THEGAYUK

Author: Mark David Woollard

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | Once Is Enough – Apparently…

    So I’m out in a gay club, dancing the night away in my best new loafers. I’ve a wine in my right hand but no man in my left. Someone get the violins out. It’s Saturday night and the only love in my life is Sauvignon Blanc from the Marlborough estate. But as if Paul Daniel’s just waved his magic wand, a potential date is suddenly upon me like a fly on sh*t.

    The music is loud and as my friends will inform you, my hearing is not the best. Many a time I have the television on so loud, the neighbours from two doors down bang away on my front door. Anyway, I struggle to hear this potential beau’s name but my inhibitions have been lost in a bottle of Blossom Hill. So I go straight in for a kiss.

    And in the profound words of Cher, it really is in his kiss. Instantly I feel a connection and I swoon. Maybe my long line of frog kissing is finally over, I excitedly decide. From this moment on, we spend the entire evening locked lipped and it reiterates my feelings that no more amphibians may cross my luscious lips.

    The end of the evening draws near and I sense mini me getting a little aroused. He thinks he’s going to be getting some action from this nameless man. My future beau walks to his taxi and I presumptuously attempt to join him inside the taxi. But to mine and minime’s dismay, he puts his hand up to signal no entry. Instead he slips me his phone number on a piece of paper. Not what I’d hoped he’d be slipping me tonight.

    I wake up with a start and quickly roll over, anticipating a Sunday morning session. My hopes are instantly dashed when my memory kicks in and I remember I ended up in bed alone. I pick my phone up, hazy eyed. I have a text from an unknown number. It’s from a bloke called Simon. Oh my god, so that was his name! The stark realisation hits me that my last attempt at romance was with that tosser from Mulberry. Also called Simon. Not a good omen but I remind myself of my religious upbringing and I promise not to judge a man by his name.

    We arrange a date for the following and he suggests a restaurant in Uxbridge, close to where he lives. Judgmental Mark kicks in and I decide he doesn’t have a lot going for him. One, his name is Simon and two, he lives in Uxbridge. But the memory of my Christian upbringing kicks in again, I will not sit in judgment.

    The following evening arrives and I find myself with sweaty palms and shallow breathing to deal with. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about, being in Uxbridge town centre or going on a date. And then something hits me like a wet cod around my boat race. I haven’t a clue what Simon looks like as I was so intoxicated, that part of my memory seems to have been erased by Sauvignon.

    Fingers crossed he’s not a dog. I walk in and I see a figure stand and wave. I’m no intellectual giant but I conclude this must be him. Not bad on the eye. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

    The conversation flows between us but unfortunately for my date, so is the Sauvignon blanc. As each glass glides down, my voice raises a decibel. We laugh, we talk, we eat. I really think it’s gone well. This is my future prince. Frogs are a distant memory. Boy, am I delusional. As I ask, “when shall we see each other next?”, he replies deadpan, “once was enough!”

    Open mouthed, I get deserted by him at the table. Note to self, avoid Simons.

    @MarkyWoollard83

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.

  • THE UNDATEABLE GAY | When A Date Turns Ugg-ly

    So, here I am. In Soho, waiting at a fondue restaurant. My date is called Simon. He is a buyer for Mulberry. Mmm, now I’m no shallow man but this instantly excites me. He must have a rather decently sized….bank account! Not that finances is an instant winner for me. But it does help. I can’t have anyone wanting to feed from my bank account.

    As he enters, I find he is rather pleasing on the eye. A bonus point in his favour. I know people say that looks aren’t everything but I really couldn’t imagine sh*gging someone who looks like the back end of the N7. All red and fumes squirting from every orifice. That is definitely no turn on for moi.

    We spark instantly. He talks of mulberry handbags. I have a rather sparse knowledge of mulberry handbags. My friend is a manager for one of their stores at Heathrow. She hardly talks about the brand but I know enough to engage in the conversation. This reminds me of a funny moment we once shared in Mexico. She was talking about handbags but mishearing, she thought we were taking the p*ss out of her. My manager friend turned her head and said, “I know my f***ing materials!”

    My mouth, open wide, dropping to my sun lounger, said “what?” Realising we weren’t taking the piss, she continued her conversation. To this day, I have no recollection of why she thought we were being detrimental to her career.

    After realising that he failed to find this conversation amusing, I thought I should leave the restaurant. But my mother always taught me, “if you start something, you must see it through.” I could hear her London accent echo through my ears. She was my inspiration to carry on.

    We shared a cheese fondue. It was all sticky and gooey. We were dipping bread sticks in like it was a euphemism for what was to come later. And at this point, I really did think the euphemism would come to fruition. We finished our main and we had had a few belly laughs. Belly laughs? Surely that means a second date is on the cards. We ordered a desert. If you stay for dessert, you are bound to be invited for coffee. And one hopes the coffee ain’t going to be at the restaurant table.

    Desert of chocolate fondue with marshmallows finished, I suggest we frequent G-A-Y late for a cocktail and a dance. Praying it’s not a cliche, he accepts. As we enter the bar, he goes up and orders me a sex on the beach. Yes, I admit, that is my cocktail of choice. Yes, I admit, I am a slut and hope this engages my date’s brain to adopt this thought process. Unlucky for me, it fails and he doesn’t decide to whisk me off to Brighton beach for a quickie.

    As I get over the fact he isn’t going to whisk me off to the beach, I remember that I have purchased brand new UGG boots! Excited to show off my new purchase, I cock my leg up. Well, the bastard doesn’t believe they are real. At his disbelief, I cock my leg higher to show off the UGG logo. One too many sex on the beach and I lose my balance. My hand lands directly in his genitalia region. If it wasn’t for my fake tan, you would be able to see my red-faced embarrassment. I apologise but the frigid kn*b thinks it’s a come on. “That’s a bit forward!” He proclaims. “It was an accident.” I protest. He gets up and leaves the club. Yes, leaving me all on my todd in this club. He obviously isn’t the man for me. Is any man? God only knows.

     

    Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.