A 'short' trip to South America
It seems like years ago now (I’m still maintaining that I'm too busy to blog at work and my bullsh*t flatmate, who, I should point out, won a BAFTA recently, still hasn’t fixed our broadband at home), but the Bank Holigay weekend was a real blast.
Doormouse schlepped his tired but fabulous arse over to Hampstead and we had wine and nibbles at the flat before popping to the local (and by local, I do mean drab) homo bar. We had many, many ciders followed by many, many sambucas and then headed into Soho.
We decided against any clubs where we might have to dress like soldiers, or worse still wear nothing, scoffed ourselves silly at a restaurant in China Town (we were actually refused entry by all but one restaurant for being too drunk, but the silly fools in the Friendly Inn let us dine) and then mooched on into our new favourite venue, Trash Palace.
It transpired that it was a launch party for some guy that used to work with Doormouse at Time Out and is now calling himself a novelist. In all honesty, I really liked his first novel, and I am sure his second one is good too, but we found ourselves in a club full of people who adore him and so all we could do was call everyone cunts.
I knocked a stool over onto a passing dyke’s foot, but rather than offer my apologies, I merely looked at her, looked at Doormouse and said, ‘lesbian much?’ Then there was a group of lesbians upstairs who were really pretty and had nice and hair and nails and so I told them, ‘you’re really pretty. You could get any man you wanted.’ I think they liked me.
What happens after that is something of a blur, but according to Doormouse, I was standing by the bar one minute and leaving with the hottest guy in the club the next. Doormouse chased me out asking where I was going and I shouted back, ‘I’m going to Chelsea.’ I don’t remember this as when I got back to the guy’s house, I thought we were still in Soho, but Chelsea is where we headed, with my legs hanging out the cab window and me trying to undo this guy’s jeans.
He was a South American DJ and very tanned. He was stylish, sexy and very good at the sex. We must have got back to his at about 1am and we didn’t stop until I left at 1pm. We did it on the sofa, in his bed, on the floor and on the soia again. Poppers were involved and there were many positions.
It was amazing.
He seemed to know exactly what he wanted and how to sort me out too. We had no sleep, but did have a brief period where we sat on the sofa chatting, but then he whacked on some Triga and we were at it again.
I knew at the time that he was a bit older than me, but it meant that he was experienced and so it was fine. After all the man on man action, he said the funniest thing.
‘You haven’t got a clue what my name is, have
you?’
And it was true. I had no idea who he was, what he was called or how I got there or would get home.
We got dressed (at this point Doormouse called me and heard me say, ‘I have my top, I’m just looking for my jeans’) and then he gave me directions to Sloane Square tube (it was a very ‘money’ address, it turns out).
The real sting in the tail came when I got to work the next day. I logged onto his MySpace page to do some research to find out just who I had been rogered by and his profile stated quite clearly, with no shame, that he was 42.
42!
If he’s quoting that online, I shudder to think how old he really is.
Still, it was the first good shag I’ve had in a really long time, so I won’t say anything to anyone.
DISCLAIMER: This post was written on my lunch break while I was pretending I wasn’t super hung over.
