It was the weekend of the America themed
house party, a theme originally intended as a mocking celebration of Donald
Trump’s defeat, and Hilary’s easy victory. In true 2016 style, a year when
anything was possible, we had woken up on the 9th November to find
that not only was Brexit happening, but Trump was going to be the most powerful
man in the world. An ‘End of the World’ party would have been more appropriate.
It was too late to change the theme now, we had already spent considerable
hours designing the Facebook banner in a way that looked like it took about three minutes, and had ordered our fancy dress.
As far as parties go, this one nailed
it: Peer pong, jellow shots, a ‘movie’ selfie-booth, and a life size cardboard
cut out of trump. Our mannequin challenge even got 1,800 views on Facebook. Fully
steaming, it was time for the next phase. The club. Not really being ‘clubby’
people, the only viable way to enjoy the over crowded meat-market stuffed with
beautiful yet vacant looking shorties, and the equally aimless looking bodies
led by ball sacks, was with Jaegar bombs. Oh yes, lots of them. These are
drastic measures, or more accurately 50 ml measures, for drastic times. You can do anything as
long as you do it with confidence/ Jaegar Bombs. Not only were we double the
average age on the premises, but we were in fancy dress. 'Tonight Matthew, I am
Katy Perry on the campaign trail', and I shall carry out my moves on the dance floor
like any wannabe with stars in their eyes. The intentions were classy, though
the semi transparent white dress, black wig and stick-on eyelashes were not.
There was so much foundation that my fake bake could have won the RuPaul's Drag
Race.
It didn't matter though. We were in a
club with twenty or so mates and we were dancing. Moving to tunes that I'd only
ever imagine dancing to when I'd been on the M4, M6, M40 .... all the Ms really. I do quite a lot of driving. My purpose here was unadulterated fun with my friends. That was until I felt a bit a bum squeeze. A traditional technique in such a place. When I turned, two of the more mature (though clearly younger than me) men in the establishment were giggling and pretending it wasn't them. Getting the the bottom of it, every pun intended, George, the gardener was responsible for the gesture. He seemed to be enamored with my falseness,
strutting his stuff and all too enthusiastically singing along to Sigma,
"tired of loving with no body to love", whilst pointing at me. No
need to draw attention to it, thanks George. Was it that obvious I’m desperate?
George is cute, cuddly and good dancer
so I get his number. His technique was suspiciously stream-line and wordless. I wonder
what sort of guy could be attracted to running his hands through the wig of a
woman in drag, but he’s a gardener so maybe we could go on a lovely date to the
arboretum and talk about petunias. It was nearly 2am in meat market, a time
where the boys work out if the energy they’ve invested in getting laid is going
to be rewarded. But there’s still enough time to twist. I look at George,
“You’re filthy.” He grins with the naughty charm of a boy who just ate everyone’s
cake when no-one was watching. “I’m not going to go home with you tonight,” and
with that, he disappeared. Poof. I called the number the next day out of
curiosity, but ‘the number’ I dialed could ‘not accept this call’. Oh George, you are a naughty boy. You are the date that got away, which is maybe not such a bad thing.
By 3am it was only our ‘senior’ group mashing
up the dance floor, all the kids had gone home. Like prisoners on day release,
we were glad to be 'out', and the bouncers weren’t seeing the back of us easily.
Narrowly avoiding two fights with the almost macho doormen, finding friends
finding coats, lost phones, and exchanging numbers with two lads ten years my
junior who just wanted me for my American flag (oh how things change), a stop
off at the kebab shop, but somehow we all made it home.
After a night like this anything goes,
so when my male mate goes on an exploration of my phone, absolutely no alarm
bells were raised in my mind. The hilarity of having the incoming call screen
saver changed to Deliveroo's tiny shiny manhood (he will have his own entry
later) was keeping us all very entertained as we drunk dialed. What I hadn’t
noticed was that everyone in bumble was being swiped right, and every match
messaged with "CBA to chat, how about sex?"
Five hours later, still semi under the
influence I woke up to unprecedented matches and responses! And promptly had to
go through all of them with apologies, decline hookups, redeem
possibilities, or think of amusing one-liners to guys who where popping up as
matches.
In amongst the variety of guys my male
friend had not so carefully vetted, there was one with blue eyes a smile
radiating happiness in every picture. Many people seem to find the love of
their life when friends introduce them. This is exactly the same right?
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