#picture this

Still foggy from my Big Night In last Wednesday night, I ventured out again on the Thursday night.
On a date.
Although to be honest, calling it a date is a bit of a stretch.
Strictly speaking, it was actually a hook-up.
Grindr.
But I didn't go to his house.
Nor did he come to mine.
Which is in fact my usual approach.
Of course there's always the whole "if I don't like him or I feel uncomfortable then it's easier to leave theirs than it is for me to get them to leave mine" internal conversation.
But I always feel more in control at mine.
I know where everything is.
Fire escape.
Hidden baseball bat in cupboard.
Panic button.
Panic room.
However, notwithstanding my mental preparation for the worst possible outcome, the recent spate of app-supported dates going horribly wrong has me seriously re-thinking the whole coming-to-my-place thing.
Best to meet in a public space.
A very public space.
Full of my friends...
The Green Park.
Most unimaginative.
But guaranteed to be housing at least 6 of my nearest and dearest at any given time.
I had shown @mr_grindr_date's photos to @cool_cat and @cute_boy.
Both of whom assured me they had seen him out and about.
In numerous venues.
For several years.
But none of us recognized him when he walked in the pub.
Which is hardly surprising.
Because it wasn't him.
And the only reason I knew it was / wasn't him was because he came up and said hi, introduced himself and started chatting in such a way that demonstrated he knew exactly who I was, and quite a lot about me.
But he was not the man in the pics.
And I don't mean he appeared a little different to his pics.
He was a completely different man.
More handsome and better looking than the man in the pics.
And noticeably younger.
Completely bizarre.
The man in the pics had been very nice looking too.
But not in this league.
Although the physical outcome was better I was a little creeped out by the situation.
And therefore very happy to have decided to meet in a public space.
The personality I was getting, however, seemed to match perfectly with the one I had gleaned from our online and texting conversations.
So it seemed OK to bring up the change of pics things.
My friends quizzical looks had turned to thumbs up signs.
So I brought it up.
"Why would you have pictures of somebody else? somebody older, less fit and less good looking?"
"So that the reality is a pleasant surprise".
"But you look nothing alike, and besides, I liked the look of that other man. I wouldn't have been here otherwise."
"Are you disappointed?"
"No, just surprised. This has never happened to me before."
"Because I'm disappointed."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me.. I'm disappointed."
"In me?"
"Yep."
"But the photos you saw were of me.
And they're quite recent."
"They do you justice though. You obviously know how to work your best angle."
Now I was getting the shits: "Excuse me! At least they're me!" 
"Yeah, but you don't look as good as your pictures."
What do you mean?" I practically screeched, dreading the answer.
"Well you look older, for a start".
I died a little.
"And you're definitely fatter".
Older.
Fatter.
I had no words.
I just slowly rose from my seat.
Skulled the rest of my drink.
And left with as much dignity as possible.
Until I reached the door.
Where I turned around.
Flipped him the bird.
And yelled across the bar: "No I will not piss in your mouth. Go fuck yourself."

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#relief

Such a bad idea to have a Phenergan on a school night.

Sure they knock you out really quickly.

But they leave you really kind of foggy the next day too.

Pretty much all day long.

I've only just emerged from the mist.

Clearly there was no spin class this morning.

But I am at that Elizabeth Taylor / Carrie Fisher stage in my life where I just can't seem to get to sleep on my own.

And I am kind of OK with that.

Works with the image of Trashy Glamour that I have unwittingly cultivated for myself.

But my doctor is refusing to give me any more Temazapan. 

Ever.

I had first asked for them when I went to London at the beginning of July.

For a week. 

Insisting they are an essential part of successful jet lag management.

He had seen reason in this.

And I became completely addicted.

To the point where I needed two just to feel sleepy.

I then went to Bali in late July.

And feigned two more overseas trips per month for August and September.

He didn't believe me when I went back a couple of weeks ago, asking for more.

He refused to prescribe.

Called me on my addiction.

And threatened to tell my mother.

Oh yeah, he's my cousin.

Damn.

Lucky an uncharacteristic bout of chronic hay favour at the beginning of Spring had the chemist recommending Phenergan.

Knocks you for six.

And is available over the counter.

#winning.

And has been helping me quieten the voices and dull the pain ever since @dr_cousin stopped being so helpful.

It's particularly nice with a glass of wine.

Or indeed a bottle.

Which is kind of where I left off.

I'm not drinking.

Until Friday of next week.

Even staying home alone these days is a risky activity.

But something I'm going to have to push myself through.

So after my Big Night In last Wednesday, I backed up with a Big Night Out.

Thursday.

Friday.

Saturday.

And Sunday.

And I really can't explain what happened to my Monday.

But let me think about it all and get back to you.

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#cycle

OK, so tonight's spin class was the first exercise I've done since last Thursday night.

And it required quite the effort to get there.

I have been hung over every day since that same Thursday.

And I hadn't even gone out the preceding night.
I'd done a spin class that night too.

Which I followed with dinner of two Snickers Bars.
And two bottles of Pinot Gris (my new preferred grape variety).
A big night in.
As for the Snickers Bars, this is also a new thing for me.
But fast becoming something of a staple.
And may very well, therefore, go some way towards explaining a universal shrinkage of all my shirts.
Although I'm not quite ready to admit this.
I'm still blaming the washing machine.
Which considering the number of spin classes I've been doing lately is not entirely unreasonable.
Because they are supposed to be the most effective weight loss exercise ever.
And I've been doing at least 5 a week.
It's the only exercise I can do at the moment.
In my over enthusiastic bid to get #thinforbali all those months ago I uncovered some minor previous shoulder injury.
Which I ignored.
And pumped myself into my bikini body.
And now I can barely move that shoulder.
So after months of pain and frustrated body building I had an X-ray and ultrasound last week.
Ultrasound.
I know.
Am I pregnant?
No.
Diagnosis?
Arthritis.
OMFG.
And the treatment?
A steroid injection.
Not the great thing you may think.
You may as well have told me hormone replacement therapy.
#old
And not coping.
Perhaps explaining the drinking.
Which has actually increased since I finally, finally, finally gave up smoking.
Well technically I had kinda sorta given up smoking three and a half years ago.
When I started chewing nicotine gum.
And to which I had been seriously addicted ever since.
Of course I have been an on-again-off-again smoker since the age of 10.
But I digress.
I'll tell you about that later.
This is about my drinking.
Which has only been serious in recent years.
And the exercise regime that co-exists strangely therewith...
But, you know what?
My phenergan's just kicked in.
So I'm gonna have to resume tomorrow...

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#shut up

So after receiving a text message from Monday night's shag saying that he'd read my blog I felt even even less bad about planning to go to Malebox on Wednesday night.

Not that I'd felt that bad.
Just a little bit bad.
Although there was some regret in my modus operandi thus far.
He had been such a gentleman.
And I had not.
And after Wednesday night's experience I wish I had.

@mr_malebox is probably reading this just as you are.
He'd been a fairly good shag too.
And I'm not just saying that for his benefit.
(Although after the shag was weird).

And he had also driven me home. 

But similarity with @handsome_barrister ended there. 

(Sorry if you're reading this)

(@handsome_barrister, if you're reading it, I'm puttin' up my hand for another chance...)

Anyway, he’d been nice and all. 

Met him at Stonewall.

As you know.

And despite the three digits stuck to our left pectorals, he'd approached me the conventional way: by pressing himself up against me, thereby pressing me up against the wall.

Which was not entirely unwelcome.

Although his opening line was: “What do you like doing in bed?” 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I said. 

“Snoring and dribbling.”

He didn't get it. 

He was muscly and sweaty. 

47 years old. 

Complete with earring. 

And a New Zealand accent. 

I knew it wouldn't lead anywhere.

So I threw myself into it with gay abandon. 

Now don't get me wrong. 

He was nice. 

Husband material even. 

But somebody else’s husband. 

Dragged me back to Zetland. 

Lives in one of those LegoLand complexes, furnished as though he’d gone crazy at the SupaCenta. 

Was both anally attentive and anally retentive. 

After fucking me senseless with fingers, dick and large object from bedside table, he removed the sheets from the bed. 

Immediately.

Took ‘em off before I’d barely lifted my shag-drunk body from the mattress. 

Was like one of those magic acts where some bloke whips away a tablecloth without the crystal, china or silver even wobbling. 

Once I'd recovered suitably I stumbled towards the shower.
Feeling a little tender.

And, after the sheet incident, suddenly unclean.

He followed a couple of minutes after. 

Stepping into the shower while I was still there.

Now I will tell you that showering with somebody else is one of my least favourite activities.

Bath - fine.

Hot-tub - fine.

Shower, no.

Especially with somebody who's just whipped the sheets from under me.

Who then, and I kid you not, started squeegee-ing the glass screen and door.

While we're still in the shower...
What is it with these prissy queens and their cleanliness fetishes?
I couldn't wait to get out of there, but somehow ended up staying the night.

He even cooked me breakfast.

Which I know is supposed to be a nice thing to do.

But just feels awkward, especially when the preceding night you've been made to feel like you've somehow soiled the joint.

And that person is so far down on my suitable husband's list.

(I'm hoping you've stopped reading by now)

Especially after Monday night's efforts.

(@handsome_barrister, I hope you're still here).

Presumably after all of this though neither of them would want to see me again anyway.

Note to self: keep identity secret.

Don't mention column and blog.

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#take me homo

So we went to his place.
And clearly Darling Point is not that far but it felt a world away: his apartment was a sensation. 

An entire floor.

Beautifully done.

And my excitement was palpable. 

“WOW,” I said. 

“Can you tell a poof lives here?” he asked. 

Yeah, but a poof with style. 

And to tell you the honest truth I've always felt that was rare.

All these poofs who know their way around an Ikea catalogue thinking that makes them stylish.

Or even worse, there's Harvey Norman as far as the eye can see.

And as for Fantastic Furniture, well, fantastic is the one thing it's not - and if there's even a whiff, then I'm out that door.

Or if they do go for something 'designer' it's the most obvious choice.

And if a guy registers even the faintest blip on my husband-hunting radar then the way they decorate is a deal breaker.

Because for me the potential for a long term relationship with someone is dependant almost solely upon our decorating styles being able to successfully merge. 

I prefer no style to poor style.

A mattress on the floor and milk crates as bedside tables is something you can fix.

Real commitment to bad taste is not.

But there was nothing I'd fix about this guy.

The look was perfect.

Chandeliers.

Panelled walls.

Parquetry floors.

Perfect mix of fine antique and modern classic. 

He did lose points for lack of originality in a pair of Barcelona Chairs. 

But I was prepared to overlook this in favour of everything else. 

And to top it off, he had this amazing art collection. 

All contemporary. 

It was the art I'd always aspired to own. 

In fact his entire apartment and collection was exactly what I'd always planned to have when I grow up.

He's 42.

I'm 36.

Oh yeah, did I also mention he was a great shag? 

The best.

For although having this old world charm gentlemanly thing going on, he was in fact an aggressive top.

Exactly what I like in a man.

Well mannered, well dressed, well spoken, and dominant in bed.

And a keen interest to catch up again.
This weekend.
But I'm feeling on fire.
And don't think I can wait.
So I think I'll go to Stonewall tonight, and see if I can get in a little more practice.


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#husband material

He sauntered past me and left his card on the bar. 

I love that.

Who does that anymore?

The paper resembled the finest linen. 

The text was embossed. 

Seems he’s a barrister. 

With a double barrelled-surname. 

Which, let’s face it, is up there with a trust fund as a guaranteed turn on.

If you're a social climbing snob.

Which, let's be clear, I am.

And it looked like he was gonna leave.

So I skulled my beverage and headed him off at the pass: “You can’t just dump your card and piss off,” I say. 

“I beg your pardon,” he replies. 

I tell  him I’m very flattered by the leaving of the card but less flattered by the departure of the cardholder. 

“I thought you may like to call me some time,” he says.

“I’m calling you right now,” I counter. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” I offer. 

“Louis Roderer,” he gratefully replies. 

Thank God for credit, I say to myself. 

“Crystal,” he adds. 

Seriously hope I’m not maxed out. 

Again keep this thought to myself. 

He turned out to be not only handsome, evenly tanned, perfectly teethed and impeccably attired, but also devastatingly witty and charming. 

He was also quite sober. 

So I did most of the talking. 

But he was quite attentive. 

And apparently sincerely so. 

Asked me all sorts of questions about my work, education, friends, family, pastimes and holidays. 

Impressed by my knowledge of the law. 

Kind of intrigued by the fact that I live in a one bedroom apartment. 

Impressed that I'm a decorator.

Although somewhat concerned by my casual attire.

Decided not to tell him that I do own some fancy clothes too, but felt them a bit much for a Monday night.

And kept my investment property to myself too. 

He should like me and my poverty. 

Seems he did. 

Although poverty not so evident once clothes were removed. 

Which of course did not happen at The Establishment. 

@handsome_barrister had little difficulty in presenting his case for dragging me back to his place. 

In quite a sudden manner he retrieved his keys and wallet from the bar in a confident and manly sweep. 

Gestured towards the door in a fashion that gave me no alternative but to leave. He said nothing as we walked towards his car. 

Top of the line BMW. 

Brand spanking new. 

“So where are we going,” I asked? 

“I could drive you home to Potts Point,” he said. 

“And Option B?” I enquired. 

“You could come back to my place for some fun,” he replied...

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#monday night pick up

So I scored.
On a Monday night.

And just got home.

Was a truly fabulous encounter. 

He even drove me here. 

I wouldn't normally have a sleepover on a school night.

Successful people get up early and they don’t want trashy trade in their bed when they do.

Not that I’m that trashy. (Keep your comments to yourself.)
And besides, he insisted I stay. 

And not that the fabulousness of this encounter lay in this man’s successfulness.

He was a top shag. 

And he was truly fabulous. 

But I’m not talking Eddie and Patsy fabulous. 

I’m talkin’ discreetly fabulous. 

Discreet is not something I do effortlessly myself but it is something I admire in others. 

Had espied him in a bar. 

The Establishment to be precise. 

A little bit fancier than usual for me, but I had been drinking with @gorgeous_princess.
Who prefers The Establishment to the Green Park.
And besides it was much easier for a quick Monday night catch-up when @gorgeous_princess has to wait around to meet @handsome_banker_fiance.

Which she did after polishing off two vodka martinis.
She then tottered out in her Louboutins, poppin’ her mints back in her Chole bag (didn’t want future hubby to know she’d had a couple of ciggies – we’d both be in trouble if @handsome_banker_fiance knew I’d fed his princess nicotine) leaving me alone with my Pinot Grigio and a roving eye. 

Two glasses later I was still there. 

That’s when I saw him. 
Fantastic silk tie. 
Perfectly knotted. 
Finely checked shirt.
White French cuffs.
Quality cufflinks. 
Charcoal suit. 
Just a touch overweight.
In exactly the way I like it.
Older.
Taller (that's not hard).
Great hair. 
Even tan. 
Macquarie Street teeth. 
He sauntered past me and left his card on the bar... 


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