Leave me alone, you sweaty man!
Well hello, Sailor!
Following a demoralising few weeks of realising that the female race has resolutely amassed and united themselves in opposition to me and my fellow housemates, last night we decided that if you can't beat ’em (and let's face it, that's laid down quite specifically in law), you might as well join ’em. And so, off we trotted to the pumping paradise that is the delectable Rainbow's somewhere deep in the shady outskirts of Coventry.
Now, I consider myself a cosmopolitan kind of guy, I really do. I'm a lefty, liberal, hippy-type sunnovabitch. Without even thinking about it I’d imagine that probably half my friends bat for the other team and, truth be told, I’m not entirely closed off to the idea that the person I end up schlepping my life away with may not be of the opposite gender to me. However, I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. And that somewhere is getting hit on by a sweaty 40-year-old slaphead with a face like a prune.
I was reliably informed while leaving the house last night in the patented ‘red T-shirt/ black long-sleeved shirt over wirey torso’ combo that I would quite probably make some strapping some lad’s night in a ripe-for-the-picking, just-turned-16 Queer As Folk sort of way. Unfortunately, having never braved the wonders of this sort of environment before, I was blissfully unaware of the apparently commonplace incident which was to occur when I innocently wandered into the shitter to take a casual whiz.
While evacuating my bladder (paying special attention to the patented ‘more than three shakes is a wank’ maxim), I became distinctly aware of a lascivious gaze being thrown in my direction by a member of this so-called ‘gay community’. Upon draining the weasel and zipping up, I was then accosted by a man who can only be described as oily at best and kill-yourself greasy at worst.
Shirt unbuttoned to his no doubt heavily scuzz-filled navel to reveal a ludicrously fake-tanned chest, he motioned to my red attire and blustered, “Ooh! Are you Daredevil?!”. Not quite getting the logic but feeling the warm glow that occasionally arises from connecting spontaneously with a complete stranger, I chirpily (and mistakenly) replied “Yes, that’s me. I’m Daredevil”. EH-ERRRRR!, as the buzzer says on Family Fortunes. “Well then”, he countered, gripping my wrist and drawing me towards him, his scaly tongue snaking back and forth between his slimy lips; “Let’s see you be daring then!”
“Not fucking likely!” I replied, viciously assaulting him with my brutal 200-pound frame (actually, I politely turned down his advances and shook off the physical imposition before hotfooting it out of there quicker than you could say “Wake-up call from God”). Frankly, the only way to shake the distinctly uncomfortable feeling somewhere in the depths of my colon was to get hideously trashed, compliment Jon from Pride on his rather fetching skirt and start pounding the floor to the sound of a ridiculously speeded-up version of tATu’s All the Things She Said.
Mind you, it could've been worse. Eim ended up going home with some frumplike loony tune who started screaming “No! No! – I love it!” while hitting her repeatedly during sex. Guh.
A great night, all things considered, and I'd certainly go back again. See you at the Glitter Ball, kids!