Da American Boyz

My dear, dear reader. Since you’ve been away so many exciting things have happened in my life. I won’t blame you – I’m sure it’s not selfishness on your part that kept you absent, just thoughtlessness – but I’ll forgive you and tell all about HW’s First Trip To America.

Stop one, New York! New York! Land of yellow cabs, little dogs and bagels. Little dogs in yellow cabs eating bagels! Yellow cabs running over little dogs sandwiched in bagels! How exciting! So many freakshows to see! So little time!

Little time indeed. For although my first trip to New York should have consisted to lazy days in Central Park and endless bereted coffees at MOMA, my boss had other ideas. Yes, I was actually in New York for work, setting up exhibitions to launch our lighting products across the pond. After a few days of this it rapidly became apparent that unless I took action the extent of my American experience was going to be the inside of a SOHO gallery, the morbidly obese man at the hardware store around the corner and a power-drill with a funny-shaped plug.

But hang on. “Staying in New York for work,” I hear you say. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Business class flights, a five-star hotel and all your food and travel expenses paid for.” Well, that was my boss’ experience. Me, I got to fly Economy while he sat up front, wasn’t allowed to claim receipts and got sleep on a variety of Aussie mates’ sofas while he stayed for a week in SOHO’s most exclusive hotel. That’s right; when he heard I had friends in town he asked if I could stay with them to save the company some money, because when you’ve just bought a multi-million pound house in central London you’ve got to watch the pennies. Well, watch someone else’s pennies anyway.

Armed with my indignation I negotiated two days of paid leave and resolved to get as far away as possible. That way when one of the exhibition lights caught fire and the gallery burned and south Manhattan was apocalyptically razed I could calmly answer the phone and say “Yes, hello? Oh, that sounds awful. Hmmm. I see. Look, I’d love to come back and help pick up charred bits of your completely irrelevant lighting product but the beach here is just lovely, and by the time I get back my martini will be warm, and Emmanuel says it’s a waste not to use up the whole bottle of massage oil now we’ve opened it. Oh, and you’re a cunt who’s too tight to pay my travel expenses. Bye now! Mwah.”

Fortunately I had a perfect getaway option in the form of my hot Yankee Banker. When not in London trawling the bars for innocent youths to debase he worked in Washington D.C. for a big bank, doing the kind of banking stuff that isn’t a teller and so I will never understand. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year but he was delighted at the idea of a visit, so I packed my bags and leapt on the first train out of town.

On the journey I consulted my copy of The Big Book of Gay Etiquette: Just Because It’s There Doesn’t Mean You Should Touch It for a few tips, and learnt that:

… when visiting or staying with an old flame timing is everything. If the invitation is for a hour or less it can be assumed that a cup of tea or coffee is expected, possibly with a side platter of freshly baked scones. If the invitation is for anything more than an hour – say, up to a week – then etiquette necessitates engaging in Unmentionable Activities on a scale appropriate to the quality of the accommodation provided. This timing distinction is critical. Adherence to it will avoid the embarrassment of arriving with a bottle of soymilk when prophylactics would have been more appropriate.

At the time I was still dating Coat Contents and Yankee Banker was loved up with a new fella, so I wasn’t sure The Big Book of Gay Etiquette’s advice of getting jolly with the lolly was appropriate. I skimmed through its section on relationship etiquette but since I didn’t need to know “How to keep his toy soldier at attention when the Major General has left” or “Riding Aladdin’s rug: Three wishes to get the magic back now the lamp is tarnished” it just confused me more. Eventually I fell back my mother's teachings and decided that arriving bearing leather chaps and a big grin would be indelicate. I settled for hydrangeas instead.

Arriving at Yankee Banker’s apartment late in the afternoon, I stood gazing fixedly at the jumble of numbers trying to remember which one I should buzz. Gazing fixedly only works if you allow your mouth to drop open too, and maximum cognition is only achieved if you scratch your nuts to get the brain working. I was thus engaged when a cheery voice called out “Hi! You must be HW!”

I turned to see a disarmingly handsome man grinning at me, decked out in the coolest glasses I have ever seen. I swallowed the fly I’d caught and turned my nut-scratching into a casual running of the hand through the hair while he introduced himself as Yankee Banker’s beau. The horror! I’d been replaced with someone better looking, with better glasses and – as it transpired – a better job. Oh look at me! I work for a senator in Obama’s administration, toiling to avert climate change and secure the future for our children and their pet dolphins. Yeah well, I bury hamsters in dirt and knock their heads off with golf clubs, you optically superior prat.

Yankee Banker came to the rescue with a large glass of something pink and cold, ducking my accusing glare. Honestly. How hard would it have been for him to pay a homeless man to bring his urine-stained, cardboard box hovel up to the apartment for two days, and then introduce him as his boyfriend? He could’ve even let the homeless man’s dog shit in the bathroom sink and left it there for authenticity. I wouldn’t have cared; I’d just have washed my hands around it. Anything would have been preferable to knowing I’d been upgraded, or even that such a thing was possible.

The next day things went from bad to worse. Captain Planet was so nice he made time in his busy schedule to give me a backstage tour of Capitol Hill, starting at the senate office where he worked. Ugh, hot and considerate; what a creep. I arrived to find a long queue of school brats blocking the entrance so I settled in to wait, only for Captain Planet to appear and VIP me in. Humph. Quite cool. Still a prat.

We whizzed through the marbled Senate offices and then downstairs to a reception area where a hapless maid greeted us. Captain Planet turned the charm onto full beam and explained to the bedazzled lass that although it wasn't protocol he had a meeting with Mr W in room 312 but had forgotten to book it and was there any chance it was free for us to use and my goodness, he liked her hair today. She wilted. I was impressed. Prat though. Focus on the prat.

Through a security pat-down and along a white shiny tunnel, and I was only now wondering where the fuck we were going. Why were we in the basement and not arriving by car convoy to a brass band? Where was Obama, and why hadn’t he bought me a puppy yet? Why was there a set of train tracks up ahead? And here, a small 8-car train up with no driver? What was this, some kind of fucking James Bond movie?

And actually yes, yes it was. We stepped off the miniature platform into the leading carriage, the doors automatically closed and we were off, whisked from the Senate administrative buildings into the heart of Capitol Hill on a secret underground train. I kid you not. It was the coolest fucking thing I have ever seen. Suddenly I was Dr Evil shuttling towards my underground lair, and Captain Planet my diabolical accomplice Mini Me. Although he resented me stroking his head in that fashion.

The rest of the Capitol Hill tour passed in a blur of history and dark corridors. As we left through the main entrance into the glorious sunshine Captain Planet pointed to the “Room 312” tag I had been wearing since the train. Whereas once it was white it was now navy blue, the numerals nearly impossible to read. “It self-destructed in the sunlight to prevent re-entry,” he explained.

I accepted defeat. This man was too brilliant not to love, with his spectacles and his secret spyware and his cute ass. The Yankee Banker was a fortunate man, and as I watched them over dinner that night I hoped they’d be together so long they'd have a chance to share dentures as well as Prada sunglasses. The lucky bastards.