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.
Mark David Woollard graduated from Brunel University, West London in 2009 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing and Journalism. Since then, he has written for many publications as a freelance writer. He has been ‘The Undateable Gay’ for The Gay UK magazine since 2015 where he documents his unsuccessful dating life. He wrote an opinion column for the national Student Times, discussing LGBT issues.
He also writes educational pieces for ‘Massage World’ magazine, giving advice to Reflexologists about treating certain ailments. He authored a novella in 2013 entitled ‘The Fun and Frolics of FIFI a L’Orange’, the crazy adventures of a drag queen.
And is currently working on a series of LGBT books for children and a collection of flash fiction.
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