When it comes to sex, I’ve always found myself to be plain and simple. Not boring, I would like to point out immediately. But I’m not one for these chains and whips activities.
I mean, I’ve got nothing against anyone who chooses a slightly kinkier sex life than me. Each to their own, that’s what I always say. It’s just not my cup of tea. Or should I say a pot of freshly brewed coffee? I know it’s very unBritish of me, but I can’t stand tea.
I think my dislike for tea stems back to my childhood. At the risk of sounding Freudian, I blame my dad. Until I was seven, my mum would always serve me a bottle of tea every afternoon. Yes, I know. A bottle. At seven years of age. Perhaps that’s where my oral capabilities come from. Years of sucking on a bottle, drinking my brew.
But one day, my father got home from work and he demanded that my mother throw my bottle away. From that day in the early 1990s, I’ve never touched a drop of PG Tips again.
Anyway, back to my tale of the fetishes. I had a boyfriend once who used to demand I call him a slag whilst making love to him. Had me screaming, “you slag!”, he did. Little did I know that he was sleeping with half of London behind my back. Ironically, he was making me speak the truth. Maybe that was his way of absolution.
A few years later, I met a man who used to like to slap me during sex. Now before anyone becomes concerned for my safety and calls the police, it was only playful slaps across the boat race.
It did very little for my sex drive but it seemed to turn him on no end.
I could cope with a little slap every now and then but one day he started to scratch my back in the heat of the moment. Now scratching was still fine with me. I mean, I’d be left with a few red lines down my back for a day or two but there was no lasting damage.
But then one day, the teeth came out to play. And I’m not just talking around the neck like most normal people. The biting got so bad that I had to take to wearing roll neck jumpers, long sleeve tops, and gloves to cover up the bite marks. So I made the suggestion that he find a fellow gay who enjoys Odaxelagnia.
For those who can’t be bothered to google that word:
Odaxelagnia is being sexually aroused through biting, or being bitten. It’s also considered a mild form of sadism.
Just when I thought I might find a man who enjoyed a plain and simple sex life, along came Jamie. Now Jamie wasn’t a fan of kissing on the lips very much. Oh no, he liked to rummage his face in my armpits and kiss those instead.
The day he text me and told me not to wear any deodorant that night was the day I feigned a migraine and never did he grace my armpits again.
And then there was Neil. He was a Scottish man so that should have sent alarm bells ringing immediately.
He arrived one night on my doorstep, carrying a bottle of Scotch. How romantic to be bearing gifts, I thought. Especially Scotch. I’m rather partial to a wee dram, truth be told.
After a wee dram or three, he started to kiss me. On the lips. RESULT. No armpits. I laid back and breathed a sigh of relief to be finally getting the plain and simple sex life I’d been craving.
“Let me suck you!” He demanded.
Who was I to say no? As he continued to kiss his way down my body, he got to my flies. Mini Mark was poised and ready for action.
But as I looked down, I found him at my knees. Maybe the scotch had clouded his judgment and as I tried to re-direct his head back up, his lips continued on their journey down my body.
Before I could say Loch Lomond, I felt my sock being ripped from my foot.
And before I could say Reflexology, he was sucking my big toe.
When I was first invited to visit a male prison and do an interactive social group with the LGBT community inside, I sh*t myself and nearly didn’t commit to the project.
What the fuck was I going to talk about? Yes, I grew up on quite a rough council estate where crime was high but luckily I’d avoided prison, unlike many of the boys I grew up with.
The closest I’d ever been on the wrong side of the law was the time I got thrown into the police cells at Brighton nick for being drunk and disorderly. But that’s a story for another day.
As I pulled up at the prison, it was very daunting. There was this massive building in front of my eyes, surrounded by barbed wire. It was lucky I’d taken a couple of Imodium that morning, let me tell you.
I was given a tour when I first arrived and it’s very surprising how much it actually looked like the Bad Girls set. I was scared of bumping into any real-life prisoners. I wasn’t sure what the rough, macho, non-gay ones would make of this mincing homo.
As 2 pm came closer, it was time for me to be escorted to the chapel to begin my LGBT group with the gay prisoners. Yes, it was being held in the chapel. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
As I was being taken into the chapel, an officer stopped me at the main doors and asked for my name. I obligingly gave it and she announced I wasn’t on the list so I couldn’t gain entry.
Looking very confused, another officer came to my rescue.
“He’s not a prisoner. He’s the guest speaker!”
Realising her mistake, she let me through but I couldn’t help blurting out, “Do I look like a prisoner?”
I sat down in the chapel after I’d organised the chairs into a circle, a la Alcoholics Anonymous style. My only other option was a straight line and that was far too formal for my liking.
Sweaty palms and heart palpitations, I saw the big hand heading towards the 2. I didn’t know what to expect. I’d been told I had a man who murdered his husband and an arsonist, among others.
As they entered, my butterflies escaped through the bars. The husband killer came in and shook my hand, whilst hugging me and kissing me on the cheek. The rest made similar entrances and greetings and automatically put me at ease.
I’d been far too focused on the fact that I was in a prison and forgotten that in reality, I was just talking to fellow human beings who also happen to be gay. And just so happen to have made mistakes.
Each person had their own individuality and within seconds, I’d forgotten I was even inside a prison. We talked, we laughed and we discussed sex. A LOT.
After an hour, a prison buffet was bought into the room for us. It looked bloody delicious. Even though I must confess I was a little wary of eating it after being told it had been prepared by the prisoners in the prison kitchen.
One of the gay prisoners, Mike, who I took quite a shine to (and he to me), assured me that as long as I wasn’t a paedophile, the food was quite safe to eat. I told him I was guilty of many things, but that wasn’t one of them.
Whilst shoving a prison-issued cheese roll into my gob, a big Zimbabwean prisoner came and grabbed me by the arm,
“You look so good! My cell number is 427 if you want to come back later!”
I nearly choked on my cheese roll and managed to choke out the words,
“I think you’d split me in two!” which was met with roars of laughter from the whole group. His tight grey jogging bottoms left little to the imagination and it was clear to see he was MORE than well endowed.
They talked about their lives and it left me feeling rather humbled. Yes, I got bullied at school for being gay but on the whole, I’ve been widely accepted by my family and friends. But some of these men have been abandoned by their families for being homosexual. One of the men was even imprisoned in Russia for attending a gay pride event. It certainly opened my eyes.
I think it was refreshing for them to be a part of this social group and be able to freely express themselves and their sexuality without any fear.
Before I was leaving, the prisoners were begging me to go back. They loved our afternoon and it went on much longer than I expected.
After three hours, the officers were having to chuck me out because we had gone on for far too long and I was putting out the schedules. But it was honestly one of the best experiences of my life. Much better than any money I’ve ever raised for charity. Actually doing a random act, something worthwhile on the front line, from one gay boy to my fellow LGBT community.
My final words were from Mike.
“I get out in seven weeks. How can I contact you?”
I quite fancied him. He was just my type so it would have been rude to discriminate against him just because he’s in prison. So I made sure to tell him how to contact me.
I wasn’t always gay you know. Well, that’s not technically true. My mother always says she knew I was a homosexual from birth. Apparently, I came out doing cartwheels and singing songs from Phantom of the Opera.
Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating that slightly but you get the gist. Another giveaway was probably stealing my sister’s dolls and then crying when she wouldn’t let us take it in turns to push the doll’s pram.
But I’ve digressed here. Gone off the beaten track. Pardon the pun. Where was I? Oh yes, I’d just made the slightly untrue statement that I wasn’t always gay. What is more truthful to say, is that I wasn’t always out to the world.
And I did that old trick that I’m sure all gay boys are guilty of, especially from my era of the 1980s and 1990s. I pretended that I was bisexual because, to me, it made it seem less scary than saying, ‘Hey I’m a fully fledged 100% penis loving homosexual!’
So in my quest to prove I wasn’t a fully fledged homo and only a Bi, I decided that I would have to try a girl out for size.
I used to steal copies of The Daily Sport from the local newsagent. I was a paperboy in my youth you know. I don’t for the life of me know why I stole The Daily Sport.
Well, I do actually. I was still pretending not to be a pouf. So I thought stealing a paper that had tits in it made me look like a hard man to the boys on my estate. But all I was really doing was trying to impress the boys because I was fantasising about them!
I’ve kissed quite a few girls in my time, I’ll have you know. It was easy to stick your tongue down their throats. I just pretended it was our postman who I fancied or my P.E. teacher. My P.E. teacher, OH MY DAYS, I can still remember his face now.
He was a beautiful man. And he was the reason I could never stand up straight in a pair of shorts during my school years. Every time I saw him, I got a stonking great hard on and had to do my best impression of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame to hide it.
After a while though, the girls I were kissing weren’t just happy with a snog anymore. We were 16 now and they wanted something other than my tongue inside them. ‘Oh god’, I thought. ‘What was I do?’, I may have kissed them. But never had I felt a hard-on as a result.
My first attempt at sexual intercourse was with a girl called Tina. I remember it like it was yesterday. I’d sprinkled rose petals all over the bed in my attempt to make it romantic. Yes, I know.
Rose petals.
Sheer cheese.
I’d watched too many episodes of The Bold and the Beautiful during the 1990s.
And, not surprisingly, it also had an ending like a melodramatic soap opera. We kissed. She got naked on the bed. And then I whipped my clothes off and whapped a condom on.
Yes, I managed to get hard! I thank the Lord for my vivid imagination. Because that was not Tina on the bed. It was Tinhead from Brookside.
Just as I was about to make my MARK, (yes, pun intended), Tinhead, sorry I mean Tina, grabbed my arm and pushed me off.
“I’m sorry! I can’t do it with you. I’m a lesbian!” Oh, the irony.
My next attempt at proving my bisexuality was with a girl called Hayley. We went camping together. My first time with a girl, under the stars, in a tent, out in a field. I thought this would be so romantic.
“As I toasted a marshmallow over the campfire for her, I felt her hand caress my thigh. I was nearly as soft and gooey as the marshmallow but along came my vivid imagination once more.
“And, as if by magic, Hayley was Hunter from Gladiators“.
Mini Mark was poised, raised and ready for action. I felt Hayley undo my flies. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. If a girl touches my penis, I’ll be scarred for life, I told myself.
To stop her wandering hands, and to take her attention away from my penis, I got two fingers and put them up her skirt. I heard her groan, but meanwhile, I was trying to stop myself from gagging.
I felt like I was prodding a raw fillet steak and to this day, I always have to have my meat well cooked. My bisexual days were over.
I’m taking you back to 2009 for this tale of dating mayhem. A time when I was just about to graduate from university. I didn’t venture far from home for my degree. I attended Brunel in the, how can I put this delicately, slightly dodgy area of Uxbridge. I’ve always been a bit of a homebird you see, or as some would say, a Mummy’s boy.
To get me through my degree (and to keep me in Savvy B), I had a job in a lovely little gay pub. The Culvert it was called. Some of you may remember it. It’s no longer there unfortunately, which is very sad as it was always such a busy pub. But alas, this is the way a lot of the local gay pubs are going. R.I.P. The Culvert.
Being the young, cock hungry gay boy that I was, this was the perfect job for me. It was like being an obese bloke in a cake shop. So many to choose from but which one to choose?
This one night, a very handsome bloke caught my eye. My god, I can remember him like it was yesterday. He was drop dead gorgeous. He had a mop of curly brown hair and the most dazzling brown eyes. But alas, he appeared to be straight.
It was quite common to get straights in the pub. They often came for a quiet pint or they were accompanying a gaggle of gay mates. But oh well, I thought, at least it gives me a bit of eye candy for the evening. Some people call it perving, I call it appreciating fine art.
Well, to my surprise, when I approached this straight, handsome man to take his drink order, he placed his hand on top of mine and seductively asked for a pint of Stella. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he stroked my hand.
I pulled my hand away from his stroke and I came over all unnecessary. I started to pull his pint, hoping it wouldn’t be the only thing I was pulling that evening.
I lost all concentration. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His pint of Stella frothed over rather dramatically and dribbled down my trousers. Well, I think it was the Stella that was dribbling down my trousers.
I felt my face flush. I mean, not that you could tell as I was well and truly fake tanned up.
“I hope that’s not the only spillage I witness tonight!”, this cheeky handsome chappy shouted across the bar.
As I handed him his dripping pint of Stella, I felt a bit of sweat on my brow. Panicking I’d have a streaky fake tan moment, I quickly dabbed it and he held out his hand. I shook it.
“Aaron”, he introduced himself.
“I’ve not seen you here before.” I started the conversation.
“I’m visiting from Windsor.”
He’s a long way from home, I thought. Especially for a pint of Stella.
“You’re beautiful!” He told me. Sweet talking me he was, but boy did it work. I was putty in his hands.
“Thank you.” Uncharacteristically, I went shy.
He stayed standing at the bar all evening, not taking his eyes off me. We made lots of conversation, getting to know each other.
“Do you live local?” He enquired.
“Just around the corner”, I replied.
“Not far for US to go after you’ve finished then.”
How forward, I thought to myself. Not that I was opposed to the idea, you understand. The answer would certainly be yes. This fit, handsome stranger was definitely coming back to my house.
As closing time approached, I could feel a little movement beginning in my trouser department. Mini Mark was getting a little excited at the thought of a night of passion with the man from Windsor.
I rang the final bell to announce it was last orders. That was always my favourite part of working in a pub. It made me feel like I was Peggy Mitchell.
“I’ll wait for you outside”, said the Windsor fitty as he leant over the bar and attached his lips to mine. Yes, he kissed me.
My tongue hang out the corner of my lip and drooped down to my chin, Beethoven style, as I watched him walk outside.
I don’t think I’ve ever mopped a floor as quickly as I did that night. I was like Mr Muscle on speed. Desperate to get out of that pub and make my way into this boy’s boxers.
As I said goodnight to my colleagues, I rushed out the door and got the shock of my life. I arrived outside just in time to see my potential shag being bundled into a police car. My jaw dropped quicker than a whore’s drawers. I saw Aaron look up at me as the police officer pushed him inside the car, his hand on his head.
In complete shock, still catching flies, I looked up at the bouncer.
“What happened to that boy?”
“He came out and accused one of the regulars of staring at him, called him a poof and then punched him!”
My eyes widened. I went home on my own that night and have never been so glad to have missed out on a shag.
You can catch my date on Series one of First Dates, episode five.
After having successive failed dates, I thought I’d try my luck in the First Dates restaurant. What did I have to lose?
In my opening interview, I proclaim on national television that I’m a really horny person and if I see a fit man on the tube, I get a tent pole and have to cover my crotch with my man bag. Great start.
It was a boiling hot day and as I walked into the restaurant, I was sweating like a Bombay hooker. I chose to wear a pair of shorts, hoping it wouldn’t look too casual. But to my relief, my date Lee, was also in shorts. Phew, I thought, we can both look casual together.
I was escorted to meet Lee by the maitre’d and we awkwardly introduced ourselves. We clearly didn’t know whether we should shake hands or share a kiss on the cheek. After nearly head butting each other, we settled on the kiss on the cheek.
We instantly found we had some common ground, discovering that we’d both worked as entertainers for holiday parks. The other mutual trait we shared were perfectly plucked pruned eyebrows. This put me off straight away as I usually like my men a bit more rugged and less manicured. I WANT to be the pretty one in a relationship.
No surprises, I was instantly knocking back the Sauvignon Blanc. And I went straight in for direct questioning. No point beating around the bush, I always say.
In fact, I never beat around the bush.
Hence the fact I’m gay.
Direct and to the point, that’s me. Just call me Jack Bauer.
“So are you looking for a long term relationship?” I asked.
Maybe a little forward for the first conversation but I do like to know where I stand. Even though I didn’t fancy Lee on first sight, I like to keep an open mind. You never know if the spark will come later.
The conversation quickly moved onto kids and we both agreed we would want a boy if we were to have children.
“I’d want a boy because girls are bitches!” I declared, whilst looking around for my Savvy B to be topped up.
As I swigged some more of the First Dates restaurant’s savvy B, for some reason I decided it would be a good idea to tell my date that I’ve already got my wedding planned. And no word of a lie, this is what I have envisaged all of my life.
I want the vicar to come up from under the pulpit on a revolving platform. And I want a disco ball spinning as I make my way down the aisle. And the best bit; my walk in song is Whitney Houston classic, ‘How will I know?’, “if he really loves me, I say a prayer with every heartbeat”.
Really proud that I’d clearly described my wedding, I see Lee has fallen deadly silent, lost for words. A rarity with this man, let me tell you, as he loved the sound of his own voice.
Breaking the silence, I asked, “Does it sound like a wedding for which you’d like to be the fellow groom for?”
“NO”, he bluntly replies, “It sounds really tacky.”
My face drops as I knock back some more wine and another deathly silence fills the table. Well, I guess I did ask.
To break the silence, Lee asks if we should go for a cigarette. Relieved that we both smoke, I jump at the chance to grab a nicotine fix after failing to woo him with my wedding plans.
As we puffed on our Mayfair fags (yes, classy I know), the conversation turns to our coming out stories. I came out to the world at 17, even though I don’t actually think I really needed to tell anyone because they’d all guessed that I was a raging homo. Actually, I don’t know if guessed is the right word. It just so happens that none of my friends and family are blind or deaf.
Discussing our school years, I opened up about being bullied. God, now I know I’m quite an open and honest person but I don’t think I’d ever been quite so open and honest on a date before.
Once upon a time, I was held down on the school field by some boys who wrote “Faggot” on my forehead in black marker pen. Yes, sad but a true story. And then I was the one who got into trouble with the Headmaster. YES, ME! He told me off for having pen on my face which wasn’t in accordance with the school uniform policy. What a bastard, although this was the 1990s. If that were to happen in this day and age, the Headmaster would get sacked for sure.
Nicotine fix complete, we were back at the table, being served our mains when… Cue another awkward silence as I bring up the fact I had quite a religious upbringing. Believe it or not, I went to Sunday school and I was in the church choir. And I still regularly go to church now.
“So have you never been to church?” I enquire.
“I go for like christenings, weddings, just when I’ve got to”, was his response.
As the conversation evolved, I fear I was a little too defensive of my old mate Jesus. After Lee called the communion wine, rancid old vinegar, I proclaimed:
“I can’t believe you just dissed Jesus’ blood!”
That quote will follow me around for years to come as I saw it quoted on Twitter hundreds of times the night the programme went to air.
“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss religion”, I sensibly suggested as I grabbed the waiter’s attention to get some more wine. And no, I didn’t ask for rancid old vinegar.
Note to self: Don’t talk about religion, wedding plans or being bullied on first dates. It creates too many awkward silences.
During my closing interview, the producers were plying me with wine. Trying to get me pissed they were. Attempting to loosen my lips even more so than they usually are.
I proclaimed that I didn’t really fancy him but if there was the option, I’d probably go home to bed with him.
SLUT.
I think our final conversation on camera summed up our date perfectly.
LEE: I think you’re really nice. BUT… we are too alike personality wise.
ME: It would be like shagging myself if I shagged you.
LEE: Just a better-looking version.
Cue my pursed lips.
Even television can’t guarantee this undateable gay a future of love. Maybe I should try Blind Date next…
After talking of my Budgens’ days as customer service manager in my previous tale of dating woe, it took me back to another memory of my youth. So get inside the undateable gay time machine once more, as I take you on a trip to 2004.
Working in Budgens always provided me with plenty of eye candy. All of the evening and weekend staff were mainly students of the male variety, all looking to earn their beer money. And I was their boss. What a fantasy.
Now, before anyone gets on the phone to the police, may I remind you that I am talking in the past tense. I was only 20 at the time of these fantasies about young male students aged 17 or 18 so it was all perfectly legal. And does not make me a sexual predator.
I always remember good old Peter Woods*. He was the store manager. Knowing I was partial to perving on the odd pretty boy employee, he would often give me his words of wisdom. “Don’t poke the payroll.”
Being a good, obedient boy, I always listened to his advice. Always, that was, until Jamie* came along. I finally had a fellow gay boy in the store.
Jamie was absolutely gorgeous. He had the most beautiful blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. And you could see his well-toned physique through his chequered green Budgens uniform. I quite often did an impression of a dog’s tongue hanging out, dribbling every time I saw he was rostered on my shifts.
One night as we were filling up the shelves with loaves of Hovis, I felt our eyes meet across a thick cut granary. Unusually coy, I blushed and looked down at a white bloomer.
It was Christmas eve and my ears caught a glimpse of Mariah Carey playing in the background. As the words of “All I want for Christmas” resonated in my lug holes, I took the bull by the horns.
“Would you like to go for a drink this evening?”
I looked at a Best of Both loaf to avoid making eye contact, fearful that his answer might be no.
My confidence with men in those days wasn’t what it is these days. I was quite a chubby youth with a bit of acne and a fake tan addiction. I also had eyebrows that I would shave with a bic razor which sometimes made me look like I was sporting a pair of slugs above my eyes.
My friends often say I’m the ugly duckling who blossomed into the swan. And to be honest, I’m glad I grew into my looks at a later age. All the pretty boys who I fancied in my teens at school are dog rough nowadays. So I’m glad I went the opposite way! Better to be like a fine wine and get better with age.
Anyway, I’m digressing. Back to the drinks proposal with the medium cut Kingsmill as our witness.
“Yes.” He replied rather quickly actually. Expecting the answer to be no, I didn’t let my ears register the answer and started babbling on like a banshee.
“I mean, I understand if you don’t want to.”
“Yes!” He said again, but in my banshee induced state I continued not registering his response.
“I know it’s Christmas eve, so I completely get if you’ve already got plans.”
And then, quite out of the blue, and I guess to shut me up, I felt him face plant his lips onto mine. All down the bakery aisle in Budgens in the year 2004. Very modern for the era, let me tell you and no one even raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll meet you at the Crossroads at 7”, he said as he departed from my lips. Oh, the Crossroads. That takes me back as well. That was the pub at the end of Shepperton high street. It was our local haunt.
R.I.P Crossroads. (And I’m not talking about the dodgy ITV soap. Although that’s also very sad that it’s no longer around) But right now, I’m talking about the Shepperton pub which got knocked down years ago to make way for retirement homes. I miss it. Many a drunken night (or business lunch) was spent in there. Well, I say ‘business’ lunch. It was just an excuse for the managers to get pissed during work hours.
As we stumbled from the pub that night, we walked arm in arm and I was as pissed as a fart, I can tell you. We came to my local church and I clocked the time. Midnight Mass was about to begin.
I made the suggestion that we should attend and I could see the hesitant look on Jamie’s face. But I gave him a flutter of my rather long eyelashes and before you could say “Hallelujah”, we were inside the church.
We tripped our way through the doorway in our inebriated state and the first carol was already in progress. Any fellow bible bashers will know which carol we entered to. “ONCE IN ROYAL DAVID’S CITY”. It’s always the first carol to be sang at Midnight mass.
I used to be in the church choir as a young boy you know. I would always sing the first verse as a solo at Midnight Mass. I had a lovely little soprano voice back in the day. Until nature came along and made my balls drop, that is.
Talking of the church choir, my mum is still in the choir to this day. And I saw her on this night, look up from her hymn book as she caught a glimpse of me from the choir stalls.
I could see her disapproving stare and head shake as we tumbled our way to our seats. A stare and head shake that only a mother can perfect. She could tell I was rather trollied. I knew I would be in for it on Christmas day morning. But the Sauvignon Blanc erased any worries of her wrath right away.
This particular night, the service was being taken by the Bishop of London no less. It was a big honour for a small church in Shepperton. So it was packed to the rafters.
We were at the part of the service called the Peace. For those of you not familiar with church service proceedings, this is the when the priest invites the congregation to share God’s peace with one another. And you all shake hands with each other and declare, “Peace be with you!”
As the Bishop made his way towards Jamie and I, I quickly made a beeline for him, hand held out with excitement at the fact I was about to shake hands with the Bishop of London.
And in my overzealousness, I forgot to check what my feet were doing. Before I knew it, my foot became caught on the chair leg and I went face first into the Bishop’s chest. My boat race smacked into the cross hanging around his neck.
As I clung onto the Bishops’ hips, I felt him go a bit wobbly on his pins and as he went backwards towards the floor, he managed to steady himself on the side of a chair.
I looked up at him, big drunken gin on my face, sorry, I meant grin and I proudly pronounced “Peace be with you!”
He quickly peeled my body away from his hips and chest and moved onto the next member of the congregation, fearful for his life and his balance.
My mum hid herself behind her hymn book. Jamie hid himself behind a pillar and pretended he was there worshipping with another group of people.
After bashing the bishop at midnight mass, I decided I would take Peter Wood’s advice in future and not poke the payroll. Business and pleasure don’t mix.
* names changed to protect the innocent or not so!
YOUR SUPPORT MEANS EVERYTHING
Help us deliver unique, usable and reliable journalism that supports the gay, bisexual and curious community of the United Kingdom. Can you help protect LGBT+ media? Publishers like us have come under severe threat by the likes of Google and Facebook. The problem is that advertisers are choosing to put their money with them, rather than with niche publishers like us. Our goal is to eliminate banner ads altogether on site and we can do that if you could pledge us a tiny amount each month.
We’re asking our readers to pledge just £1 per month, more if you’re feeling swanky. You can stop payment at any time.
It’s quick and easy to sign up and you’ll only have to do it once.
Cor! I’m taking you back fifteen years to the New Year’s Eve of 2003. A time when I’d just turned 20 and I’d been dumped by the, then, love of my life. I thought we were going to be together forever. Oh, the naivety of youth.
I was still customer service manager for Budgens Supermarket back in those days. Good old Budgens. You rarely see them around on the high street these days.
A few weeks before my boyfriend had dumped me, I’d bought him a brand new mobile phone worth £150! Now, that was a lot of money back in those days. God, I’m starting to sound like me Nan. God rest her soul.
I can remember the moment of my realization as vividly as if it were yesterday. He still had his bloody mitts on the £150 phone. I was having none of it. There was no way he was keeping it. So I marched down to the hairdressers where he worked. It was two doors down from Budgens.
As I barged my way through the doors, I was greeted by a salon full of ladies having their blow drys, all getting ready to look glamorous to celebrate the New Year. But I didn’t care. I was still heartbroken and acting irrationally. Only five minutes before, I’d been in tears down the fruit and veg aisle as ‘All I want for Christmas’ played over the tannoy.
I bellowed to make myself heard over the hair dryers and as I did, I saw the salon manager making her way towards me.
“I WANT THE PHONE BACK!” I barked as I held my hand out. You could see the client’s eyes all lighting up as the hairdresser’s scorned ex made a scene. It was giving them all a juicy bit of gossip that they could share over a glass of champagne that evening.
“Mark! This is not the time or the place!”
“Just hand over the phone and I’ll leave!”
Back in the safety of my office, I had itchy fingers as I clutched the phone. I was battling with my conscience. Should I read his messages or not? The devil on my shoulder won the battle.
As I clicked open on the inbox, my eyebrows raised. Yes, I can promise you they did. It was the days before I started having botox. And my jaw dropped to the desk.
I witnessed many explicit messages between my ex and another man. All dating back to when we were still together! Part of me wished I’d never looked and the other part of me was glad I had. Although they do say ignorance is bliss.
I slammed the phone down on the desk as steam erupted from my ears. I looked up at the clock. 6pm. The salon would be closing. I decided I had to have it out with my ex. How dare he be sexting and seeing another man when we were still together. Bastard. I was so angry, I could have crushed a grape.
I peeped my head out of Budgens’ front door and I could see the salon was already in darkness. I knew he’d be waiting at the bus stop. I simply had to have it out with him. There was no way I was going into 2004 without dealing with this.
“JANE!” I screamed as I saw her filling up the shelves with Hovis loaves. She jumped to attention. Jane, bless her, and for her sins, was one of my best friends from my Budgens’ days. There was an incident once where she threw some Hovis loaves at me during an argument we were having. But I’ll save that story for another day.
“Please drive me to the bus stop!” I pleaded with her. She grabbed her car keys and we made a swift exit out of the supermarket doors. She screeched to a halt at the bus stop and I saw my ex gulp as I slammed the door shut and walk towards him.
In the meantime, Jane could sense I was about to start a cat-fight so she jumped out of the car as quickly as she could. But in her haste, her foot got caught in her seat belt and she went face first into the gutter.
As she scrambled back onto her feet, I had my hand raised ready to make my first move on my cheating ex. I slapped his face, a la Pat Butcher and Peggy Mitchell style. I took a deep breath and I started to make my way back towards the car. In my mind, a slap had bought the matter to a close.
But clearly my ex had different ideas, and before I knew it, I felt a foot up my backside and I went down to the pavement like a sack of shit. Onto my knees I fell as he kicked me up the derriere.
Too many years of watching Dynasty had prepared me for my next move in the inevitable cat-fight that was about to ensue.
I leapt from my knees like a pouncing tiger and jumped onto his back. We both hit the pavement like a sack of spuds and started to roll around, limp wrists clawing at each other, with no decorum whatsoever.
As we took it in turns to be on top (a first time for everything as he was always very selfish when it came to that normally), I saw out the corner of my eye that quite a crowd was beginning to gather around us.
“Look at Krystle and Alexis!” I heard a bystander call out. Being such a Dynasty fan, I oozed with pride. And hoped I was Alexis. Well, I prayed actually.
When Jane could see that there was going to be no outright winner of the cat-fight, she dragged us apart screaming.
“ENOUGH!” For anyone who doesn’t know Jane, let me tell you, she’s rather scary. She would be very good in the cast of Wentworth Prison. So me and the ex jumped to attention and got back onto our feet rather quickly.
Doing her best headmistress impression, Jane had a good grip on my arm. I assume it was to make sure I didn’t make a break for it and dish out another slap. She opened the car door and practically threw me into the passenger seat.
I couldn’t bear not to have the last word so as Jane started the engine, I wound down my window and stuck my head out into the cold winter air.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” I bellowed towards my ex. Jane sped off quicker than her usual speed.
You probably all know Tullene by now. And for those of you who are unfortunate enough to… whoops slip of the keyboard. I meant, of those of you who are FORTUNATE enough to, I’m sure you’ll be questioning why I said yes. Drama follows that girl and I.
My initial question was “Why can’t you take your boyfriend?” To which she replied, “I can’t take my boyfriend because he got into a fight last year and now he’s barred.”
My gut instinct should have been to decline the invitation. I hesitated suddenly and was about to make my excuses when Tullene pulled out her trump card.
“There’s a very handsome gay man that’s just started working with me.”
My ears pricked up. Oh, who am I to turn down an invitation to a social gathering? It is Christmas after all. And I may also find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Before I could mutter the words, Christmas work do, I found myself sat at a very posh table at a hotel in Heathrow. I’d dug out my best all-in-one grey suit, and as I had, some moths flew towards me. I hadn’t had any cause to wear it in recent years. I’m at an age now where everyone in my social circle has got married. Except for me, that is. I’m still the token single friend.
But before anyone breaks out the violins, let’s get back to the work do. Tullene had slyly juggled with the place settings and I had conveniently ended up sitting next to the new gay boy colleague she had previously mentioned.
I was about to abuse Tullene by bellowing Cilla Black across the table at her but my eyes came out on storks as Dave, that’s his name, approached the table and came to take his place next to me. HANDSOME was an understatement. I had to pick up the swan-shaped napkin from the table to dab up my dribble from my watering mouth.
We got on famously. We laughed, we joked and we innuendoed our way through the three-course meal. I could see Tullene’s eyes light up as she oozed with pride that her Cilla Black attempts were appearing to be successful.
As the coffee was being poured, he stood up and asked if I’d like to dance. Oh, it was so romantic. And so old fashioned. I loved it. I stood up quicker than a bolt of lightening.
He took my hand and led me to the dancefloor. It was like a scene out of a cheesy 80’s soap. And for those who know me best, will know that that is right up my street.
All my friends tell me I was born in the wrong decade. I love anything 80’s, or 90’s come to that. My DVD collection consists of nostalgic soaps and drama series. Prisoner: Cell Block H, Take the High Road, Dynasty, Howard’s Way. The list goes on.
Anyway, enough of the nostalgic digression. Back to the dancefloor.
As Dave lifted me up into the air, Dirty Dancing style, I felt a flutter. Well, he didn’t actually lift me up into the air. I just made that bit up. I thought it made it sound more romantic. And to be honest, I don’t think anyone could actually lift me up. I’ve come to adore Savvy B and cake too much.
But as he span me around, he leant over and whispered into my ear.
“Would you like to come for a glass of wine up in my room?”
Now, you know me, I’m not normally so easy when I’ve just met a guy but who was I to turn down a handsome man? And after all, it is Christmas. I thought it could be my present to myself.
I surveyed the room, looking for Tullene but she was nowhere to be seen. Dave grabbed my hand and led the way.
As I was being led to my Christmas present, I saw a group of Tullene’s colleagues in the corner. And suddenly my ears pricked up.
“POOFS!” I heard one of them shout. My nostrils flared and I felt steam coming from my ears.
“Ignore them!” Dave pleaded as he tried to drag me on. But I simply couldn’t ignore it. Not blatant homophobia. I’m not really a fighter and I normally avoid confrontation like the plague, but that comment had really got my goat up.
I managed to escape Dave’s hand and I marched up to the perpetrator of the comment. Looking him straight in the eye, I wracked my brains for a suitable, intellectual comeback.
“And you’re a cunt!” Well, it was the best I could muster. Straight, direct and to the point.
He looked shocked as I took Dave’s hand and we continued on our journey to Dave’s room. Maybe he didn’t expect this POOF to respond. I inhaled a deep breath and pushed my chest out. I felt liberated.
As we made our way to the lifts, I heard a man’s voice shout “OI!” I quickly span around in my shiny loafers. It was the homophobe.
“What did you call me?” he barked in my face. He was clearly deaf as well as a C U Next Tuesday. So I repeated my offensive comeback just to ensure there was no misunderstanding as to what I’d said.
And next, Well, I don’t know what came over me but I could smell danger. I feared he was about to punch me so I decided I should be the one to make the first move. Before you could say, Merry Christmas, I seemed to have my hand gripped around his throat and I pushed him up against the wall.
“MARK!” I heard Tullene’s voice come out of nowhere. “What the hell are you doing?” Now, for those who know Tullene, know that she has a very bad, violent temper. Especially when she sees her friends in danger. I knew I had to rile her up quickly as I feared I needed her help. I may have had my hand around his throat but I didn’t actually know what my next move was going to be. I’d never punched anyone in my whole life.
“He called me a poof!” I screamed. I saw the top of Tullene’s head pop open with steam. And I saw Tullene’s eyes change to angry Tullene.
“WHAT?” She bellowed. I felt the man’s Adam apple as he gulped.
He tried to deny it but Tullene was having none of it. She lifted her up her crutch. No, I’m not talking about her lady garden. An actual crutch. Now, for anyone wondering where this random crutch appeared from, let me tell you.
Tullene has a weak ankle. Along with various other ailments and conditions which I won’t bore you with. She bores us enough with them! But anyway, she broke her ankle at my 30th birthday party. And that’s a story for another time!
She picked up her crutch and whacked the man behind his legs. He fell out of my grip and dropped to the floor, legs akimbo.
“That’s for being a cunt! And homophobic!” She screamed and dragged me into the lift out of harm’s way. In all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed Dave had gone missing. Maybe he was scared of my sudden fight club impression. So I never made it up to Dave’s hotel room. But at least I stood up to a homophobe!
I also hasten to add, Tullene now needs to find someone else to take to next year’s Christmas do.
JAMIE. Cor, that name takes me back. I can’t quite remember when he was in my life. Let me just ponder for a moment. I’ve got a feeling it was back in 2015.
That was back in a time when I had quite an addiction to Grindr. At one point, I thought I was going to need therapy to wean myself off the app. I’ve since deleted it as Grindr gets right on my tommys these days.
But one night, I think it was a cold winter’s night in February 2015, I was just finishing work and I fancied a bit of jiggy jiggy and a glass of wine. So, I turned on Grindr and waited for a ping.
When I was an avid Grindr user, I would never initiate a conversation. Call it fear of rejection or whatever you like. But just as I was taking a sip of Savvy B, a message pinged up.
It was a very handsome man, in his late 30s and he lived in Weybridge. My antennae started whizzing around. Oooh, I thought. An older man is just what I need. He’ll be mature and experienced, I thought. And he lived in Weybridge. So I assumed he would be rich, even more appealing.
Before you could say blow job, Jamie had invited me over to his gaff for a glass of Savvy B. Which we all know is secret code for sex. Well, maybe not so secret.
Pardon the pun, but when I walked in, he really blew my mind. Along with something else.
It felt different with Jamie. For anyone not in the know about Grindr, you normally walk straight through the front door and then, more often than not, you head straight to the bedroom.
But not with Jamie. He already had a glass of plonk waiting for me and told me to take a seat on the sofa. We actually got on really well and I could feel my heart skip a beat as he looked at me as we laughed.
After two glasses of Savvy B, he came in for the kiss. Obviously, it would have been rude of me not to reciprocate. There was a real passion in the way he kissed me and before you could say anal, he had dragged me into the bedroom. Not that I needed much dragging.
I pulled down his trousers and I nearly fainted. He almost had my eye out. His penis was already fully erect so as it escaped from his flies, it came at my face like a coiled spring. I had to dodge it otherwise I fear I may have been blinded in my right eye.
And I hate to be crude, but my word, it was rather large. I do believe I could have used it as a canoe.
As I stripped off my clothes, I saw him lean over and open his bedside drawer. When I saw him pull out a pair of handcuffs, I think I turned white.
Everyone who knows me well, knows my complete obsession and love of the well-known TV show The Bill. But I didn’t know how I felt about being handcuffed to a bed.
Before you could shout, “Arrest that man!”, he had handcuffed me to the bed and I actually found it quite exhilarating.
After an hour of passionate lovemaking. I call it lovemaking as, contrary to popular belief, I am really a hopeless romantic. After the deed was done, he released me from the cuffs and I kissed him goodnight. As I drove away, I hoped he would ask to see me again.
A few weeks went by and we had started to see each other on a regular basis. Although it was only for sex. I become quite accustomed to being handcuffed. I used to scream, Next Time on The Bill!
We never left the house together or went to a restaurant or anywhere in public actually. It was just sex. But I had started to fall in love with my fuck buddy. Oh shit. What a big faux pas.
On numerous occasions, I begged him to take things to the next level.
“Why don’t you take me out for dinner?” He would always fob me off when I asked that question.
“I’m tired.” Not too tired for sex, I used to think. Not that I was complaining, it was very passionate and I enjoyed it.
One day, after quite a few months of handcuffed lovemaking, I insisted that I would be round on Monday when he finished work, to cook him a lovely home cooked meal. If he couldn’t take me out for dinner because he was too tired, I would bring the dinner to him!
I gauged his reaction and considering he’d never tasted my cooking, I could tell he wasn’t keen on the idea. And then he came out with it.
“I think you want more from me than I want to give you.”
OH. My face dropped. Obviously not literally. I’ve had far too much botox for that to happen. But you get the picture.
“But you keep asking me back”, I was ashamed at how needy I sounded.
“Yes, but I just want sex.”
Heartbroken. I walked out of his flat, taking my half drunken bottle of Sauvignon Blanc with me. I felt no desire to share my expensive New Zealand wine with that bastard.
A year had passed me by and Jamie hadn’t entered my thoughts in a while. Until one day, when a message popped up in my inbox.
“Do you still do beauty treatments? I need my eyebrows waxed please.”
My first thought. You cheeky bitch. But then, I thought of the money. What did I have to lose?
I turned up at his flat, armed with my wax strips. I lay him on my beauty couch and got to work on his bushes that housed his eyes.
Strip after strip, he yelped out in pain. I decided he wasn’t worthy of my usual gentle touch I normally use on my clients. I was quite enjoying inflicting some pain on him.
“WHOOPS!” I suddenly screamed out. He shot up from the couch and looked straight in the mirror. He looked horrified as the realisation dawned on him that he had a rather large chunk missing from right in the middle of his brow.
Feigning complete innocence, I pulled my best sorry face that my botox would allow.
“I’m so sorry. It was a complete accident.”
Needless to say, he never made another appointment.
SO. In case anyone has forgotten, I’ve already been on two dates with my lovely blokey from my speed dating success story. And we’ve just had our third. I keep thinking that any moment, someone is going to slap me and wake me up from my dream. I mean, not that I’ve got a fetish for being slapped or anything.
Three dates done and dusted. That’s some kind of record for this gay boy, this undateable gay. I’m expecting a knock on my door from The Guinness Book of Records any minute now.
I decided that this was the right time to introduce him to my mother. So I arranged an afternoon tea with plenty of cakes. People who know me well know that my biggest weakness, besides men, is cakes. Give me a Belgian bun and I’m like a pig in shit. Happy for hours.
KNOCK, KNOCK. That was us knocking on the door, by the way, arriving at my mum and dad’s house. They actually have a doorbell so I don’t know why I wrote knock, knock. It should have been DING DONG. Digressing…. anyway, you get the gist, we had arrived for afternoon tea.
As my mother answered the door, I could see her eyes light up at how handsome Paul was. She was acting like a bloody magpie seeing a glitter ball. You could see the pride in her eyes that her gay son had bagged himself a bit of a fitty. Although now I come to think about it, I don’t like quite how shocked she seemed to be at me managing to bag myself such a handsome man. I must talk to her about that a later date. Note to self.
I made the necessary introductions and Paul took my mother’s hand and kissed it.
“Nice to meet you!”
Now for anyone who knows my mother, will know that she fills up and cries at the drop of a hat, at the slightest thing she wells up.
I’ve witnessed my mum cry at X Factor, Loose Women and even Homes under the Hammer. And this is exactly what I witnessed now. Obviously, Paul’s good manners were too much for her and she felt overwhelmed. My god, I didn’t know where to look. Although I was looking around for a hanky.
I’ve witnessed my mum cry at X Factor, Loose Women and even Homes under the Hammer. And this is exactly what I witnessed now. Obviously, Paul’s good manners were too much for her and she felt overwhelmed. My god, I didn’t know where to look. Although I was looking around for a hanky.
Once she’d pulled herself together and I’d given her a slap to stop her crying. (That’s a joke, before anyone reports me to the police. I don’t actually beat up my mother.) She finally poured the coffee and offered around her freshly made cherry macaroons.
My mummy is a bit of a Mary Berry when it comes to baking. She’s always got tins upon tins of cakes ready for visitors.
Paul made a very good impression that afternoon and I could definitely tell that my mum approved. In fact, I’d known she’d approved from the moment she broke down in tears after the kiss on the hand.
As we left and walked to the car, I turned and gave Paul a kiss of my own. I planted a great big smacker on his lips.
“What was that for?” He gushed.
MASSIVE GREAT BIG STRENGTH SIX MATURE CHEDDAR CHEESE ALERT
“Just for being you,” I replied.
Now, this next part may make some people call me a slut. What they call slut, I call enjoying the male species. I think it’s very important to try a few different platters from the buffet table, else how do you know what you like?
Anyway, I digress once again. The point I was getting to was that, here we were, three dates in and we still hadn’t enjoyed any kind of sexual relations. (No Bill Clinton jokes here please)
So to solve this dilemma, I asked him back to mine and before you could say blow job, I had him on my bed and were enjoying a very passionate kiss. Fully clothed, may I add.
As I went to undo his trousers to rip them off, he grabbed my hand to stop me. I looked up, shocked, like a rabbit in headlights.
“Before you go there, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Well, talk about mind racing into overdrive moment. My mind filled with all sorts of visions and scenarios. After a silence of what felt like days, I pleaded.
“What? What is it Paul?”
“I’ve got a really small willy.”
Phew. My mind slowed down and stopped racing. I looked up to the sky, thankful I wasn’t about to unzip a pair of trousers and reveal a vagina. A small willy I can cope with. A vagina, I cannot.
Now, for people who know me very well, will realise a small willy will never put me off. One, because I’m not a shallow, size Queen. And two, the good Lord did not bless me downstairs either.
In fact, a man once told me that he could use my penis as dental floss. (Bastard) But that’s another story for another day.
To prove to Paul that the small willy revelation had not killed the passion, I continued in my quest and unzipped his trousers. And as I did, I got the most almighty surprise.
To prove to Paul that the small willy revelation had not killed the passion, I continued in my quest and unzipped his trousers. And as I did, I got the most almighty surprise.
An eyeful of cum. As I blinked to remove the foreign object from my eye, his face turned a beautiful shade of Lobster.
“You just turn me on so much.”
My one eye, the one not sealed shut with his natural adhesive, widened.
“Clearly. I mean, I know I’m good”, I gushed, “But I hardly even touched you yet.”
“I LOVE YOU!” He suddenly blurted out.
I sat back on the bed, still temporarily blinded in one eye.
“You what?” I was aghast.
Before anyone calls me a silly poof for my actions, can I just point out that the three dates had all taken place within a ten-day time frame.
“How can you love me? You barely know me.”
“I can’t help the way I’ve fallen for you.”
Call me mental. Call me mad. Call me destined to be undateable for a whole lifetime. But I just couldn’t truly believe that someone could fall in love that quickly. And genuinely mean it. So I asked him to leave.
Well. After my speed dating success, I was floating on the clouds. I couldn’t believe it was third time lucky with my date. I’m so excited about him. Let me introduce you to him.
Meet Paul, a 32-year-old funeral director from Windsor. Such a handsome chap with bright blue eyes. Oh my days, those eyes. Excuse the cheesy analogy but I could have gone swimming in his old pork pies.
I must confess, I was a little concerned by his chosen vocation. I’ve always imagined funeral directors to be big burly blokes who look like they could be extras in the Terminator films. And I’ve always pictured them to be rather dull and a possible necrophile.
I can see me getting lynched in the street now by a mob of co-operative funeral care workers. Please excuse my judgemental attitude. I must constantly remind myself of my Christian upbringing. My Sunday school teachers clearly made an impact on me.
Now for some reason, I was feeling rather nervous of a second date with Paul. I felt a fluttering of butterflies deep in my gut. For once, I’m imagining that I might have actually met a man who may be around longer than just for a cup of coffee, the morning after. So I wanted to make a good impression.
My dear friend Natalie suggested that we make up a foursome with her then-girlfriend, Britney. No, not Britney Spears but she did have the similarity in that she was also American. But that’s where the similarities ended.
We opted for a lovely little Italian restaurant in Windsor, the name of which escapes me. My memory is not what it once was.
After all the pleasantries were out of the way, we sat down and the conversation flowed like the Thames at high tide. I could see Paul had a glisten in his eye whenever we looked at each other. Well, I hope that’s what it was and not the reflection of the candle in his pupil. The somersaults my stomach were doing would have been worthy of a gold medal in the Olympics.
As the waiter came to take our order, Paul suggested we share a garlic bread as a starter. Anyone who knows me well, will know I do NOT share food. Under any circumstance.
The mere suggestion of sharing a garlic bread made my eyebrows raise. Yes, they actually raised. I was still a week away from my botox top-up appointment at the time.
Natalie knowing my sheer greed gaged my reaction and kicked me under the table. And gave me one of her death stares. She’s a teacher so she has this look perfected. I gulped and begrudgingly agreed to share a starter. You may be sat there reading this, calling me a fat bastard. But I love my food and I want it all to myself. Maybe this is another thing I’m doing wrong that’s contributing to my undateable status.
The reveal
A few more Italian Pinots later and Natalie started interrogating my poor date.
“Would you like children one day? Because Mark would.”
I nearly dropped my glass of Pinot. Of course, being such an alcoholic, I managed to grip it tight enough to ensure this didn’t happen. Bit forward for a second date question, I thought to myself but at least it wasn’t me who posed the question.
“I already have children.” Paul immediately replied.
Just at that precise moment, I was taking a gulp of Pinot and to say I spat it out and nearly choked on it would not be a dramatization.
“You’ve got children? Plural?” I asked.
“Yes”, he seemed perfectly happy to talk about it and I did my best to pretend the subject hadn’t shocked me.
“Oh my god. Boy or girl?” I asked, genuinely intrigued. I’d never met a gay man with a child.
“I have three sons.”
Well, you could have heard a pin drop in that restaurant. No one said a word.
As my dear mum always tells her friends, I’ve never been speechless since the day she sent me to speech therapy when I was four. But I was certainly speechless now.
Whilst we’re on the subject of my mum sending me to speech therapy. Yes, I understand people may find it hard to believe but I hadn’t actually started talking and being as though I was four years old, she started to worry. Hence why she marched me to speech therapy. But ever since that day, my mum always says she regretted sending me.
But I’m digressing as usual. Back to the bombshell that had just been dropped in the Italian restaurant. As my friends will tell you, I don’t handle myself in the best manner during serious situations. I have what you might call a nervous laugh. And God strike me down, this is how I reacted to this situation.
Natalie, having a tad more decorum than me, kicked me under the table to indicate this was not an appropriate moment to activate my nervous laugh. As if I have control over it…
“Why are you kicking me?” I barked at Natalie, not immediately clocking on to why she had booted me with her size 5 Doc Martens.
Finally processing the information, I could see this was a brave bit of information to reveal so early on in our dating period. I grabbed his hand.
I could tell we both meant something to each other because he said he had never revealed this information to a potential boyfriend before. And so I leant over and kissed him on the lips. I’m not one for PDA’S but this just felt the right moment.
“I hope I get to see you again after tonight”, he said.
