Love and war

There’s nothing that we Gays like better than a bit of melodrama, so you’re in for a treat tonight because your delightful narrator has just been Dumped. That’s right, cast adrift with the unwanted flotsam and jetsam of life. Ditched in the back alley with the rotting detritus of unrequited love. Flushed down the toilet with the discarded tampon of emotional dependency.

I know, I know, we’re missing a whole lot of background information here; you weren’t even aware that he existed. I restrain myself from writing about current beaus whilst dating them in the vain attempt to keep some things sacred. I don’t mind parading my other dirty linen before the beady eyes and scrabbling claws of the Online Masses, but some things should remain anonymous.

That said, you’ve actually already met him; he had a cameo in the last entry as The Hot Aussie. Tall, intelligent and bloody good at his job, he was quite the catch for little HW.

Now normally in relationships I don’t let them get close enough to do any damage. There are the peripheral defences to get through; trenches with wooden spikes, improvised pits with biblical serpents, and the odd mad lady wielding a cat-o-nine tails. Once through those you need to bridge the Moat of Doom and tiptoe through the Minefield of Broken Dreams before you’re even close enough to piss on the castle’s outer wall. I know I know; too much Sci-Fi as a kid.

Usually I date “Type A” (Mr Emotional Honesty). He’s great fun because I know I’m in charge. Brilliant. No one’s getting near the citadel here. The poor bastard doesn’t wear any armour, carries a bunch of dandelions in his quiver and treats me like a princess. I usually watch him flounder against the obsidian walls for a few months, wait until he is weak from exhaustion and then tip pitch on his head.

If I’m dating “Type B” (Mr Too-Cool-For-School) then it’s a whole different ballgame. Instead of an invading army attacking the defences we’ve now got two impenetrable fortresses with two blokes sitting in their towers looking at each other through binoculars. While pretending they’re not actually looking at each other. Or answering the phone. I mean carrier pigeon.

In the 7 years since I last had a decent relationship I have never dated a Type B. Well, actually there was one, but he was a weird mutant strain Type B237 whose castle had been under siege for so long it’s human inhabitants had eaten each other and then eventually died of starvation. The sex was fucking great.

The Hot Aussie was a Type B. Incredibly busy, in high demand socially, we managed to see each other about once a week. It was great fun for a while but eventually I got a bit sick of not know where I stood and decided to take action. I climbed down from my tower, asked my hunchbacked gatekeeper to drive me across town in the family cart, and knocked on The Hot Aussie’s portcullis. The result? A lavender-scented leaflet was dropped from the parapets with the immortal inscription “I’m sorry – you tick all the boxes but the magic’s not there”. I think I’d prefer the pitch.

Now I’m back safe in my citadel, nursing a nasty lavender paper-cut and knocking back the pink martinis. The great irony of this situation is that I used exactly the same line on The Maggirister back in June, and now Fate – the fat-arsed psycho that She is – has decided to teach me a lesson. I suspect that it’s something to do with relationships and warfare, or perhaps Glenn Close in the bathtub accompanying John Lennon at the piano, or about wearing stripes with dots. She’s a cryptic bitch.

Either way I refuse to learn anything, so it’s back to the little map with the flags and pewter soldiers in the War Room. Mr Right doesn’t stand a chance.