked behind a bar, had effort hair and spent about an hour going through my DVD collection giving things marks out of five. Plus his idea of pillow talk was to explain X-Men continuity to me.

And, as I said, sadly, he didn't call.

Tonight you're not mine

"Hello!" I say to the man at the bar. He turns and looks at me, and then he smiles.
"Two things you should know," he says, "My name's Joshua and I'm a complete slut."

He is also Irish and has "piercing blue eyes". I am, of course, both confused and grateful that I keep meeting men who proudly advertise their frequent flyer status.

Of course, it all goes horribly wrong. Why wouldn't it? It's my line of work. Oh, I'm evasive, but it doesn't help. His piercing blue eyes widen. "What kind of spin-off tat?" he asks, "Cos I'm fairly sure I've seen you on-"

oh no.

"Oh my god! I am the biggest Doctor Who fan in the world!"

oh please no.

"I'm desperate to write for the show. Who can I talk to? You must know."

no, really I don't work there any more. Sadly, there's always been a plan in my head for how this is supposed to happen. I finally meet a sane Doctor Who fan and we spend our days happily making sweet love while rearranging our DVD collections to neither's satisfaction. Only this isn't how it's working out...

"I have a boyfriend."

right.

"And I drive him mental with Doctor Who."

course you do.

"He never lets me talk about it."

why would he?

"And, you know, much as I'd like to sleep with you, I think I'd prefer to have you as a friend. Wow. This is so exciting."

mutters.

The curious student

Oddly, I forgot to write about Drogaz. He emerged a couple of months ago from the Orange Facebook and insisted we meet. There's something engaging about this as a notion. 22-year old Fashion Student with Eastern European Eyes and Effort Hair? What's not to love?

So we meet for tea in Marble Arch. And he approaches, and there's so much swish in his stride his hips are on ball-bearings.

"I am Drogaz," he intones, plucking off one pair of sunglasses and replacing them with another. He rearranges his hair and smiles. "We drink."

We walk to Starbucks and I think, "This is odd."

He asks me what I do for a living, nods, and then smirks. I ask him, and he pulls three phones out of his pocket. "Guess," he says.

"Oh," I say.

He nods. "Yes. I work three hours a night, party loads, and get given amazing clothes. I shock you, yes?"

Not really. It's just a bit...

"Don't worry," he pats me on the forearm, "I buy you coffee."

And we sit outside and he chainsmokes and laughs. And then one of his phones goes off. "Is friend Julian," he sighs, lifting his sunglasses so that I can see him rolling his eyes. "He is very dull but he is safe. If I do not like you I tell him and then he tells me I must feed my cat."

"You have a cat?" I say, "Well, I have one too and she-"

He waves away some smoke. "I am not interested in your cat. I am interested in you."

Crikey.

Julian arrives. He is very odd. He's from Hong Kong, is also, uh, a well-funded student, but behaves strangely like a geisha. I realise that sounds weird, but he sits there, giggling quietly from behind a FAN, and occasionally whispers something to Drogaz, glances in my direction, and then whispers again.

This is the point, I think, when I should just go. But Drogaz stills me with a glance. "You stay," he says. "Julian and I have private talk."

They go and stand round the corner. Chainsmoking while Julian giggles. He is somehow managing to smoke while fluttering his fan, creating an effect like a bellows.

They shuffle back.

And I look at Drogaz and he looks at me and I think "this really is One Of Those Dates."

"We have been talking about you," murmurs Drogaz, "We say good things."

"Right."

"Which is unusual, as we are such bitches." (Julian titters at this), "But no. You we like. But some - oh! - some! I have four friends, we are like mad crazy bitches.
You would not think, but we are unlucky in love. Julian is Samantha and I am Carrie. You know Sex and the City? Is the story of our lives! Is our favourite show! "

"I must use the bathroom," says Julian and goes inside.

Drogaz leans forward. "Of course is not. Is shit show. I would rather be watching Stargate: Atlantis, but do not tell him that. He is viper."

"Umm," I say, suddenly rather liking him. "Is Julian going?"

"Soon soon," says Drogaz. "Why? You hate him? He is very dull. If you wish, I tell him."

"No! No!" I protest, "It's just, this isn't what I thought..."

"I am not a slut!" A shrug, "Not in daytime. No. We meet. We have coffee. We have walk in park. Maybe we kiss. Is nice."

Is nice. Julian comes back from the bathroom. We get up to go round the park. Julian follows. So, we walk round the park. And I'm thinking I'd rather not be, and yet at the same time, finding it all enjoyably silly.

How does it end? Ah. We get talking about Romania, the beloved country where Drogaz comes from. I ask him why he came over here. And how long he's been here, and things like that. And also, you know, why a 22-year old would be...

"Haha!" he laughs, "Of course I am not 22! I say that to stop the foolish bitches! No! I am 17! Well, soon."

And that's when I announce it's time I went home and fed the cat.

Drinks went well

"Another one?" I ask Grinning Polish Man.
"We could," He shrugs and looks around the bar. "But I am... how you say?... slutty."

Sorrows come not in single Steves

I am dating two Steves. Accidentally, and in parallel, not in series. One I met just before going off to Australia and thought he'd forgotten about me, the other I met last week.

But it's giving rise to some confusion. How on earth middle-aged men manage to have affairs, I dunno. It's so complicated trying to remember which one i've told about what, and even which one is the vegetarian non-smoker.

I'm figuring one's bound to fizzle out naturally, which will be fine. Or I'll accidentally get them confused when texting.

Luckily, I've been able to hide. In Wales and in Legoland. But at some point I'm either going to have to sort out my Steves. Or just stay in and build my new train set.

Gay Etiquette

"The Bride Wore Black Leather... And He Looked Fabulous" is a guide to gay etiquette.

The reason for the google search was my temporary friend Mo. It was a Friday. I was drunk. And yet strangely functional considering I'd been drinking wine since the afternoon. And Mo and I were heading home. Only...

"We should get someone else," said Mo.
"Right," I said. Years ago, I would have been baffled by this. Like being asked the difference between bio and non-bio. But with age comes enough experience and pink t-shirts. "Right," I said. "Let's find someone we can agree on."

This is where a guide to gay etiquette could come in handy. There really has to be a printed guide somewhere as to what to say and how to cope. In the same way that whenever someone on the Orange Facebook asks "wot u in 2?" and I feel like typing "Chinese Buffets and Duke Ellington."

So Mo and I end up giggling like geishas in front of a gay who looks like a sailor from a Jean-Paul Gaultiere advert. Well, okay. Clearly this was a few years ago and Jean-Paul didn't give him any free moisturiser, but there was still a lot of arms spilling out of his wife-beater. Win.

And he was looking at us. Mildly interested. But also carefully bored.

"Say something," hissed Mo.
"You're younger, you say something."
"No."
"Come on, please."
"He. Is. Staring."
"Fine."

This is daft. I can't even bear to ask for the salt at dinner parties, and I'm figuring I've already managed to chat up one stranger and there's really no self-deprecating way of asking this. I need something that doesn't allow me to display any of my true character. So, I figure, about four words.

NO: "Hi... what's your name and how does troilism strike you?"
NO: "Having a good evening? [endless small talk] Umm. Well, anyway enjoy London."
NO: "My friend fancies you. And, funnily enough..."

In the end, I settle on: "We're going home. Coming?"

The Lair of the Grey Fox

So. Brisbane. It rained. And rained. And rained.

At some point we gave up on our plans. There was going to be a mountain with a lovely view of... the rain. There was going to be a tropical island with beaches. In the rain.

We brought umbrellas and trudged to see a morning matinee of Star Trek. Rain poured through the cinema ceiling. Afterwards, I went and slept in my room. Tim walked around some museums. It rained.

The first night, we'd gone to one of Brisbane's 2 gay pubs. Called the Sportsman it looked like 79 CXR would look if it held a pub quiz night. Lots of fat old men thinking. We stood on the rain-soaked porch while I tried to smoke under an umbrella. Miserably, we trudged back to the hotel. Oddly, wherever you are in Brisbane, where you want to be is up a hill. The driving rain did not help.

The second night we went to a place called The Wickham. There was Drag. But it was Australian Drag, so a man in a dress mimed an interminable song about cunnilingus to a nearly empty bar. Because everyone was outside. Smoking. In the rain.

Two lesbians had a play fight. The bored security man stepped in to try and separate them, and then wandered off, bored.

Tim and I looked at each other. Our looks said "This is awful. Let's go home."

And then we met The Grey Fox. Well, he asked me for a cigarette and I gave him my heart.

Imagine Crocodile Dundee's slightly younger, butcher cousin. Working as a race car mechanic. And somehow having so many muscles they poked through four layers of clothing and a rain coat.

The Grey Fox was out drinking with his best gay friend. Who was 20 years younger than him. It was like a gay Owl and Piglet. (Hmmn. Fox. Owl. Piglet? The animal similes are a bit much).

Anyway, they took pity on us. Or, at least, they took us to a gay club. In the distance was a dance floor. Piglet got Tim drunk and they chased each other round the dance floor.

And the Grey Fox and I went and stood outside, smoking under a sun shade. Around us, the young gays of Brisbane called each other "bitch" and stole Marlboros off their fag hags.

"The twinks are so fat nowadays," sighed the Grey Fox. "Last five years, they've got beer bellies. It's really sad."

I looked. He was right. I suddenly felt less like the fattest gay in Australia.

He continued. "It's like they've stopped trying. Now it's the young straight gays who go to the gym and dress well. If you want to pick up hot guys, you've got to go to straight bars and find a gay guy who is dressed like a straight gay dressed like a gay guy. It was easier in the 80s."

We nod and sigh and smoke another cigarette.

Inside, Piglet is showing Tim pictures of his boyfriend (a Doctor) and their pets. They are drinking more. There's even some dancing.

Outside, the rain pours down.

And the Grey Fox and I kiss. This is very, very exciting.

"Would you like to come back to the hotel?" I ask.

He shakes his head. He has to drive Piglet home. This is at 2am after half a dozen scotches. Yup. The Grey Fox is so hot, he makes drunk-driving sexy.

He smiles. "You can see me on Friday," he says. "We can spend the whole evening together."

Up until this moment, I had been incredibly excited about leaving Brisbane and spending 32 hours on a train to Cairns. Now I'm gutted. "I can't," I say. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

And the Grey Fox smiles. "Let's have a last drink, then," he says.

And we go back inside.

Later, Tim and I walk home through the rain. He is shouting at me. "You could have left me!" he screams, "You could have stayed on! You could have caught a plane! He was worth it!"

I mutter something about how it's sometimes nicer to just kiss a stranger. More enigmatic. More romantic. More classy.

Tim makes a disgusted noise. "You're an idiot. He was gorgeous. How often do we meet men like that?"

Suddenly, horribly, I realise that Tim is right.

And it rains all night.
 

The bondage cardigan

It's nearly 3am, somewhere in Sydney and three things happen simultaneously:
1) The jetlag kicks in
2) I sober up
3) The taxi passes a gay bar.

I get out and wander in. It's a small bar, but there's still a few people around, and a man on the door. Only he's wearing a rubber waistcoat and a kilt.

"Hum," I say, "Is there a dresscode?"

"Yeah. It's leather. And pvc. And..." he looks at me. "Cardigans are fine after 2am."

"Right," I say and wander in.

It's pretty much empty, actually. But it's a helluva lot better than Oxford St, which was packed with disco damage, drunk fag hags, korean hairdressers, and straight guys trying to bluff their way in to bars so full the smoking areas looked like adverts for Amnesty International.

Correct. It was so bad I'd rather be in an empty pub on bondage night wearing a cardigan.

I've been there five seconds before Australian Poster Boy corners me. He is amazing, and is wearing a suit.

He grabs hold of my cardigan with one hand. "Where did you get that cardigan?" he asks.

"Oh, I got it in Newtown today." I am hoping I sound au fait with the Sydney fashion scene.

He nods. "Yeah, it looks like a lesbian's jumper. Still, it looks great on you. Shall we see if it looks better off you?"

3am. Jetlag. Hot man. Cardigan. Yet, I've pulled in 15 seconds.

"Um," I say.

"You are so English! Love it!" he says, cupping me fondly and popping off to the loo.

Standing behind Australian Poster Boy is an equally good-looking man. Only he's not smiling at me quite so much.

"Hi!" I say, "Isn't that guy amazing?"

The other man nods. "Oh yes," he says, tightly. "We've been together for six years."

"Right," I say. "Sorry. I..."

And he's back. "George!" he shouts, "Look! I got take-out!"

George stares at me. Not a chance. And walks out of the bar.

Australian Poster Boy looks at me regretfully.

"You should probably..." I begin.

He nods. "Yeah."

"It was nice..."

He smiles, and goes to find his boyfriend.

And I am, suddenly, the last man in a bondage club. And I'm wearing a cardigan.

Rotherhithe

I hate waiting for buses. It leaves you with time for nothing but soul-searching. For those difficult questions such as "Could I really find nothing better to do with the afternoon than come to Rotherhithe to get mauled by a South African web designer?".

Seemingly not. But really? Surely? No.

You say dinner

"You going already?" I am putting my clothes on and saying goodbye to the man of my dreams. He's incredibly posh, arrogantly handsome, and lives in Mayfair.

"Yup, I'm having supper with friends."
"Supper?" He curls his lip, "Supper or Dinner?"
"I never know what to call it. It's not supper is it?"
He shakes his head. "No, it's never supper. What do you do for a living?"
"At the moment, I'm a writer."
"Succesful? Probably not if you call dinner supper. But there we are. I must be off too. I'm having dinner at Claridges."
"That's nice?"
"Not really. I live there. My family are also writers. Just successful ones, rather than aspiring. Goodbye."

Needless to say, I am in love.

Belief Systems

So, there was some pillow talk with a Theology Lecturer. He asked what I did for a living, I tried to explain and he pulled a face.
"Oh," he said, "I had a psycho ex who loved Doctor Who."
"Ah." I said.
"Not the new series. The old one. He had all these videos of it in his flat."
"All neatly arranged in order, no doubt."
"No, that was the freaky thing. They were in piles, everywhere. But he could find a story in seconds. Clean socks, not so much."
"Um."
"He knew all sorts of freaky stuff. I mean, honestly, he could recite all of the programme names from beginning through to the end. How mad is that?"
I sipped my drink, carefully. I was thinking... I can do that. A a bit of a hiccup with Seasons 2, 9 and 15, but other than that... oh god.
I smiled weakly. "That's totally insane."
We nod, awkwardly.
There's porn on. It still baffles me. "I mean, who first looked at a riot baton and thought you could do that with it?" I ask.
He looks at me, oddly.
And I'm thinking Day of the Daleks has to be after Curse of Peladon, surely?