#c'est la vie

Clearly I was taking a risk.
@geeky_balkan could have lost interest.
Or taken umbridge at my accepting of his offer simply because there were no others around.
But he bought me the drink.
Perhaps my appeal was enduring.
Or he hadn’t noticed me scoping the bar.
Maybe he was as desperate as me, and beyond offence.
I didn’t care.
I knew I was gettin’ me some.
@geeky_balkan turned out in fact to be @geeky_frenchmen.
And as I chatted with him in close quarters he became less geeky.
Even started to grow attractive.
Perhaps due to his wit, charm & intellect.
And his French accent.
Or the 36 alcoholic beverages I’d consumed since 4pm the previous afternoon.
And the residual effects of two pills.
Again I didn’t care.
Because I was up for it.
But happy to have the get-to-know-you-in-ten-minutes chat before makin’ the move.
The chat was cut short by the lights coming on.
5am.
Skull remainder of beverage.
And adjourn to the Oxford.
Clearly more alcohol required before takin’ it home.
Which facilitated more chat.
In which I learned a little more about @geeky_frenchmen.
He was here for 2 weeks, to attend his twin brother’s wedding.
And while I’d been at DILF he’d been at a buck’s night.
Snorting coke with a whole lot of hot straight men.
And now he was at the Oxford with me.
Turns out he still had some coke on him.
“I can’t believe it took you so long to tell me that! Let’s go to my place.”
Skulling another beverage.
“Why can’t we do it here?”
I glanced at the lone man dancing on the window ledge, singing along to Beyonce, and decided that no more stimulants were going to be wasted on this venue.
So to my place we went.
For drugs and sex.
So that’s how I welcomed in Sunday morning: crouched on all 4 fours, with a $50 note up my nose, and a massive French cock up my arse.
Life is good.


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#cutting my losses

DILF.
Hot Rod.
Upstairs at the Shift.
All in all I’d had a fun night, surrounded by hotties.
But ‘twas time for a root.
So down I went.
Downstairs, that is.
And downhill, too I suppose.
The street level Shift offering a less attractive, and more available man.
Which as I said, really appeals to my laziness.
I also like to be the pretty one.
And the strategy seemed to work.
He eyed me up & down as soon as I walked in.
He had a geeky Balkan look about him.
Smiled shyly.
I gave short smile back.
Thinking: “I can do better than that, but such immediate response is encouraging nonetheless.”
As my double vodka tonic in a short glass was nearing empty @geeky_balkan came up to me:
“What are you drinking? Can I buy you another one?”
In hard-to-identify-accent.
Gave him my best supermodel-trying-not-to-offend-the-ugly-suitor look and said: “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
I smiled as warmly as I know how.
He just shrugged and walked away.
I then went to the bar, ordering the same again, @geeky_balkan watching me all the way.
Instead of returning to my stool, I did several very slow laps of the bar.
Then the front bar.
The dancefloor.
Crowd was thinning.
And the pickings were slim.
Try the smoking area.
Nothing like an overcrowded contained space with strangers asking each other for ciggies and lights for getting lucky.
To no avail.
Two cigarettes later and my second drink down I went back inside.
It was really emptying out.
But @geeky_balkan was still there.
Still watching.
If I hadn’t have been pissed and high I would have found it creepy.
But it seemed to be all I was getting.
And as I looked around at the dispersing and uninterested crowd I realised he was my only hope.
So I went back in there.
“Actually I will take you up on your offer of a drink, thank you. Double vodka tonic in a short glass.”


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#shift

So I celebrated amongst them.

My own DILFness being kind of watery by the most charitable of assessments.

Downright fraudulent by the more honest.

@cute_boy assured me I looked kind of DILFish.

As long as I didn't talk.

Use my hands.

Or move.

All of which were quite difficult to do.

Considering the influence of the music, the booze, and the single smuggled pill.

Oh yeah, that was another part of our strategy.

@cute_cousin and I, both equally fearful of apprehension upon arrival, had agreed that we would only be prepared to travel with one pill each.

So when that one was done, we were ready to leave.

Because the sudden reality of hanging out with a whole bunch of shirtless old men, in an old factory, in the western suburbs, was fairly unappealing.

So we ventured into the wilds that were the darkened abandoned streets, in search of safe passage home, our stretch Merc having only been hired for the first part of the night.

Ah the familiar comfort of Potts Point felt good.

Particularly when it housed an extra pill for both of us.

Which we popped on the rooftop, along with some more champagne.

Having revived our festive feelings, we once again headed vaguely westwards.

This time only so far as Taylor Square.

Where we stopped in at Hot Rod to dance with the Gen-Ys.

With whom we felt equally as out of place as with the DILFs.

Next stop: the Shift.

Where our DILF stamp gave us free entry to the upstairs club.

And where we seemed to re-experience the first part of the night.

Just in a different venue.

Only this time when my ecstasy subsided we had no reserves in stock.

@cute_cousin had been absorbed into a throng of heaving dancefloor hotties.

Whereas I had moved to that state where I'd started to feel a little bit antsy.

Kind of toey.

With a case of the wanders.

Which I treated by moving downstairs.

Sure the crowd upstairs was hot.

But they were all totally into the music.

And totally into each other.

I know my market.

And where I sit in it. 

The guys downstairs are less good looking.

So I'm in with a better chance.

And they also have the good sense to line the walls.

One in hand in pocket.

The other with drink.

Not really talking to anybody.

But clearly saying: I'm totally up for it.

It's a process with which I'm well acquainted, and one in which I am most practised.

And one that really appeals to my laziness.

Because it works.

Really quickly...

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#whattheDILF?

So in we swaggered.

To this bastion of masculinity.

Only to be greeted with a round of 'hi dolls' and double cheek kissing.

Every queen I've ever slept with, met, or in fact ever seen, was there.

And while many of them have the ILF factor, the authenticity in the D factor was clearly lacking.

Not that I expected them to have genuinely fathered children.

But fucking like you're going to can be a bit of a turn on.

The reality of fatherhood, however, is not really.

But what constitutes a DILF anyway?

I mean really...

I mean, I get it....

But isn't DILF just the new Bear?

Solidly built.

Ostensibly manly.

And with an aversion to hair removal.

As long as I can remember the term Bear has done the job of giving an identity to all those types who were not the lithe, smooth young things of the traditional 'chicken or beef' divide.

But the fatties also latched onto it.

Then took it over.

And now it's just a euphemism. 

So where does that leave the hairy hotties?

In search of a new label apparently.

And they've found it.

One with a distinctly heterosexual bent to it.

Which does kickstart for me a discourse on the whole straight acting thing.

As well as the obvious daddy fantasy.

Interesting that the new twinks are all so totally into it.

During my own misspent twinkage (of oh so many years ago) fantasies of doing it with a daddy were usually kept under wraps.

And if you were ever lucky enough to live it out, you didn't tell a soul.

But now they're being celebrated.

In Marrickville.

And around the world.

And I for one am glad.

It took years to come to terms with my carpet-like coverage.

My five o'clock shadow that was there from 10am.

The thicker waistline I m now told can be attributed to excess testosterone.

Which also apparently explains the onset of baldness.

So why reduce the signs of ageing when they're clearly so hot right now?

For that is what DILF is celebrating.

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#preDILF

So yes, I attended the DILF party.

And yes I had an amazing time.

I'd also been to the previous one.

But this time I had that feeling of nervous excitement before a big night out that I hadn't had since I was an ingenue party-goer.

Perhaps because it involved a sense of adventure.

Tapping into my intrepid spirit.

I had to travel outside my comfort zone.

To Marrickville.

Which although felt like a far flung western suburb, also came with hopes of a whole new category of hottie.

Which I was totally up for.

Not that the inner eastern suburbs of Sydney are short on hotties.

In fact this densely populated and highly developed area is rumoured to have more faggots per cubic metre than anywhere in the world.

Which makes my single status even more disturbing.

So despite knowing that hundreds of them were being bussed to the western suburbs for the same reason as I was venturing out there, I felt confident that I would be experiencing a whole new target market.

However, I was also mildly apprehensive.

For the last time I'd traveled this far with an illicit substance on my person I'd been arrested.

And charged.

With possession.

So I insisted everybody meet at may place.

And go to the party by car.

Hire Car.

Which turned out to be a stretch Merc.

With tinted windows.

Sexy in its own way, but not really in line with the DILF theme of the night.

And then when we pulled up outside I sent @cute_cousin to make sure the coast was clear.

The venue was mercifully free of boiler suited policeman and sensitive labradors.

So in we strode.

Well, we kind of sashayed.

And then remembered that we're meant to swagger.

Which we attempted.

Unsuccessfully.

Which to be honest, was not really a problem.

Because those DILFs were not setting a particularly high standard of butch...

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#hash

Well wasn’t that a crazy little idea?

Never imagined that my parents would be up for it, but I threw them the concept anyway.

And now I think I have turned them into stoners.

Even though when my mother asked my father how he felt about hash cookies as a palliative medicine for his incurable cancer she was most surprised by his response: a quiet “I’ll give it a try but I don’t see what they’ll do.”

Turns out he thought she’d said hash browns, leading him to ponder the medicinal properties of potato.

However, upon being corrected he was quite amused by the thought and putting aside his bourgeois pre-conceptions in favour of his natural, scholarly attitude towards research, he heartily consented.

Stage 2 in the conversation concerned the acquiring of the ingredients.

My father, who often buys in bulk for the sake of a deal, had visions of my importing large quantities.

I assured him it was easily obtainable on any street corner within 3 minutes walk of my apartment and that it was available in handy and affordable fun-sized packs.

Mother wondered who was going to make the cookies and if there’s a particular recipe book.

Not sure, I say, but I don’t think it’s Donna Hay.

A small joke re sniffer dogs has her on the verge of booking an armoured truck to transport me and my cookies.

I tell her I can make my own way.

“As long as you keep the windows up and don’t stop anywhere.”

Ferrying hash cookies from Potts Point to Hunters Hill must constitute trafficking in her law book.

Although I’m sure she was enjoying being an accomplice to crime.

The acquiring of the main ingredient did, in fact, prove more difficult than imagined.

Local corners, usually peopled by feral peddlers hoarsely whispering “smoko”, were strangely abandoned the night I went shopping.

I did so many laps of Kings Cross I felt sure I had been pinned as either undercover cop or sex fiend.

Just as I called it quits I collided with a fifty-plus drunk woman who had the face of a car wreck and the underwhelming sales technique of a lobotomised door-to-door Christian.

I exchanged $100 for what seemed like enough pot to dull a small nation, wiped her breath from my face and took the dog-free route home.

I took delight in informing mother that the illegal part of the operation had been successfully completed.

I felt like the rebel teenager enlisting the nice girl of the neighbourhood into illicit behaviour and changing her forever.

As I have never been adept at any form of baking that does not involve the sun I felt it wise to outsource the labour for this stage of the project.

Working with the brief that ill father would not enjoy being completely out of it, @culinary_and_drug_savvy_friend produced several batches of flavoursome delights.

I sampled one from each batch.

Not necessarily a good idea.

Well, it would have been had I not had 3 in 3 hours.

Was off my head.

Drug-induced stupor had me sending a courier with the remainder to parental home, enclosing instructions to eat half a cookie about 45 minutes before evening meal and that if pain persists, finish it off.

It seemed an age that I deliberated over what to write on the dotted line headed Description Of Contents.

Felt reasonably satisfied with “medical supplies”, then ticked the non- illegal/explosive box.

Arrived at parental home for dinner 2 nights later and found father asleep on sofa.

“He’s just had half a cookie,” said mother in a loud, conspiratorial whisper.

She and I popped to neighbours’ for quick pre-dinner drink.

An hour-and-a-half later we merrily returned to find father stuffing his face on cheese and biscuits.

I couldn’t wait, he said, mouth full and eyes bloodshot.

He ploughed his way through an enormous meal and before his plate had even been removed he was making pudding enquiries.

The appetite stimulating properties of marry-a-wana, as he insists on calling it, were having the desired effect.

Other properties also in effect: he was relaxed yet loquacious, complimenting mother on her cooking.

He then made several charitable remarks on her re-decoration of the dining room, the Etruscan colour scheme making itself apparent to him for the first time. In the following days I learned that he had been sleeping better than he had since before the diagnosis.

Mother also enjoying cookies, having felt it important to share the experience with her husband.

She did, however, say she’s feeling a little porky.

I, on the other hand, was feeling anything but porky and was hoping that newly discovered abs, flattened by dehydration and a total of 14 hours of serious boogie action, would remain as such at least until 2nd date with man met in the supermarket the preceding week.

He had been hovering nervously near the fruit and veg.

I looked at his trolley for signs of upturned bananas and caught his eye.

He was very handsome, but in the manner of a TV science show host.

He looked around shyly then smiled.

I was smitten as he was also about 6-foot-4 and powerfully built.

I smiled back, then he stuck out his hand in very formal fashion and introduced himself.

Found myself saying “how do you do?”.

He is a school teacher and he has a penis shaped like a choc top.

Not that he told me that in the supermarket.

I found out 3 days later.

We had enjoyed a wholesome meal together then walked with earnest purpose to the cinema.

We saw a Woody Allen film, for the entire duration of which he held my hand.

He then suggested a cup of tea at my place.

Upon arrival he marched to the kitchen and started boiling water and searching for tea.

He stopped suddenly and announced that he was going to kiss me. He then rubbed his hands together in the manner of somebody readying themselves for a brisk walk, put his hands on my shoulders and leaned down to kiss me.

Slowly and hesitantly at first.

And then he was off.

Tongue right in.

Grinding crotch (kind of sexy although it was level with my navel).

He then lifted me up and walked me to the bedroom.

All the usual pre-amble happened and then he announced emphatically that he was going to fuck me.

I didn’t say anything – I never agree until I’ve seen it.

And when I did, I should have been scared.

But I wasn’t.

I was amazed.

It truly was shaped like a choc top.

Huge domed top and a ridged cylindrical shaft.

Decided I could get it in.

But wasn’t so sure about getting it out.

Surprisingly pain-free experience ensued with no real obstacles to either entry or egress.

2nd date followed similar course, although it dawned on me that his wholesomeness might not only bore me but also prevent me from sharing the grittier details of my life.

I gave him a heavily edited version of my weekend, to which he’d responded with “I don’t know where you get the energy.”

I chose not to mention the 6 bumps of K that had turned me into Beyoncé.  Having reviewed the week I decided I needed another release.

Friends all busy or chilling.

So I called my mother.

Told her I was bored.

Come on over, she said.

We’re about to have a cookie.

Seems that while I had been sampling the delights of the cinema candy bar, my aged parents had been acquiring another taste.

Am now suffering identity crisis:

I’m an inner-city poof who shares his vices with his parents, yet feels compelled to keep them from his sexual partners.

See you in therapy.




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#daily grind

I met him on Grindr.
Which is kinda controversial.
Because as you know I am a total technophobe.
But I do like to own the latest thing.
I had been perfectly happy with my $99 LG flip top phone.
It fitted nicely in my pocket.
The buttons were easy to press.
It never made accidental calls.
And had a vast assortment of very appealing ring tones.
But I'd had it for 4 years.
And one day I decided it was daggy.
And that I just had to have an i-phone.
I already had the ipod.
And the i-pad.
They co-ordinate beautifully with my PowerBook.
Which is the same colour as my Bose docking station.
And provide tonal contrast to the dark moody hues of my recently refurbished apartment.
Perfect.
And so now, in order to be really cool, I paid $1040 for a new phone.
32G of stuff I can't use.
And stuff I never will use.
Every time I sit down I have to take it out of my back pocket.
And pop it on the table.
Along with all the other i-phones.
Every second cafe table is like a communal creche for  telecommunication devices.
Precious little babies under the protective, albeit wandering, eyes of their latte-sipping same-sex parents.
Ever mindful of the possibility of it slipping out of the back pocket of the low slung skinny jean and shattering on the floor.
And each time any one of them rings everybody reaches for theirs,  thinking they are the only ones with Old Phone ring tone.
It's the only decent one available as a standard application.
There is little room left for food on the table.
Which I suppose is fine, seeing as I don't know a single faggot who's digested a solid in years.
Coffee, alcohol, water and protein shakes seem to constitute a balanced diet.
I'm sure there's a fifth food group in there somewhere.
Oh yeah.
Coke and Ice.
And that ain't no beverage.
But I digress.
I'm too old to be still takin' drugs.
Although clearly not too old to be competing in the Gen-Y consuming stakes.
And don't get me wrong.
I love my phone.
I would be lost without it.
I would rather lose a limb than leave home without my phone.
And be without my notes, my email, my contacts, my photos, i-tunes, the weather in 13 different places.
The time in 7 different zones.
I never used the GPS.
I go everywhere by taxi.
And I figure if I'm paying Sydney cab fares the driver can work out how to get there.
But then I discovered Grindr.
Clearly I'd heard the hype.
And wondered what the fuss was about.
I'd used Gaydar to find sex when at home.
And living in Potts Point I certainly didn't need my phone to tell me where the nearest poofter was.
There's one in both the apartments either side of me.
There's usually one at the next table.
One next to you at the checkout in Fratelli.
There's 734 of them at the gym.
At any given time.
There's one beside you as you wait to cross the road.
And one cruising you from that passing car.
No I certainly didn't need my phone for that.
Permanently_horny is permanently glued to it.
Twice he's been hit by cars while in the process of hooking up.
Surely it wasn't that good.
And then he showed me his profile.
Along with several others.
And gave me blow-by-blow descriptions of the encounters he'd had.
And how easily and conveniently they had come his way.
I suddenly got it.
While it's all very well to be cruised, how do you really know if he's up for it?
And if so, right now?
Or later?
Nothing worse than doing the turn-around, the stop and the lowering of the sunglasses only to find he's kept on walking.
Or stopped, smiled and shrugged.
How do you know he doesn't just think you're strange?
Or that your outfit is?
Just go to Grindr.
Pop some GPS in your life.
And take out the guesswork.
It's how I turned that casual smile at the cheese counter at David Jones Food Hall into a blow job in the toilets.
It's how a sunrise walk around Mrs Macquarie's chair became a really good morning root under the rocks.
Although before I got used to using it a quick dash down Macleay St could drag into a 3 hour frantic race against time and technology as I took endless wrong turns, propositioned innocent bystanders and worked myself into a traumatic yet near-orgasmic frenzy.
But now I am an afficionado.
A seasoned connoisseur.
I can uncover a secret identity at 100 paces.
In 15 seconds.
@fedEx_guy becomes @daddy_bear.
@nerdy_student becomes @submissive_slut.
One mild mannered clerk really was a fucking superman.
And @hot_fuck turned out to be a fashion forward shopper in my favourite store.
On a recent cold afternoon, a brisk walk in search of both winter woollies and hot action led me along Darlinghurst Rd.
And right to the door of my all time top fashion shopping destination.
Diederic the Cat.
A mini emporium of directional Italian and Japanese clothing.
Owned and run by @fabulous_fashionista.
Staffed by @groovy_twink.
And patronised by an endless parade of hip homos of all ages.
Today it was especially packed, poofters going totally apeshit over new winter arrivals.
It didn't take me long to identify @hot_fuck.
All the patrons were extra hot that day.
Many with i-phones in hand.
And all with one eye on the clothes, the other on their fellow shoppers.
But then there he was.
The most handsome black man I have ever seen.
Loitering near the knitwear.
Feigning interest in a knee length cable knit cardi-trench.
While madly running his fingers over his touch screen.
Before I could grab his attention @fabulous_fashionista.
Rushing over with outstretched arms, heaped with an entire winter collection.
"There's only one of each of these in your size" she enthused.
"And I got them all especially for you".
How could I refuse?
I pushed myself to the front of the changeroom queue.
Winking along the way at @hot_fuck.
Who subtly grabbed his crotch in response.
I dutifully began trying on every garment.
Coming out to view myself in the store mirror, under the appreciative eye of @hot_fuck.
Only to return to the changeroom and immediately consult my phone after each outift.
After the 11th such performance @hot_fuck's patience started to wane.
And I was only half way through.
"I'll take them all!" I said as I saw him slowly gliding past the scarves.
"Don't bother with individual wrapping" I cried, "just shove 'em all in the one bag!"
As a regular customer I knew where she kept them, and grabbed the biggest one I could find, using my whole arm to sweep my new wardrobe from the counter into the bag.
I swiped my card myself, keyed in my pin, and ran out after @hot_fuck, who had by now left the store.
He was only a couple of doors down though.
Leaning against a wall.
Smoking.
Upon seeing me he started walking slowly away, and beckoned me to follow.
Which, clearly, I did.
To the underground carpark of a nearby apartment block.
Where he bent me over the bonnet of a car.
And practically split me in 4.
I felt used.
Abused.
And violated.
It was unreal.
Yep, @hot_fuck had lived up to his name.
And continues to do so.I've seen him every day since.




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#stunt double

Goodness.

Life is indeed an amusement park and self-esteem is a permanent passenger on the rollercoaster.

Am very happy with comment from extremely gorgeous glamorous shop chick that I look very Tom Ford.

Am therefore loving @gorgeous_glamour_shop_chick.

Loving her so much, in fact, that I let her talk me into buying a $4,000 suit.

Although if I really were Tom Ford I could have whipped it up myself at home on the Janome.

And if I really were Tom Ford presumably my Visa card would not have been so rudely declined.

Yes declined.

Had sneaking suspicion that this may happen but chose not to say anything.

Acted all surpised.

Just run the card through for half the amount and then do it immediately again for the second half, I suggest. 

This has worked for me in the past.

But not quite for this amount.

Despite my enthusiasm in making this suggestion I have no real faith in the success of this idea.

Still declined.

Don’t worry, says @gorgeous_glamour_ shop_chick.

Happens all the time.

Electronic terminal just says declined when line is busy.

We’ll just do it the old fashioned way. 

Actually call up.

As she dials the number I notice a totally fuck-off diamond ring and wonder if she has spunky husband.

Still declined.

REALLY want the suit now.

And am REALLY embarrassed.

Do some quick telephone banking.

@gorgeous_glamour_shop_chick reiterates Tom Ford comment.

Possibly in attempt to alleviate decline- embarrassment: it’s ok that you’re poor – you look like a rich and famous person.

Try again.

Transaction approved.

Very happy.

Thanks so much.

And you know what, says @gorgeous_ glamour_shop_chick, when my husband and I were in Aspen we were right next to Tom Ford in the ski-lift queue.

Now I know she has a spunky husband.

And you know what, she says, Tom Ford’s really short too.

Yeah thanks.

Rush home and spend next 4 hours trying on suit with every t-shirt, shirt, tie and shoe that I own.

Parade around apartment on my own.

Checking each outfit in all 3 mirrors.

Am most happy with outcomes. Do not want to remove suit.

Should go to gym but that would involve removal of suit.

Decide to eat instead.

Prepare meal, while still wearing suit.

Eat meal in front of telly.

Still wearing suit.

Immediately upon completion of meal have guilt attack at not going to gym.

Suddenly feel extremely fat in suit.

Spend next half hour in front of mirror as body transforms before my very eyes.

Suddenly hate suit as it has amazingly become 3 sizes too small.

Must go out to homosexual venue and reassert attractiveness.

But not in suit.

Put on old jeans and baggy t-shirt and wonder where a daggy fat man can find sex on a Saturday night.

The Shift.

It was pumping.

And the corwd wasn’t too bad.

And lucky they were pissed.

Because I could tell they thought I wasn’t too bad either.

Especially the debonair Italian man I met in the bathroom.

Clearly he found me neither daggy nor fat.

Said I looked like George Michael.

I’m presuming he meant then, not now.

For I took it as a compliment.

And he clearly intended it as such for he remained tightly by my side for the rest of the night.

Am very happy with George Michael and Tom Ford in the one day.

Was not to everyone’s liking though, I’m afraid to say.

Was having a crazy little boogie.

Dancefloor a little too crowded for my liking.

Rhythmless couple apparently joined at the hip are invading my space, so I decide to do the elbow shove disguised as exuberant dance move.

Doesn’t work.

They become separated and one of them nearly falls over.

Oh sorry, I say, hoping that shove is still indistinguishable from exuberant dance move.

Apparently not.

Sorry clearly not enough.

Well thank you, says one of them.

Who the hell do you think you are?

You have just ruined my night.

Ruined.

A little extreme methinks.

I’m really sorry. (Get off the crystal, doll!)

And look at you, he says.

Look at your face. 

You are so ugly.

Amazement.

And you’re short, he continues.

As though I didn’t know.

And you’re bald. 

That’s a bit of a stretch.

Tell him he shouldn’t have been dancing so badly in my personal space.

He goes to slap me.

I kid you not.

Tries to bitch slap me.

I duck and he misses.

Advantage short man.

Grab @debonair_itailian and sashay through crowd to other side of dancefloor.

I can cope with short comment.

Even the bald comment.

Am a tad rocked by ugliness comment though.

So ugly.

@debonair_italian assures me I am not ugly.

Many times.

I keep asking.

Eventually he takes me home and confirms that he doesn’t think me ugly.

‘Cause there is no way you could do what he did to anybody you thought was ugly.

Spend all Sunday with @debonair_italian.

Molto happy with that little turn of events.

Go to work this morning.

Wearing new suit.

Feeling fabulous, although perhaps a little overdressed.

Also felt a little pale as all Sunday activities with @debonair_Italian took place indoors.

So pop in to solarium for a sneaky little sunbed on way home from work.

Bronzed man at counter doesn’t recognise me at first.

Proclaims I have changed my look. Says I look like somebody famous but he can’t think who.

Well, I say, I was told both Tom Ford and George Michael on the weekend.

Yes, he concurs. Yes!

You’re a little bit Tom AND a little bit George.

You know, he continues, if Tom Ford and George Michael were to have a son, he’d look just like you. 

Extremely happy with that comment.

What the hell, go the 12 minute standup.

Not sure that was such a good idea.

I am no longer George Michael. 

Or Tom Ford.

Am now George Hamilton.

Must go and moisturise. 

#DNA Magazine

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