I was recently talking to a guy who couldn’t stop old men from chatting him up. He then suggested I should write an article about it.
‘So you’ve read my column?’ I asked.
‘You’re a writer?’ he asked.
That he’d asked me to write about him when he didn’t even think I was a writer made me laugh. Obviously this kid thought he was so interesting he expected random strangers who’d never put pen to paper to become so inspired they’d become flourishing Wordsworths overnight. And it got me thinking: are gays really that self-absorbed?
A friend of mine (let’s call him Michael) travelled all the way to Manchester for a shag. The guy spent all evening watching what he wanted to watch on TV, doing what he wanted to do, playing the games he wanted to play on the Wii. Then he just disappeared, content to spend ages in the bathroom without even telling Michael. When he came out, he got into bed and waited for my friend to join him. When Michael wasn’t there in five minutes (presumably gay men are psychic when it comes to sex), he called my friend into the room like a servant who should know better.
The sex was equally self-absorbed. The guy lubed his dick up and readied it for penetration, before my friend pointed out he wasn’t wearing a condom.
‘Oh, yeah, I didn’t think.’
No, he did think—he just expected to get away with barebacking without even asking. So Michael watched him put on the rubber and slid it inside. The guy wanted, of course, to do it in his favourite position, with Michael face down in the pillow and getting very little pleasure. Luckily, a minute and a half later, the guy pulled out. Great! Michael thought. He’s going to change positions! But he didn’t. He’d cum already.
When he took Michael to the train station the next day, he turned and asked, ‘So when will I see you again?’
‘I don’t think you will, darling!’ Michael said, before he turned and walked away.
Clearly the guy had been so confident he was the shit, he’d failed to realise he was, um, a shit.
But this isn’t all. There are the gay men who think ignoring you on a date is hot, and that they’re so gorgeous you’ll never be able to resist, only to be left stunned when you leave them at the dinner table with the bill. Of course, they’ll also have been so busy fawning over their own reflections in the cutlery, they won’t have noticed the lobster thermidor and champagne you’ve ordered and which they’ll now have to pay for.
There are also the guys who walk into the club with a giant trout pout and sashay their hips like they own the place, only to be utterly stunned when the barmen won’t respond to their finger clicks and hand banging on the bar. Remember: screaming and hurling straws and napkins is not an acceptable way of ordering drinks. Neither is, ‘Serve me now bitch! Don’t you know who I am?’
Of course, all of the above goes for anyone other than me. I have to be a bitch so I can research my column and bring you such sage wisdom. If I was good boy, what would you stand to learn then?
Howard Hughes, 1,148 miles from home. - I awake from nightmares to anger and horror and sadness. And that's just the way it is. I begin to suspect that's the way it always will be now, or, as the...
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