So he seemed quite clever. I knew from his pictures he'd be arrogant, and dare I say snobby. But I was up for that. I like a bit of a fight.
In all fairness I wasn't initially attracted to him, looks-wise. His pictures didn't do him justice, I guess. It was the banter I was interested in. There seemed to be a lot of that and I'm a person who likes to be kept amused.
He was selected as Rear of the Year contestant for some bar in the village last summer, but got drunk before the competition and so naturally things went tits up. Sounds like the story of my life. I thought, maybe we have something in common after all?
The first two dates went well. I'm normally a top but so was he, so I gave bottoming a try and so did he. We were horny but not filthy. We slapped each other about a bit, broke a bed, got carpet burns. Nothing terribly outrageous considering my track-record.
But then something changed. Maybe it was my honesty. I'm honest to a fault. Especially when the booze is flowing. Give me a cocktail and I'll admit to anything. Yes, I shagged your husband. Yes, I stole these sweets from a baby. Yes, I killed a man.
Maybe I should have pretended to be someone else? But the effort of being me is work enough. Being someone else as well would probably kill me.
He caught tonsillitis and cancelled our fourth date. Fair enough, I thought. You can't help illness So I went out instead for my Canadian friend's birthday. I drank absinthe. I was more wasted than Hiroshima after the bomb.
Then who should waltz into the club at 3am, wiggling the almost-but-not-quite Rear of the Year? Okay. So I flipped a little. It's been said I have a short temper. Especially when drunk. I've also variously been called demanding, hard-work, and a handful. I'm all of these things and more, I'm sure. Most gay men love a handful, though, and we all appreciate an honest day's work.
So when he flashed me his swollen, flecked tonsils, trying to prove his innocence, I slid off and decided to pull some six-packed chav chicken from . . . Heywood, was it? After letting the boy bounce on me all night and all morning, I pulled myself from the sweat-sodden bedsheets and found a text from Mr Rear.
Okay. I'm sucker for the slightest whiff of an apology. I can hate you with all the anger in the world if you wrong me, but if you apologise I feel compelled to forgive. Why? Well, to be fair, anything anyone else has done, I've done worse. And I always apologise and am usually forgiven.
So fair is fair.
He asked me twice to meet up again for a drink. Explained he had been ill but was going back down south for a while and wanted to see his friends before he went. Okay, I thought. O-fucking-kay. I'll do it. No more grovelling.
So I met him. Everything seemed . . . alright. Good, even. We kissed, going just the right side of wild in the street, and I felt his cock stir. He blushed. Then he told me his room was a mess and he had an early morning. Which was probably a good idea, since I had an early morning too.
A few days later he wrote on my wall on Facebook, making a joke that I was common. At least I assumed it was a joke.
So he was still interested, right? Wrong. I guess he'd asked me back on another date because he just wanted to assuage his guilt. To end things on his terms rather than mine, most probably. Except, he never did really end anything. I never heard another word. Not a peep.
That definitely stoked my fires. Tip to guys: grow a pair of bollocks and tell me you're not interested. Even a text would do. Indeed, I prefer to be dumped by text. The city's murder rate stays down that way. But nada.
So I got over it.
I guess he didn't win anything, but he certainly was my Arse of the Year.
[Originally published in Jan 2011 issue of Bent]
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