First off thanks for all of your emails and the comments on my blog. Sometimes it kinda makes me feel bad for not blogging so often. But only for a little while. No seriously, I do appreciate them and I will get back to you all.
So, as is the norm, Tequilla finds himself in a little bit of a pickle. This time though, I really don’t know what to do.
My friend Jake hosted his annual ‘Madonna Night’ this weekend. Even though I may not be on board with her latest offering, she is still the mother of us all, and therefore I headed West to Ealing with disco ball and mirrored cross strapped to my back for my entrance. You should have seen the looks of surprise when I rose from the ground singing Live to Tell.
There was much drinking and frivolity with Madonna concerts being screened back to back, me repeatedly requesting Gambler and trying to teach everyone how to Vogue. Some people had really gone to town and had come dressed as Madonna throughout her career, every where you looked there were cowboy hats, wedding dresses and conical bras. It could not have been any gayer if Barbra Streisand was there draped over a piano singing the Way We Were.
Some of the Old Columbian powder was being passed around freely, but having given all that malarkey up about three years ago now, I stuck to my white wine spritzers. Seeing people off their heads had me positively cringing when thinking back to the amount of absolute drivel I must have come out with. Why do people on coke just not shut the fuck up, and give themselves a chance to breathe? And I’m saying this as someone who used to indulge VERY heavily. I’d come home and if everyone had gone to bed I’d talk to my reflection in the toaster for hours, just to have someone to talk to.
The party was great and at about 1am people started leaving, most to go on clubbing. I had brought my over night kit to sleep in Jake’s spare room, and all I wanted to do was sit there, keep drinking wine and watch the Confession’s concert without any interruptions. So it was me, Jake, his friend Ruth and some howdy doody looking Mother Fella called Christopher, a pint sized Irish Mo with a zest for life and a yearning to dance, who had been entertaining everyone with the full routine to the Don’t Tell Me video, which had me spitting feathers in the corner for having not mastered it myself.
Jake seemed delighted that Christopher was staying on to watch the DVD and I could see that he was hoping that he might be getting some tail. He had been shamelessly flirting with Christopher all night, which was quite embarrassing, especially when his advances were continually spurned. He must have thought that by this point Christopher’s Beer Goggles were firmly in place and he was ready to make musk rat love.
So the DVD is popped in and I sit down, on the sofa. Christopher sits next to me and the concert begins. Christopher say’s he was at the show that we were watching, then abruptly the DVD stops.
‘If you two are just going to sit there and flirt with each other I’d prefer it if you left. You’ve been all over each other all night’ slurred Jake, in a not so nice tone.
‘What are you talking about, we’re sitting next to each other’ I cried
To which Jake screeched ‘I’ve seen you, whispering sweet nothings in each others ears all night, and practically having sex, you’ve both totally ruined my Madonna Night and made it incredibly uncomfortable for everyone, that’s why they’ve all left’
What the Freddie Prinze Junior what this bi-otch going on about? I had probably said two words to Christopher all night. This was all so strange.
He then jumped up from his seat and went over to the TV, turned it off, looked at me and howled ‘And you BROKE my speakers! I think you should just fucking get out now, go on, go back to Christophers’ and drool all over each other, I don’t want to see this in my fucking house’
Christopher and I looked at each other like foreigners who had turned up at customs without visas. What was happening? I’d been invited to stay, then all of a sudden I’m being accused of virtually having sex with someone in full view of everyone, breaking speakers, which I had been nowhere near, but HAD seen Jake fall onto earlier on, and was being turfed out onto the streets at 2am. In fucking EALING. I live in Surrey Quays. Miles away.
I was not in the mood for this so I just said ‘Jake, if you can’t handle your alcohol then don’t drink it. I am leaving now and I look forward to you waking up tomorrow and remembering all of this, how you invited me to stay and then threw me out of you flat for no reason, all because you are jealous that this dude isn’t interested in you. Don’t project your bullshit onto me. And as for your speakers, you fell onto them you ignoramus and broke them yourself. And furthermore you're kind of on a nine at the moment when you really ought to be on a two- toodles' and span on my heels and left.
I left with poor Christopher behind me asking ‘what the fuck was all that about?' I had no idea, but that boy had just won himself an Oscar nomination. All I knew was I needed to get home, then Christopher chirps up with ‘You can spend the night at mine’ and proceeded to hit on me.
‘Are you crazy? I’ve just been chased out of a flat in the middle of Ealing at 2 in the morning by a queen on the verge of a nervous breakdown and you’re trying to get me in the sack? I need to get home, not get Homo.’
So, I made my excuses and left, found a cab place and saw their eyes light up when I said Surrey Quays. £48 later, I got home and fell into bed.
When I woke on Sunday, I had 18 missed calls from Jake who had been frantically trying to get hold of me, but I just couldn’t be bothered with dealing with what would no doubt have been a drunken blabbering, snivelling mess, so had put my phone on silent in the cab.
I clicked to listen to my voicemail, and had a new message. I put my phone on loud speaker and listened to what was the funniest message I had ever heard. He was desperately crying apologising and saying ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done, what did I do, please forgive me, you’re such a good friend’ and I could hear the snot falling from his nose and the tears from his eyes hitting the handset. But then something truly uncanny happened. The message continued after he had said goodbye. He hadn’t hung up. It was hard to make out at first as all I could hear was him crying and being comforted by Ruth. Then he said ‘What the fuck have I done? I’ve been in love with Tequila for over 4 years. I have never felt this way about anyone, and because of my fucking stupid jealousy, I’ve ruined any chances of ever being with him. And now I’ve sent him flying into Christopher’s arms. They’re fucking now, aren’t they? They are fucking, fucking each other and it’s my entire fault……….’
And on and on it went….I didn’t know where to look. He hasn’t a clue that he left that message, because he thought he’d hung up. I felt embarrassed, like I was eavesdropping, but I wasn’t. It was there on my answering machine. It was like a car crash, or the new Madonna video, you know you shouldn’t look, but you just can’t turn away. Hearing myself being referred to as someone’s soul mate was very odd, especially when I had NO idea how he felt for me.
I knew I had to contact him, because I was in no doubt that he’d be calling to apologise abundantly, but the thought of talking to him with my new found awareness had me sweating like a whore in church. I sent a text saying ‘No hard feelings don’t beat yourself up about it; we’ve all had mad moments when intoxicated. You did Madonna proud.’ He sent one apologising again, which I didn’t get back to. What could I say ‘Oh, don’t worry, I enjoyed you yelling fuck at me, and FYI, I now know you’re in love with me and no I did not end up fucking Christopher’.
We have planned to go away for the weekend next month, and I feel really uncomfortable about the whole thing. Do I tell him I know? What if when we go away he’s planning to make a move? Oh readers I am in a two and eight about this, and feel really nauseous. I just want to cut ties with him altogether. Can I do that?
You’d think hearing that someone is in love with you would be flattering, but in this case it feels anything but. I’m questioning our friendship and wondering if when I’ve had moments and been down and he’s comforted me if there was more in it. I think about us going to the gym together and him seeing me naked. I wonder if he fantasizes about me and it is making me want to tear off all my limbs and throw myself at a chilli plant. I mean, if I fancy someone, then I masturbate over them 20 times an hour. So if he’s in love with me, is he bashing the bishop over me?
This is not good. Will our friendship be able to survive? Aren’t they built on trust and having no secrets? He doesn’t know that I know, you know? But I can’t tell him, as it would humiliate him, and may make him far too embarrassed to ever talk to me. I will never feel the same around him again, and will be walking on eggshells wondering if he is about to pounce. We’re going to see George Michael in August which I have been so excited about but now I don’t even want to go. What if during I’m Your Man he decides to try and be my man? Fuck that fucking voicemail message.
Even my friendships are of unknown quantities. Who knew? If I was Jewish, I’d be oy-ing all over the place right now.
So, the question is, what would YOU do?
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Friday, February 23, 2007
HOW TO MAKE A GOOD WORST IMPRESSION
As I am rapidly approaching the big Three O, in the last year I have been ticking off my things to do before I reach the aforementioned big Three O*. One of them was to try speed dating. Pink Speed dating to be precise, if you don’t mind.
This was all very odd because I hate going on dates; they are always like interviews, and I invariably end up not getting the job. Or wanting it for that matter. The idea of going on a date reduces me to a quivering, nervous wreck, so my therapist is still hypothesizing what possessed me to think that I could handle 25 first dates in one evening.
Obviously I couldn’t go through the mortification alone, and therefore enlisted the company of Telstar & Gaz to come along and die this painful death with me. They were very reluctant to join me on this adventure. I told them how much fun it would be and that we were just going along to laugh at these sad folk who go and we weren’t going to take it seriously. Eventually during one of those very rare moments where I actually get what I want I managed to persuade them to jump on board the Loser Express, and we were all bound for Pink Speeddatersville. But, in true Tequilla Mockingbird fashion, there would have to be a lay over in Alcoholville before hand…………….
What was to be just the one to calm the nerves actually turned into me downing a bottle and a half of wine. The reason I didn’t finish the second bottle is that they wouldn’t let me into the speed-dating event with it. Yes, I arrived with it in my hands. How classy. Not only was I showing what a third rate citizen I was by going speed dating, but also I was showing that I really had no concept of dignity.
So, instead of merely giving myself some Dutch courage, I had plunged myself into a drunken blabbering mess. Of course, as is always the case, I didn’t think I was drunk. I felt full of life, and remained blissfully oblivious to the cringing looks I was getting from those around me.
Everyone mingled at the bar before the humiliation begun. Telstar advised me to get some water to sober up but as we all know, when you have had too much to drink the last thing you want is water. I demanded some more wine, and against his better judgement he got it for me. Well, I say that, but I think I had started to be abusive towards him, and he realised that the only way to stop it was to comply with my demands. I’m sure we have all been there, but when I remember myself saying ‘Who the fuck are you to tell me I can’t have another drink, I’m FINE’ I want to die.
So drink in hand, everyone sat down to listen some oddly confident bespectacled 40-year-old lesbian tell us how the evening would operate. Sitting down I realised how drunk I was. I landed on the chair with a thump, knocked the table and spilled water over the guy that was sitting there. He was to be my first date. The Lesbian was waxing on about a card to fill out but by this stage I couldn’t hear anything above all the wine inside of me. The only thing I did pick up was that there would be an interval. Noted and downloaded I thought- a chance to get another drink. Why is speed dating so good to me I asked myself?
“Ok, your time starts now”
A who a huh and a wha’? I wasn’t ready for this, what would I say, could I actually just get up and run, what the fuck was this card in front of me, who the fuck are all these ugly bastards and how the Jennifer Love Hewitt did I get here?
They were the absolute dregs of society. Each and every one of them was a boil on the arse of humanity. It was like what I imagine a Star Trek convention to be like. My first ‘date looked like Jimmy Osmond, so it seemed perfectly natural for me to sing Long Haired Lover from Liverpool. Badly. And loudly. By the time I hit the chorus, the bell chimed and thankfully it was time to move on. The next guy had eyebrows that had been plucked within and inch of their lives, and he told me I had 3 minutes to impress him. Um, ME impress him? ‘Oh fuck off you pretentious cunt’ I said, and then sat there in silence for three minutes, trying not to fall of my chair, which I was swaying in. The next few dates completely haven’t registered, but I do remember the signal for the interval. I had just had seven dates, bad dates at that, and needed another drink. As I walked to greet Telstar & Gaz, I said ‘What a bunch of ugly cunts’. I thought I was talking quietly, however, the whole room turned around and gave me filthy looks so I decided not to use my usual ‘discretion is my middle name’ on any of my following dates. Not only had they heard me, but 14 of them still had the ‘pleasure’ of my company.
We started up again, and I have vague recollections of how the rest of the evening went. I remember running from a date and joining Telstar on one of his by throwing myself on the table and saying ‘They are such a bunch of cunts’ to the sheer horror of not only him, but his date. By the third round of dates I point blank refused to move from my table, and announced that if they wanted to date me, they would have to come to me. I was too drunk to move. In between this I was asking the organisers where they had managed to find so many unattractive and boring people. Well, I say asking like I was in a conversation with them; I was actually shouting it across the room.
At this stage though they were frantically running around trying to reorganise the system they had in place, that I’d shot to shit with my refusal to move, so were not about to dignify my inane ramblings with an answer.
That’s all I remember. The rest of the night is a blur. Thankfully. To this very day I have no idea what came over me. I am still mortified. Whenever I think of that night I cringe. I have turned myself into the Urban Legend of speed dating and not in a good way. I am convinced that in the gay underworld people regale each other with the tale of the drunken cunt that went speed dating and hurled abuse at everyone. If there were a list of what not to do, I would be the case study.
Walking into the office the next day, I looked at Telstar & Gaz, they looked at me, gave shakes of their heads and I knew. There were no words. If I had a self-destruct button, I think I would have pushed it.
Telstar summed it up best when he said ‘You know how when you go to a family function there is that random uncle that gets drunk, touches himself and others inappropriately, tells bad jokes and is really offensive? Well, that was you last night.’
Bizarrely, I got seven matches out of it. I couldn’t believe it. Seven potential dates. Were they mad? Based on my behaviour people still wanted to date me? I couldn’t believe it, and still wonder what sort of people go speed dating, and just how desperate to be with someone are they?
Did I go on any? Go on a date with a person who goes speed dating? Are you freaking kidding me?
* Although I sit here at 28 years of age, I have been telling myself and anyone that listens that I am nearly 30. Why? It’s my defence mechanism. I have been mentally preparing myself for reaching that age for many years now, in the hope that when I actually get there, it will be nowhere near as offensive as it sounds.
This was all very odd because I hate going on dates; they are always like interviews, and I invariably end up not getting the job. Or wanting it for that matter. The idea of going on a date reduces me to a quivering, nervous wreck, so my therapist is still hypothesizing what possessed me to think that I could handle 25 first dates in one evening.
Obviously I couldn’t go through the mortification alone, and therefore enlisted the company of Telstar & Gaz to come along and die this painful death with me. They were very reluctant to join me on this adventure. I told them how much fun it would be and that we were just going along to laugh at these sad folk who go and we weren’t going to take it seriously. Eventually during one of those very rare moments where I actually get what I want I managed to persuade them to jump on board the Loser Express, and we were all bound for Pink Speeddatersville. But, in true Tequilla Mockingbird fashion, there would have to be a lay over in Alcoholville before hand…………….
What was to be just the one to calm the nerves actually turned into me downing a bottle and a half of wine. The reason I didn’t finish the second bottle is that they wouldn’t let me into the speed-dating event with it. Yes, I arrived with it in my hands. How classy. Not only was I showing what a third rate citizen I was by going speed dating, but also I was showing that I really had no concept of dignity.
So, instead of merely giving myself some Dutch courage, I had plunged myself into a drunken blabbering mess. Of course, as is always the case, I didn’t think I was drunk. I felt full of life, and remained blissfully oblivious to the cringing looks I was getting from those around me.
Everyone mingled at the bar before the humiliation begun. Telstar advised me to get some water to sober up but as we all know, when you have had too much to drink the last thing you want is water. I demanded some more wine, and against his better judgement he got it for me. Well, I say that, but I think I had started to be abusive towards him, and he realised that the only way to stop it was to comply with my demands. I’m sure we have all been there, but when I remember myself saying ‘Who the fuck are you to tell me I can’t have another drink, I’m FINE’ I want to die.
So drink in hand, everyone sat down to listen some oddly confident bespectacled 40-year-old lesbian tell us how the evening would operate. Sitting down I realised how drunk I was. I landed on the chair with a thump, knocked the table and spilled water over the guy that was sitting there. He was to be my first date. The Lesbian was waxing on about a card to fill out but by this stage I couldn’t hear anything above all the wine inside of me. The only thing I did pick up was that there would be an interval. Noted and downloaded I thought- a chance to get another drink. Why is speed dating so good to me I asked myself?
“Ok, your time starts now”
A who a huh and a wha’? I wasn’t ready for this, what would I say, could I actually just get up and run, what the fuck was this card in front of me, who the fuck are all these ugly bastards and how the Jennifer Love Hewitt did I get here?
They were the absolute dregs of society. Each and every one of them was a boil on the arse of humanity. It was like what I imagine a Star Trek convention to be like. My first ‘date looked like Jimmy Osmond, so it seemed perfectly natural for me to sing Long Haired Lover from Liverpool. Badly. And loudly. By the time I hit the chorus, the bell chimed and thankfully it was time to move on. The next guy had eyebrows that had been plucked within and inch of their lives, and he told me I had 3 minutes to impress him. Um, ME impress him? ‘Oh fuck off you pretentious cunt’ I said, and then sat there in silence for three minutes, trying not to fall of my chair, which I was swaying in. The next few dates completely haven’t registered, but I do remember the signal for the interval. I had just had seven dates, bad dates at that, and needed another drink. As I walked to greet Telstar & Gaz, I said ‘What a bunch of ugly cunts’. I thought I was talking quietly, however, the whole room turned around and gave me filthy looks so I decided not to use my usual ‘discretion is my middle name’ on any of my following dates. Not only had they heard me, but 14 of them still had the ‘pleasure’ of my company.
We started up again, and I have vague recollections of how the rest of the evening went. I remember running from a date and joining Telstar on one of his by throwing myself on the table and saying ‘They are such a bunch of cunts’ to the sheer horror of not only him, but his date. By the third round of dates I point blank refused to move from my table, and announced that if they wanted to date me, they would have to come to me. I was too drunk to move. In between this I was asking the organisers where they had managed to find so many unattractive and boring people. Well, I say asking like I was in a conversation with them; I was actually shouting it across the room.
At this stage though they were frantically running around trying to reorganise the system they had in place, that I’d shot to shit with my refusal to move, so were not about to dignify my inane ramblings with an answer.
That’s all I remember. The rest of the night is a blur. Thankfully. To this very day I have no idea what came over me. I am still mortified. Whenever I think of that night I cringe. I have turned myself into the Urban Legend of speed dating and not in a good way. I am convinced that in the gay underworld people regale each other with the tale of the drunken cunt that went speed dating and hurled abuse at everyone. If there were a list of what not to do, I would be the case study.
Walking into the office the next day, I looked at Telstar & Gaz, they looked at me, gave shakes of their heads and I knew. There were no words. If I had a self-destruct button, I think I would have pushed it.
Telstar summed it up best when he said ‘You know how when you go to a family function there is that random uncle that gets drunk, touches himself and others inappropriately, tells bad jokes and is really offensive? Well, that was you last night.’
Bizarrely, I got seven matches out of it. I couldn’t believe it. Seven potential dates. Were they mad? Based on my behaviour people still wanted to date me? I couldn’t believe it, and still wonder what sort of people go speed dating, and just how desperate to be with someone are they?
Did I go on any? Go on a date with a person who goes speed dating? Are you freaking kidding me?
* Although I sit here at 28 years of age, I have been telling myself and anyone that listens that I am nearly 30. Why? It’s my defence mechanism. I have been mentally preparing myself for reaching that age for many years now, in the hope that when I actually get there, it will be nowhere near as offensive as it sounds.
Friday, January 12, 2007
In Ashley Cole's boots
A few of you have sent me emails asking 101 questions about my foray into the land of being a chat-line operator so I thought I would give you an insight into just what it involves, and to warn you all about the very strange people that roam our telecommunication cables…….
I was drunk, very drunk the first time I logged on. In fact, being realistic, I was shit faced. It was the only way I could possibly go through with it. By 8pm on the night in question, all inhibitions had abandoned me and so merry was I, that I couldn’t wait for the first call to come through. I recorded my message and waited for a caller. As soon as the phone did ring, I sobered up, broke out in a sweat and almost crapped my pants. But, like a true professional I went ahead, got into character and answered the phone.
Dave from Liverpool was my first caller. ‘Do you do role plays mate’ he asked. The hairs stood up not only on the back of my neck but also on the carpet. I was terrified, but responded with ‘yeah, we can do that Dave’ And this is how the converstion continued.....
Dave: Do you like football mate
Me: Um, yeah (to self-I’m gay for fuck sake, I know nothing about it)
Dave: I want you to be Ashley Cole
Me (wondering where the hell this is going): Yeah, I’m um, Ashley Cole, how are ya doing Dave?
Dave: Can I call you Ash?
Me, but now Ash: Yep, you can call me Ash.
Dave: Tell me about your Chelsea kit Ash
Ash (racking my brain to find any sort of image of a football kit): Oh, it’s lovely, its red and white and I have a number on the back I’m number 1 and…..
Dave (cutting me off abruptly): No it’s not; your kit is blue and white and the number on your back is 3
Ash (backtracking to cover up this clearly titanic error) Oh, I thought I was playing away, yeah, that's my away kit (what the fuck am I talking about?)
Dave: Look, don’t spoil it, you’re wearing blue and white, I don’t want to talk about your away kit
Ash (removing foot, ankle and shin from mouth) Sorry, I’m in my blue and white kit, am I playing football?
Dave: Oh yeah, that’s good. OK Ash, your on the pitch, I want to hear you panting
Ash: (stifled laughter but like a good chat line operator, I compose and start to pant)
Dave (getting VERY animated): Ok Ash, Rooney is gonna give you a sly tackle on the left and you’re gonna hit the pitch.
Ash(getting carried away at this point):Fuck, that Rooney is a dirty player, he’s just fowled me
Dave (breathing heavily): Are you in pain Ash? I wanna hear you in pain. Say ‘Ow’ for me Ash
Ash (going for a BAFTA by howling like a banshee): My leg is fucked, I can’t play the rest of the match, they might have to stretcher me off. That cunt Rooney, I’m gonna ‘ave him (This isn’t so hard I think to myself)
Dave: Ok Ash mate, I’m gonna have to give you a little injection in your leg ok?
Ash (feeling slightly unnerved and reverting to being five years old, completely forgetting I am doing role-play): I’m not a fan of needles, in fact I hate them, they scare the life out of me, can you just rub some ointment on it? Oh please, Don’t inject me.
Dave (making a familiar sounding moan): Thanks mate, I’m sorted
That was it, Dave hung up, apparently a very happy customer. During my two week stint on the chat-line he became a ‘Regular’ and called back frequently. We would pretty much do the same scenario, except sometimes we would alternate and it would be ‘that prissy cunt’ Beckham that has given me a sly tackle, but consistent as Dave was, it was always ‘on me left’.
The funny thing about our conversations was that they were not actually sexual at all.^ I did once try to get my character off the pitch and into the shower but Dave was having none of it. The furthest we ever got to undressing ‘Ash’ was him taking one of ‘his’ boots off, while ‘he’ was ‘Laying down on his bed after the big match’ and poor old Dave didn’t even get the laces undone before saying ‘Thanks mate, I’m sorted’
I lasted about two weeks as a chat line operator, because I really do find the whole thing VERY unsavoury.* I just thought it would be a very funny thing to do (and to write a blog about) and really did think the pounds would be rolling in. But here is where it became a false economy:
I had to be pissed as a fart to go on line. Cost £10 for 2 bottle of wine per day, over a 2 week period £140.
Amount of revenue I made in a two week period, having a ‘talk time’++ total of 6 hours: £53.45
Out of pocket in two weeks by: £86.55
So, it turns out that what had initially seemed like a great money making scheme actually wasn’t and was also in danger of turning me into an alcoholic. So I knocked it on ‘the head’.
I just wonder if whoever Dave is speaking to know, comes close to filling my Chelsea boots.
^ Some calls we so perverse, that I would have a bucket by me just incase I needed to spew. And I did have to terminate a few, that even Pamela Anderson would have considered ‘too much’
*I would like to state for the record that I absolutely detest the whole chat-line world and it is all very bittersweet for me because an ex of mine, Mr Sewer, as well as being sociopath, a pathological liar, selfish, bad in bed and a sex addict (yeah, I’m leading with his nicer qualities here) he was also addicted to chat lines and would spend hours on them and would even call them from the toliets at his workplace. I would like to say that they were responsible for completely ruining our relationship, but clearly there were numerous other factors in the demise………
++ You only get paid for talking to a caller. If you are logged on to the system for 5 hours, but only talk for 20 minutes, you will only be paid for those 20 minutes. Tight cunts.
I was drunk, very drunk the first time I logged on. In fact, being realistic, I was shit faced. It was the only way I could possibly go through with it. By 8pm on the night in question, all inhibitions had abandoned me and so merry was I, that I couldn’t wait for the first call to come through. I recorded my message and waited for a caller. As soon as the phone did ring, I sobered up, broke out in a sweat and almost crapped my pants. But, like a true professional I went ahead, got into character and answered the phone.
Dave from Liverpool was my first caller. ‘Do you do role plays mate’ he asked. The hairs stood up not only on the back of my neck but also on the carpet. I was terrified, but responded with ‘yeah, we can do that Dave’ And this is how the converstion continued.....
Dave: Do you like football mate
Me: Um, yeah (to self-I’m gay for fuck sake, I know nothing about it)
Dave: I want you to be Ashley Cole
Me (wondering where the hell this is going): Yeah, I’m um, Ashley Cole, how are ya doing Dave?
Dave: Can I call you Ash?
Me, but now Ash: Yep, you can call me Ash.
Dave: Tell me about your Chelsea kit Ash
Ash (racking my brain to find any sort of image of a football kit): Oh, it’s lovely, its red and white and I have a number on the back I’m number 1 and…..
Dave (cutting me off abruptly): No it’s not; your kit is blue and white and the number on your back is 3
Ash (backtracking to cover up this clearly titanic error) Oh, I thought I was playing away, yeah, that's my away kit (what the fuck am I talking about?)
Dave: Look, don’t spoil it, you’re wearing blue and white, I don’t want to talk about your away kit
Ash (removing foot, ankle and shin from mouth) Sorry, I’m in my blue and white kit, am I playing football?
Dave: Oh yeah, that’s good. OK Ash, your on the pitch, I want to hear you panting
Ash: (stifled laughter but like a good chat line operator, I compose and start to pant)
Dave (getting VERY animated): Ok Ash, Rooney is gonna give you a sly tackle on the left and you’re gonna hit the pitch.
Ash(getting carried away at this point):Fuck, that Rooney is a dirty player, he’s just fowled me
Dave (breathing heavily): Are you in pain Ash? I wanna hear you in pain. Say ‘Ow’ for me Ash
Ash (going for a BAFTA by howling like a banshee): My leg is fucked, I can’t play the rest of the match, they might have to stretcher me off. That cunt Rooney, I’m gonna ‘ave him (This isn’t so hard I think to myself)
Dave: Ok Ash mate, I’m gonna have to give you a little injection in your leg ok?
Ash (feeling slightly unnerved and reverting to being five years old, completely forgetting I am doing role-play): I’m not a fan of needles, in fact I hate them, they scare the life out of me, can you just rub some ointment on it? Oh please, Don’t inject me.
Dave (making a familiar sounding moan): Thanks mate, I’m sorted
That was it, Dave hung up, apparently a very happy customer. During my two week stint on the chat-line he became a ‘Regular’ and called back frequently. We would pretty much do the same scenario, except sometimes we would alternate and it would be ‘that prissy cunt’ Beckham that has given me a sly tackle, but consistent as Dave was, it was always ‘on me left’.
The funny thing about our conversations was that they were not actually sexual at all.^ I did once try to get my character off the pitch and into the shower but Dave was having none of it. The furthest we ever got to undressing ‘Ash’ was him taking one of ‘his’ boots off, while ‘he’ was ‘Laying down on his bed after the big match’ and poor old Dave didn’t even get the laces undone before saying ‘Thanks mate, I’m sorted’
I lasted about two weeks as a chat line operator, because I really do find the whole thing VERY unsavoury.* I just thought it would be a very funny thing to do (and to write a blog about) and really did think the pounds would be rolling in. But here is where it became a false economy:
I had to be pissed as a fart to go on line. Cost £10 for 2 bottle of wine per day, over a 2 week period £140.
Amount of revenue I made in a two week period, having a ‘talk time’++ total of 6 hours: £53.45
Out of pocket in two weeks by: £86.55
So, it turns out that what had initially seemed like a great money making scheme actually wasn’t and was also in danger of turning me into an alcoholic. So I knocked it on ‘the head’.
I just wonder if whoever Dave is speaking to know, comes close to filling my Chelsea boots.
^ Some calls we so perverse, that I would have a bucket by me just incase I needed to spew. And I did have to terminate a few, that even Pamela Anderson would have considered ‘too much’
*I would like to state for the record that I absolutely detest the whole chat-line world and it is all very bittersweet for me because an ex of mine, Mr Sewer, as well as being sociopath, a pathological liar, selfish, bad in bed and a sex addict (yeah, I’m leading with his nicer qualities here) he was also addicted to chat lines and would spend hours on them and would even call them from the toliets at his workplace. I would like to say that they were responsible for completely ruining our relationship, but clearly there were numerous other factors in the demise………
++ You only get paid for talking to a caller. If you are logged on to the system for 5 hours, but only talk for 20 minutes, you will only be paid for those 20 minutes. Tight cunts.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Baby, talk is cheap
The run up to Christmas always gets me worried. I worry that I am not going to have enough money to buy everyone the nice presents they have come to expect from me, which would result in me become disowned. I worry that I will not have enough money to pay my bills come the 1st of January, which will result in me being made homeless. I worry that I will not have enough money to top up my Oyster card to get to work, which would result in me being made unemployed, pretty much the same dilemas that face 99.9% of the population after overspending at this time of year. And like 99.9% of the population, I am always looking for news ways to earn myself a little cash to help buy those presents I know my friends and family will love, which is why I have jumped at the chance to be a Gay Chat Operator. The advert said you could earn up to £10 per hour from the comfort of your own home. How hard can it be? So I have decided to jump on board the chat operator express, next stop Sex Worker-ville.
I went straight to the website and downloaded a manual, and a contract. The manual was full of encouraging testimonials from other chat operators saying things like "I like the feeling of knowing the more effort I put in the more money I'll earn. It really gives me a sense of satisfaction when I get my money every two weeks" from Maria, but even more encouraging was Caroline who states "I have been working as a chat line operator for two months now and I love it! it's great fun and doesn't feel like work at all. the money is a bonus, I made £665.14 in two weeks"
Well, the contract was signed and posted along with a copy of my passport quicker than you could hum the first verse of Sade's Smooth Operator. The following day I received an email with my starter manual and had to call up the helpdesk for a log in code. In all honestly I was more terrified of calling up for my code than actually becoming an operator. These were going to be 'Real' people who probably thought that chat line operators were some sub standard species, I could picture them putting my call on loud speaker and humiliating me by saying it was all a prank and they just thought it would be funny to see if anyone out there was sad enough to do it. Well, there is, and I am.
My call to retrieve my log in was going quite smoothly I have to say. This wasn't so embarrassing I thought. Well, apart from when I asked the woman who was taking my details how long do the calls generally last and did they all tend to be very sexual."I wouldn't know I work in the office, no judgement" she bellowed. My face stung with shame and self hatred and my fear that I was on loud speaker seemed ever more real. I pictured rows of blondes, wearing tight sweaters with gargantuan nails and red lipstick typing away and laughing at me behind my back. I could not have hated myself harder than I did at that moment. But then Tasmin turned it around by saying that if I looked on page 33 of the manual it gave me more details and ideas about the sort of calls to expect.
The start up manual is very helpful, and is fully of lots of information, some of it is just pure common sense, but parts are just plain crazy. Like in the section on 'How to Get Started' it says 'To get you in the mood, think about some pleasant experiences you may have had such as: How you might talk intimately to your partner. Remember the best chat-up line you ever heard, and how you responded to it. Perhaps you went to a great party and want to talk about it.' No, my advice on how to get started is to knock back alcohol like prohibition is coming in to enable you to throw caution to the wind so that you can talk to these FREAKS. These incredibly odd people who get their kicks by somebody at the end of the line pretending that they're wearing French panties whilst preparing a three course meal and getting the kids ready for bed.
The manual also gives you a few ideas for the messages you can leave on the phone lines such as:
"Hi, my name is Steve. I'm a gay guy looking forward to talking to you and having fun. I just love hearing new voices"
or
"Hi, Transsexual Suzie here. I've got gorgeous dark glowing skin, long flowing hair and I just love talking on the phone."
I'm not sure that I will go with any of those, I was thinking more "Hi, I've had two bottles of wine, I'm likely to make no sense and be abusive, and may very well vomit during our chat. On line now waiting for your call."
Tonight will be the first time I try being a chat line operator. I feel after studying the manual for the last two days I have all the information I need to be a success. I also feel that with two bottles of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, I will have the courage to carry it off.
I went straight to the website and downloaded a manual, and a contract. The manual was full of encouraging testimonials from other chat operators saying things like "I like the feeling of knowing the more effort I put in the more money I'll earn. It really gives me a sense of satisfaction when I get my money every two weeks" from Maria, but even more encouraging was Caroline who states "I have been working as a chat line operator for two months now and I love it! it's great fun and doesn't feel like work at all. the money is a bonus, I made £665.14 in two weeks"
Well, the contract was signed and posted along with a copy of my passport quicker than you could hum the first verse of Sade's Smooth Operator. The following day I received an email with my starter manual and had to call up the helpdesk for a log in code. In all honestly I was more terrified of calling up for my code than actually becoming an operator. These were going to be 'Real' people who probably thought that chat line operators were some sub standard species, I could picture them putting my call on loud speaker and humiliating me by saying it was all a prank and they just thought it would be funny to see if anyone out there was sad enough to do it. Well, there is, and I am.
My call to retrieve my log in was going quite smoothly I have to say. This wasn't so embarrassing I thought. Well, apart from when I asked the woman who was taking my details how long do the calls generally last and did they all tend to be very sexual."I wouldn't know I work in the office, no judgement" she bellowed. My face stung with shame and self hatred and my fear that I was on loud speaker seemed ever more real. I pictured rows of blondes, wearing tight sweaters with gargantuan nails and red lipstick typing away and laughing at me behind my back. I could not have hated myself harder than I did at that moment. But then Tasmin turned it around by saying that if I looked on page 33 of the manual it gave me more details and ideas about the sort of calls to expect.
The start up manual is very helpful, and is fully of lots of information, some of it is just pure common sense, but parts are just plain crazy. Like in the section on 'How to Get Started' it says 'To get you in the mood, think about some pleasant experiences you may have had such as: How you might talk intimately to your partner. Remember the best chat-up line you ever heard, and how you responded to it. Perhaps you went to a great party and want to talk about it.' No, my advice on how to get started is to knock back alcohol like prohibition is coming in to enable you to throw caution to the wind so that you can talk to these FREAKS. These incredibly odd people who get their kicks by somebody at the end of the line pretending that they're wearing French panties whilst preparing a three course meal and getting the kids ready for bed.
The manual also gives you a few ideas for the messages you can leave on the phone lines such as:
"Hi, my name is Steve. I'm a gay guy looking forward to talking to you and having fun. I just love hearing new voices"
or
"Hi, Transsexual Suzie here. I've got gorgeous dark glowing skin, long flowing hair and I just love talking on the phone."
I'm not sure that I will go with any of those, I was thinking more "Hi, I've had two bottles of wine, I'm likely to make no sense and be abusive, and may very well vomit during our chat. On line now waiting for your call."
Tonight will be the first time I try being a chat line operator. I feel after studying the manual for the last two days I have all the information I need to be a success. I also feel that with two bottles of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, I will have the courage to carry it off.
Friday, November 10, 2006
"Everybody's gotta learn sometime"
Last night I was one bad date away from being bitter, today I am just bitter.
I am through with men. Oh yes indeedy. That’s it. Over. I will date men no more. This Homo is closing down for season. I am on the Celibacy Express. I am relocating to Baron Island. Alone. I used to think that I was genuinely unlucky with men, today I know it is the only thing I am certain of in this show called life.
I had met Dave whilst on holiday a few weeks back, on the island I have now renamed as Gross Canaria. We got chatting on a boat trip and he was definitely the type of guy I fantasize about. An ASBO. A scaly lad, very straight acting, with a real London accent decked out in tracksuit bottoms and trainers. The gay ideal. The dream. We were from very different worlds, He was a baggage handler at an airport, and I work in events for a charity. He shopped at Morrisons for his food, I wouldn’t be seen dead in anywhere but M&S. I wore a simple silver bracelet and he was dripping in the entire Argos jewellery collection. My spare time is spent going to galleries or exhibitions; his spare time was spent sitting in a mate’s studio flat above a kebab shop listening to drum and bass, getting stoned. He was what I would call Chav-tastic, I mean this guy should have been in a laboratory being studied. So when he asked for my number I practically tattooed it on to him for fear that he may forget it or lose it. I couldn’t believe my luck. We said that we would meet once back in London. He wrote down his number for me and signed it with his tag, a smiley face and also a message, to remember him by ‘Grrrr’. Perfect.
So he contacts me last week out of the blue to ask if I want to meet him for a drink. In fact his text message said ‘wana meet up wiv u soon m8. U up 4 a drink’ I hadn’t contacted him because I had thrown his number away when he had given it to me eliminating any chance I may start to stalk him. Although I didn’t recognise the number, I knew who it was, it had Dave all over it.
We arranged to meet last night and have been sharing a bit of banter via text for a few days. One of his messages said ‘I really wana sleep wiv ya 2nite m8’ I have never really understood the whole ‘text talk’ and hate it when anyone uses it, mainly because I am not an imbecile and have a good grasp of the English language but that was quite possibly the most perfect text message I have ever received. I sent one back saying ‘you are very forward. I like that’. The more text messages he sent the more excitement within me grew and I started to really look forward to this date. The possibility of one of my fantasies actually coming true was almost too much for me to bear. Having sex with a scaly boy has always been at the top of my list. I think for most Gay men it is up there. There is even a whole gay porn company that makes movies with scalys and nothing else and they have titles like Scaly Boy Orgy, Trackie Lads and Scaly Football Orgy. Those of us who are of the lavender persuasion really cannot get enough of dirty little scalys.
As I navigated my way along Oxford Street last night to go and meet Dave, I called my friend Telstar to rub in the fact that I had a date with a scaly. He quickly pointed out to me that not only was I living the dream, I was living his dream. The realisation that I could lose his friendship started to appear very real indeed. Telstar dreams of scalys. His entire porn collection is dedicated to them, so the fact that I had a date with an actual scaly was, in Telstar’s eyes, the ultimate betrayal, and completely unjust. I worried that he might even sabotage the date and ruin my chance to turn a fantasy into a reality by turning up and pretending to be a jilted lover, or tell Dave he was pregnant with my child…
Dave came straight up to me as I entered the bar, which I was thankful for because I had only met him once, about a month before, on a gay cruise during which I had drank twice my body weight in beer and tequila. So although I remembered that I was attracted to him, I couldn’t actually remember what he looked like. We got a drink and then sat down, and I had to stop myself form laughing at the sight of us. He was over six foot, wearing trainers & trackies, and me 5’ 5” wearing a suit. It was all so Pretty Woman and I felt like Richard Gere in the leading role. Dave was very talkative and kept saying things like “Ur ‘Orny” (he found me attractive) and “u look a lot branner than me” (I had more of a suntan) and "wanna novver one?" (was I thirsty) He also told me about his new car, he described it as bullet. As in: have you heard the new Madonna single? It’s bullet. It was all so deliciously scaly.
There were a few problems though, mainly his lack of diplomacy and tact. At one point he asked how old I was. When I told him I was 28 he said “nah mate, I thought you were about 35” and asked me to prove that I was in fact 28. He then said that he was really into bigger guys who didn't spend too much time taking care of themselves. A minute later he told me how much he fancied me and asked did I want to go to XXL with him? XXL is a well-known gay club for chubbys and their chasers. I weigh 76 kilos. Yes I could probably do with losing a stone but would hardly call myself fat. However in Dave’s eyes I was Richard SImmons before he found aerobics. Basically Dave was saying I looked old, overweight and had let myself go. I should have been insulted but I wasn’t. I actually found it highly amusing. He didn’t have the intelligence to see how offensive he had been, and for some reason this tickled me. I was not tickled though when he started showing me explicit text messages form some bloke he was having a fling with or when I came back from the toilet to find him setting up another date. I came back to find my date on another date. I hate it when that happens. I realised that if Dave couldn’t be faithful to me for 2 hours, he wasn’t really the sort of man I want in my life. So I made my excuses and left. My fantasy wasn’t about to come true this evening
On the way home I bought Scaly Boy Orgy and decided that scalys are best left as fantasies.
I am through with men. Oh yes indeedy. That’s it. Over. I will date men no more. This Homo is closing down for season. I am on the Celibacy Express. I am relocating to Baron Island. Alone. I used to think that I was genuinely unlucky with men, today I know it is the only thing I am certain of in this show called life.
I had met Dave whilst on holiday a few weeks back, on the island I have now renamed as Gross Canaria. We got chatting on a boat trip and he was definitely the type of guy I fantasize about. An ASBO. A scaly lad, very straight acting, with a real London accent decked out in tracksuit bottoms and trainers. The gay ideal. The dream. We were from very different worlds, He was a baggage handler at an airport, and I work in events for a charity. He shopped at Morrisons for his food, I wouldn’t be seen dead in anywhere but M&S. I wore a simple silver bracelet and he was dripping in the entire Argos jewellery collection. My spare time is spent going to galleries or exhibitions; his spare time was spent sitting in a mate’s studio flat above a kebab shop listening to drum and bass, getting stoned. He was what I would call Chav-tastic, I mean this guy should have been in a laboratory being studied. So when he asked for my number I practically tattooed it on to him for fear that he may forget it or lose it. I couldn’t believe my luck. We said that we would meet once back in London. He wrote down his number for me and signed it with his tag, a smiley face and also a message, to remember him by ‘Grrrr’. Perfect.
So he contacts me last week out of the blue to ask if I want to meet him for a drink. In fact his text message said ‘wana meet up wiv u soon m8. U up 4 a drink’ I hadn’t contacted him because I had thrown his number away when he had given it to me eliminating any chance I may start to stalk him. Although I didn’t recognise the number, I knew who it was, it had Dave all over it.
We arranged to meet last night and have been sharing a bit of banter via text for a few days. One of his messages said ‘I really wana sleep wiv ya 2nite m8’ I have never really understood the whole ‘text talk’ and hate it when anyone uses it, mainly because I am not an imbecile and have a good grasp of the English language but that was quite possibly the most perfect text message I have ever received. I sent one back saying ‘you are very forward. I like that’. The more text messages he sent the more excitement within me grew and I started to really look forward to this date. The possibility of one of my fantasies actually coming true was almost too much for me to bear. Having sex with a scaly boy has always been at the top of my list. I think for most Gay men it is up there. There is even a whole gay porn company that makes movies with scalys and nothing else and they have titles like Scaly Boy Orgy, Trackie Lads and Scaly Football Orgy. Those of us who are of the lavender persuasion really cannot get enough of dirty little scalys.
As I navigated my way along Oxford Street last night to go and meet Dave, I called my friend Telstar to rub in the fact that I had a date with a scaly. He quickly pointed out to me that not only was I living the dream, I was living his dream. The realisation that I could lose his friendship started to appear very real indeed. Telstar dreams of scalys. His entire porn collection is dedicated to them, so the fact that I had a date with an actual scaly was, in Telstar’s eyes, the ultimate betrayal, and completely unjust. I worried that he might even sabotage the date and ruin my chance to turn a fantasy into a reality by turning up and pretending to be a jilted lover, or tell Dave he was pregnant with my child…
Dave came straight up to me as I entered the bar, which I was thankful for because I had only met him once, about a month before, on a gay cruise during which I had drank twice my body weight in beer and tequila. So although I remembered that I was attracted to him, I couldn’t actually remember what he looked like. We got a drink and then sat down, and I had to stop myself form laughing at the sight of us. He was over six foot, wearing trainers & trackies, and me 5’ 5” wearing a suit. It was all so Pretty Woman and I felt like Richard Gere in the leading role. Dave was very talkative and kept saying things like “Ur ‘Orny” (he found me attractive) and “u look a lot branner than me” (I had more of a suntan) and "wanna novver one?" (was I thirsty) He also told me about his new car, he described it as bullet. As in: have you heard the new Madonna single? It’s bullet. It was all so deliciously scaly.
There were a few problems though, mainly his lack of diplomacy and tact. At one point he asked how old I was. When I told him I was 28 he said “nah mate, I thought you were about 35” and asked me to prove that I was in fact 28. He then said that he was really into bigger guys who didn't spend too much time taking care of themselves. A minute later he told me how much he fancied me and asked did I want to go to XXL with him? XXL is a well-known gay club for chubbys and their chasers. I weigh 76 kilos. Yes I could probably do with losing a stone but would hardly call myself fat. However in Dave’s eyes I was Richard SImmons before he found aerobics. Basically Dave was saying I looked old, overweight and had let myself go. I should have been insulted but I wasn’t. I actually found it highly amusing. He didn’t have the intelligence to see how offensive he had been, and for some reason this tickled me. I was not tickled though when he started showing me explicit text messages form some bloke he was having a fling with or when I came back from the toilet to find him setting up another date. I came back to find my date on another date. I hate it when that happens. I realised that if Dave couldn’t be faithful to me for 2 hours, he wasn’t really the sort of man I want in my life. So I made my excuses and left. My fantasy wasn’t about to come true this evening
On the way home I bought Scaly Boy Orgy and decided that scalys are best left as fantasies.
In the name of The Father
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tequila Mockingbird. I am a single gay man living in London, and I have decided to write a blog about my non existent sex life, and maybe give some laughs, and hope to some of my fellow Lavenders out there.". In fairness I've never really liked it a huge amount nor have I been lucky in the sex department. I always end up drawing the short straw and I think this is what has caused my lack of appetite in this area. I simply cannot be bothered to have sex anymore, because I always end up being disappointed. Lets give you an example. My last encounter was with a friend of a friend type set up.......... Why on earth I decided to go along with it I will never know, because historically these things tend to be disasters, especially in the World of Lavender (the gay world). This is because our heterosexual friends always automatically assume, if you're gay, and he's gay, you will of course want to screw each others brains out. They seriously think that you and this other gay man are the only two on the planet, and therefore MUST sleep together. Hold the phone? It is a sweeping generalisation but it happens the world over. Friends of Homo's please note- not ALL gay men are George Michael and will sleep with anything that resembles a human, a tree, or a bench on Hampstead Heath. Ipso facto, some of us have standards.
Against my better judgment, I went for drinks with an old friend known as Big Sis in a watering hole just off Brewer Street and down a dangerously steep staircase......... This was the place I was to meet my date, Jacques. I had told Big Sis the ONLY way I would consider meeting him was if she was present. At least that way if this guy was the cretin I had predicted, I would have someone to talk to.
I was fully expecting a monster, so I was more than pleased when he arrived and appeared to be tall, attractive, funny, articulate, and IN TO ME. Right from the start he was extremely forward, and I found his confidence intoxicating. At some point later the penny dropped and I saw that his confidence was actually arrogance, which of course just made him even more desirable.
He charmed the Calvin's off of me, and I broke my rule. My rule not to act like a common dog who eats the face off someone in a bar. I feasted on his face like a tramp on chips. After a good 4 hour's drinking, and realising poor Big Sis had made an exit, things between Jacques & I started heating up.
Before I know it I was in a cab on the way back to Clapham and Jacques is practically trying to have sex with me. Truth be told I'm just as bad. He kept asking what my fantasies were saying he would fulfill every one of them. Now my fantasies are MINE and MINE only. Fantasies are not spoken of. Fantasies never come true, so I like them left as fantasies. I told him so too. I tried to explain that we had just met and I wasn't really comfortable discussing my deepest darkest secrets, but was looking forward to some torrid sexual liaisons. I I was trying to stop this fantasy talk, as it was starting to make me feel raw and exposed. Like a Virgin Atlantic Air Steward without 3 inches of make up.
But if he asked it once he asked a million times. Alarms were ringing, but I couldn't hear them above the dangerous levels of wine I'd consumed. What is fantasy etiquette? Is it the same as the 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine' playground standard I wondered? I didn't want to ask him. Lets be brutally honest- asking someone what their fantasy is can be akin to having unprotected sex: you never know what you're going to get.
We get back to his hovel of an apartment and I manage to suppress my urge to run around with bleach and clean the place. So he makes me a drink. It was Advocat. ADVO-fucking-CAT. Had I been transported back to the 60's, landed in Fanny Craddocks living room and been left for dead? There was no way I could ingest a drink that looks like raw scrambled eggs and the smell of sink was starting to make me feel light headed, so I pounced.
Now Jack can kiss. And Jack is good with his hands.......... but he keeps yapping on about bloody fantasies. And that's when it all went wrong. Jack whispered in my ear 'now I can tell you what my fantasies are'. I went cold and came crashing back to earth. I may not have done this casual sex thing very often, but I have enough nous to know when someone whispers that in your ear, its likely going to end with a fan, and shit.
I quickly scanned the room, taking in as many mental images as I could, as I knew that when my half dead body was found washed up on Brighton beach wearing half an inner tube these memories might be useful when trying to trace my captor. "I want you to pretend that you are my father and rape me" Jacques says, quite loudly and with a look, you just know was the last thing Ted Bundy's victims saw. Whilst terrified and in fear for my life, I was also repulsed and couldn't stop my self asking him if this was some sick joke. This is when he became somewhat indignant and started chanting "my father is watching us, he wants you to fuck me". Without looking, Jacques pointed, causing my eyes to follow to what he was pointing which was a picture of a man above his bed, whom I am assuming was his father.........
"um, this isn't working for me" I said in what I intended to be a really assertive and almost threatening tone, but instead a shrill sound omitted from my mouth like Mrs maple on helium as I am tried to get the hell out. But now he is whimpering and waving his arse in my face saying "come on and rape me you f*cking f*cker" So engrossed was he in his role playing that he was oblivious to the fact that I was fully clothed and asking him for directions to the nearest cab office. I ran out of that house like a refugee running for the border and swore that I would never be set up on a date by a friend again. In fact to turn lesbian, to be celibate, to chop my gonads off and become a eunich. I sent Big Sis a text to say "honey you're fired" and then got a cab home. It was at this stage that I realised just how sober I had become, and what an utterly frightening experience it has been, and once again how typical it was of my life to end up with such a complete and utter freak.
I got a text from him the next day saying 'I was really drunk last night, can't really remember much. Hope I didn't do or say anything embarrassing. I'd really like to see you again'
I sent one back saying 'Who's your daddy?' He hasn't responded.
Against my better judgment, I went for drinks with an old friend known as Big Sis in a watering hole just off Brewer Street and down a dangerously steep staircase......... This was the place I was to meet my date, Jacques. I had told Big Sis the ONLY way I would consider meeting him was if she was present. At least that way if this guy was the cretin I had predicted, I would have someone to talk to.
I was fully expecting a monster, so I was more than pleased when he arrived and appeared to be tall, attractive, funny, articulate, and IN TO ME. Right from the start he was extremely forward, and I found his confidence intoxicating. At some point later the penny dropped and I saw that his confidence was actually arrogance, which of course just made him even more desirable.
He charmed the Calvin's off of me, and I broke my rule. My rule not to act like a common dog who eats the face off someone in a bar. I feasted on his face like a tramp on chips. After a good 4 hour's drinking, and realising poor Big Sis had made an exit, things between Jacques & I started heating up.
Before I know it I was in a cab on the way back to Clapham and Jacques is practically trying to have sex with me. Truth be told I'm just as bad. He kept asking what my fantasies were saying he would fulfill every one of them. Now my fantasies are MINE and MINE only. Fantasies are not spoken of. Fantasies never come true, so I like them left as fantasies. I told him so too. I tried to explain that we had just met and I wasn't really comfortable discussing my deepest darkest secrets, but was looking forward to some torrid sexual liaisons. I I was trying to stop this fantasy talk, as it was starting to make me feel raw and exposed. Like a Virgin Atlantic Air Steward without 3 inches of make up.
But if he asked it once he asked a million times. Alarms were ringing, but I couldn't hear them above the dangerous levels of wine I'd consumed. What is fantasy etiquette? Is it the same as the 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine' playground standard I wondered? I didn't want to ask him. Lets be brutally honest- asking someone what their fantasy is can be akin to having unprotected sex: you never know what you're going to get.
We get back to his hovel of an apartment and I manage to suppress my urge to run around with bleach and clean the place. So he makes me a drink. It was Advocat. ADVO-fucking-CAT. Had I been transported back to the 60's, landed in Fanny Craddocks living room and been left for dead? There was no way I could ingest a drink that looks like raw scrambled eggs and the smell of sink was starting to make me feel light headed, so I pounced.
Now Jack can kiss. And Jack is good with his hands.......... but he keeps yapping on about bloody fantasies. And that's when it all went wrong. Jack whispered in my ear 'now I can tell you what my fantasies are'. I went cold and came crashing back to earth. I may not have done this casual sex thing very often, but I have enough nous to know when someone whispers that in your ear, its likely going to end with a fan, and shit.
I quickly scanned the room, taking in as many mental images as I could, as I knew that when my half dead body was found washed up on Brighton beach wearing half an inner tube these memories might be useful when trying to trace my captor. "I want you to pretend that you are my father and rape me" Jacques says, quite loudly and with a look, you just know was the last thing Ted Bundy's victims saw. Whilst terrified and in fear for my life, I was also repulsed and couldn't stop my self asking him if this was some sick joke. This is when he became somewhat indignant and started chanting "my father is watching us, he wants you to fuck me". Without looking, Jacques pointed, causing my eyes to follow to what he was pointing which was a picture of a man above his bed, whom I am assuming was his father.........
"um, this isn't working for me" I said in what I intended to be a really assertive and almost threatening tone, but instead a shrill sound omitted from my mouth like Mrs maple on helium as I am tried to get the hell out. But now he is whimpering and waving his arse in my face saying "come on and rape me you f*cking f*cker" So engrossed was he in his role playing that he was oblivious to the fact that I was fully clothed and asking him for directions to the nearest cab office. I ran out of that house like a refugee running for the border and swore that I would never be set up on a date by a friend again. In fact to turn lesbian, to be celibate, to chop my gonads off and become a eunich. I sent Big Sis a text to say "honey you're fired" and then got a cab home. It was at this stage that I realised just how sober I had become, and what an utterly frightening experience it has been, and once again how typical it was of my life to end up with such a complete and utter freak.
I got a text from him the next day saying 'I was really drunk last night, can't really remember much. Hope I didn't do or say anything embarrassing. I'd really like to see you again'
I sent one back saying 'Who's your daddy?' He hasn't responded.
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