OK, time for some honesty.
In my previous entries I may have given the impression that all I am looking for in Mr Right is intellectual synchronicity, spiritual alignment and a planetary conjunction of humour. Or at the very least a whopping fat chequebook. While all these things are true, we need to flesh out this list because like all gay men I am, at heart, a dirty great pervert.
The difference with me lies in the manifestation of this vice. While most of my brethren have no qualms taking happy snaps of sweaty toned torsos as they writhe in serpentine ecstasy on the dancefloor (oh yes ladies, get thee to a gay club), the very sight of a toned ankle leaves me feeling faint. And dirty. HW is a dirty dirty boy.
Fortunately I work in a temptation-free environment. It’s a discreet product design company hidden behind mirrored windows in a back alley of Farringdon. You can find it if you search amongst the garbage bins and discarded electric cars that clutter up the rear entrance to the Guardian Newspaper; our loving neighbour who blocks out all our natural light. In such a location we get very few Dangerous Hotties passing by, and I can hide in the loo if any Fit Engineering Suppliers come to visit. What a tragic oxymoron.
So it is that you find me a few weeks past, working on some fascinating computer modelling of a bevelled-gear drive system, and generally being very non-purvey. There’d been a close shave that morning where I’d nearly looked at the Coffee Boy’s tight buns as he leaned down to get the milk (hey, I’ve always drunk lattes) but I’d made up for it by putting on my hairshirt once I got to the office.
Imagine my surprise then, when in the midst of a very tricky bit of structural analysis, I get some divine intervention. The Big Man In The Sky leans down and suddenly booms in my ear:
“Yo! HW! Enough with the hairshirt already! Chestnut is NOT your colour, and goat’s hair is sooooo last season. Give yourself a break, cash in some of your points from the Karma Bank, and induuuuulge your filthiness!” At which point He leans down and trips the Guardian’s fire alarm.
Right on queue a veritable mince of beautiful young things wafts from the Guardian’s doors. They congregate loosely in the alley; Swarthy Intellectuals here, Rugged Polemists there, Dashing Copyists sprinkled in between. Breathless I stagger to the window for a better look, my face pressed in wild abandon against those wonderful tinted and yes, one-way windows. I am in Perverts Paradise.
As these Lovely Lefties chatter innocently about who ate the last freetrade-soy-curd-vegan-nut-delight biscuit, my gaze lingers desperately on every pair of black spectacles and each typewriter-toned forearm. I am in a heady state of euphoric freedom, released from guilt by the knowledge that they have no idea that I am watching. I also realise there is nothing sexier than a man in a fitted floral shirt passionately espousing the combined evils of global warming and rampant capitalist consumption. Well, apart from the same man minus the floral shirt. Tied to a bedhead. With gaffa tape over his mouth.
But I digress.
Far too soon the all-clear is given and the crowd returns inside. However, I am not unchanged by the experience. I am left feeling strangely liberated, and at peace with my inner pervert (his name is Hornblower Jackson by the way). He and I ponder the fire drill procedure at the neighbouring art college, and I express a certain concern for the employment criteria at the Guardian. Surely the UK’s anti-discrimination laws require a certain percentage of mingers and freaks to be employed? But Hornblower has the answer; they must have been left inside to burn. How very right wing.
Monday, 28 May 2007
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
From (nowhere near) Russia with Love
Time: 7pm
Place: Deep in the Gay Heartland of Soho
Agent: Federal Working Operative HW a.k.a. FWOHW
Mission: To seek, identify and capture Mr Right from amongst 51 decoy models
Window of Opportunity: 3 minutes
1856 hours: Enter the de-militarised zone between homo and hetero territories. Pink-shirt-with-chest-hair camouflage accepted by locals and queue successfully infiltrated. While awaiting entry potential Target A identified and analysed for suitability.
Darcy factor? [Check] 6’4” tall. Straight gay-man quotient? [Good] Sequin scan is clear. Mental stability? Uncertain at this point, but high borrowability of leather jacket a strong mediating factor. Request permission to engage with target. Granted.
1906 hours: Target A [Codename: The Barrister] leaves queue and moves into position at back of bar. Interrogation suggests close match. Target tagged for later tracking.
1907 hours: Arrive at front of queue and encounter first obstacle; The Gatekeeper. Mission Control has done its homework; The Gatekeeper identifies FWOHW from clipboard and sticks tag to chest. Lingering application of sticker and repetitive patting of shirt suggests Gatekeeper as Target B. Logical analysis overwhelmed by whoa!-helloooooo… effect. Unauthorised flirtation ensues.
1915 hours: Misson guidelines announced by The[yesplease!]Gatekeeper. Fifty-one targets are identified through a numerical tagging system. Odds sit, evens rotate every three minutes. Sexually-suggestive banter required between rotations. Targets must secretly classify each other on a scorecard as ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or ‘Friend’. Classifications may be annotated with helpful descriptions such as “Cute But Dumb”, “The Fat Bald One” and “Oh My God As IF” for later reference.
1921 hours: Speed dating begins in earnest.
1924 hours: “Hiya! I work in the Weights and Measures Department for the Government. We control Time by counting the vibrations of helium atoms. It’s fantastic!” Negative.
1927 hours: “So you’re walking into the ocean and you’re allowed to take one oversized inflatable with you. What’s it gonna be?” Logic suggests your head.
1930 hours: “So buddy [wink], you’ve got a minute. Impress me.” Mission Control, request authorisation to kill.
2043 hours: Scorecard reads: Irish [tick] big nose [x]. Pretty boy [tick] camptastic [x]. Funny funny [bonus points] one earlobe longer than other [x]. Banker [tick tick] dickhead twat toss-pot [x]. Kurdish [xx] dental PhD [xxx].
2045 hours: Interrogation break. Infiltrate bar area to consider options. Options include triple G+T and vodka cranberry shots.
2056 hours: Mission Control authorise deployment of Tactile Response Unit. Approach Target B with faulty numerical sticker. Target B concurs on unacceptability of bent corner. Removes sticker [brush of skin: tick] and replaces with handwritten version [leaning on chest: tick]. Unnecessary eye contact indicates a hit.
2120 hours: Speed dating resumes.
2233 hours:Scorecard reads: Welsh [tick] sewerage worker [tick]. Skinny arms [tick] ginger [yesplease]. Self-absorbed egotistical wanker [tick]. Stripes with spots [genius]. Romanian peasant hunny [tick tick]. Kurdish [fascinating] dental PhD [perfect match].
2250 hours: Mission Control recall FWOHW on suspicion of poisoning. Symptoms include loss of auxiliary control and diminished analytical reasoning.
2253 hours: Target A departs with a nod and a smile. Target B’s telephonic communicator digits captured.
2300 hours: Return to civilian territory. Scorecard microfilm safe. Mission reported as a success.
Place: Deep in the Gay Heartland of Soho
Agent: Federal Working Operative HW a.k.a. FWOHW
Mission: To seek, identify and capture Mr Right from amongst 51 decoy models
Window of Opportunity: 3 minutes
1856 hours: Enter the de-militarised zone between homo and hetero territories. Pink-shirt-with-chest-hair camouflage accepted by locals and queue successfully infiltrated. While awaiting entry potential Target A identified and analysed for suitability.
Darcy factor? [Check] 6’4” tall. Straight gay-man quotient? [Good] Sequin scan is clear. Mental stability? Uncertain at this point, but high borrowability of leather jacket a strong mediating factor. Request permission to engage with target. Granted.
1906 hours: Target A [Codename: The Barrister] leaves queue and moves into position at back of bar. Interrogation suggests close match. Target tagged for later tracking.
1907 hours: Arrive at front of queue and encounter first obstacle; The Gatekeeper. Mission Control has done its homework; The Gatekeeper identifies FWOHW from clipboard and sticks tag to chest. Lingering application of sticker and repetitive patting of shirt suggests Gatekeeper as Target B. Logical analysis overwhelmed by whoa!-helloooooo… effect. Unauthorised flirtation ensues.
1915 hours: Misson guidelines announced by The[yesplease!]Gatekeeper. Fifty-one targets are identified through a numerical tagging system. Odds sit, evens rotate every three minutes. Sexually-suggestive banter required between rotations. Targets must secretly classify each other on a scorecard as ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or ‘Friend’. Classifications may be annotated with helpful descriptions such as “Cute But Dumb”, “The Fat Bald One” and “Oh My God As IF” for later reference.
1921 hours: Speed dating begins in earnest.
1924 hours: “Hiya! I work in the Weights and Measures Department for the Government. We control Time by counting the vibrations of helium atoms. It’s fantastic!” Negative.
1927 hours: “So you’re walking into the ocean and you’re allowed to take one oversized inflatable with you. What’s it gonna be?” Logic suggests your head.
1930 hours: “So buddy [wink], you’ve got a minute. Impress me.” Mission Control, request authorisation to kill.
2043 hours: Scorecard reads: Irish [tick] big nose [x]. Pretty boy [tick] camptastic [x]. Funny funny [bonus points] one earlobe longer than other [x]. Banker [tick tick] dickhead twat toss-pot [x]. Kurdish [xx] dental PhD [xxx].
2045 hours: Interrogation break. Infiltrate bar area to consider options. Options include triple G+T and vodka cranberry shots.
2056 hours: Mission Control authorise deployment of Tactile Response Unit. Approach Target B with faulty numerical sticker. Target B concurs on unacceptability of bent corner. Removes sticker [brush of skin: tick] and replaces with handwritten version [leaning on chest: tick]. Unnecessary eye contact indicates a hit.
2120 hours: Speed dating resumes.
2233 hours:Scorecard reads: Welsh [tick] sewerage worker [tick]. Skinny arms [tick] ginger [yesplease]. Self-absorbed egotistical wanker [tick]. Stripes with spots [genius]. Romanian peasant hunny [tick tick]. Kurdish [fascinating] dental PhD [perfect match].
2250 hours: Mission Control recall FWOHW on suspicion of poisoning. Symptoms include loss of auxiliary control and diminished analytical reasoning.
2253 hours: Target A departs with a nod and a smile. Target B’s telephonic communicator digits captured.
2300 hours: Return to civilian territory. Scorecard microfilm safe. Mission reported as a success.
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