you know what?
See that old man over there? No, not that one. The old one.
Fiftysomething. Greying temples. Need-a-trim nose hair. Jowls crumpling like bellows
when he smiles. His wrinkled, dangly cock hoiked into action via Viagra.
That's my boyfriend, that is.
an accident
I was up in Manchester for a hen - sorry - bachelorette
party, and we were wasted. Everything in slow-motion. We were running down
the street to get to the club. I was dying for a pee. Nipped into a hotel to use
the loo. Thought they would wait for me. But when I got out, they'd fucked off.
Back in the bar (it was a posh one - cute gay barman, shiny
flooring - you know) I got some water to cure my desert-mouth. Texted Rachel and
she said she'd come and meet me.
And that's when Tim started to talk to me.
- Mind if I sit here?
Normally yes. But I was bored and drunk, and it wasn't as
if he was going to come on to me. He looked like my Dad, a rounder Roger Moore,
one of those ageing action men who beat the shit out of people and solve crimes.
He started chatting to me. Where did I work? What was I doing
here? et-cet. I gave him the drunken life story - how I wanted to be a writer,
about seethru not giving me a chance to write a diary.
I was waiting for the bad-letchy-vibes moment but actually
it was ok. The whole time he didn't once look down my top, or laugh, or make lame
innuendos. He just looked into my eyes, and listened to me.
Then the girls txted me. They were outside.
That was ok, I thought as I staggered out, what a sweet man.
He had really been interested in what I was saying.
I didn't think I'd see him again.
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