Chapter 40
I’ve not moved from the sofa for twenty-four hours, apart from getting up to wee.
A period of calm has washed over me after crying myself to sleep the night before.
I’ve lost count of how many episodes of Birds of a Feather I’ve watched, and how many times I’ve checked my phone.
Liam has texted me from a number I don’t recognise, Can I see you at the weekend?
Liam x. No explanation over the picture, no apology for yesterday, no acknowledgement for anything he’s done.
Yet, there’s a part of me that wants to hear him out, that craves for him to apologise.
I’ve left him on read. It’s a decision I need to talk through with Soumia.
I’ve got bored of drinking Vimto and moved onto vodka and diet coke.
The tv has been substituted with camp music classics while I endlessly scroll Instagram for quotes about not needing men; Don’t be a woman that needs a man, be a woman that men need.
I figure I’m a strong independent homosexual who doesn’t need a man.
I press the like button next to the following quote, I don’t need a man, I need tequila and a tan.
I agree. I nip into the kitchen and throw back a tequila, then make a fresh vodka.
I consider booking a last-minute holiday to get a sun kissed look but remember I have a job and can’t drop everything on a whim.
In the hope of transforming my fortunes, I load up the national lottery app and place a line on for tonight’s EuroMillions.
Within minutes I’m talking to several horned-up bears who want to come round and hook up.
I receive dick picks from them all but none of them take my fancy.
I look at them in detail like I’m Goldiecocks, shopping for one that’s just right.
Vodka five accompanies Heartbreak in This City by Steps.
I have an overwhelming need to be dancing to this cramped in a tiny space on a dancefloor with dozens of other gay men.
I do the only sensible thing I can do and load up Uber and type in Stag.
The club is dark, and only a few early ravers dance at the edge of the bar.
‘Double vodka coke.’
‘Eleven pounds.’
I tap my phone on the screen then pop a paper straw in my drink. I love this song, Sophie Ellis-Bextor is asking me, Why does it feel so Good? I don’t know Sophie, but I agree with you. I put my arms in the air to show it. Several songs pass, the DJ’s on fire.
I remove my trainer from on top of a man’s foot. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He’s handsome. Stubble and blue eyes that reflect the white lights of the club.
I give him a smile. He gives me a wink. We snog each other aggressively. Fast and furious.
‘Come find me when you’re leaving,’ he says, then dissolves into a growing crowd.
I make a mental note to find Mr Blue Eyes in a few hours. I make my way to the toilet, unzip myself, and spot a young twink watching me piss. He’s looking me in the eye whilst stroking himself.
‘I’m old enough to be your dad,’ I say to the black vested youth.
‘Daddy.’
‘Wash your fucking mouth out.’ I squeeze between him and a man giving head to a stranger to make my way back out to the dancefloor.
The music has changed to hard house, thump, thump, thump, without lyrics.
A man at the bar is smiling at me. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Sure, vodka coke. Thanks.’ I’m not sure if I’ve finished my other drink or put it down somewhere.
‘Are you from round here?’ The stranger asks. He’s a big bear. You can’t say fat anymore, you’ve got to say thic. Thic sounds sexier than fat.
‘Yes, born and bred in Manchester. You?’ He’s not my type but I’ll talk to anyone who buys me a drink.
‘No, I’m from Swansea. Can’t you tell by the accent?’
‘I can now you’ve said it.’
‘What you looking for?’ He asks. It’s a question no Grindr conversation starts without.
‘I’m here to dance.’ I’m not sure how anyone dances to this music.
‘Do you fancy some fun?’ I realise now how much he’s sweating.
I stand back to avoid the pickled egg smell that assaults my senses when he speaks.
‘No thanks mate. You’re not really my type.’ Being honest is liberating.
‘You fucking English boys are all the same.’ I take it as a compliment as he heads off for the bathroom.
The club is packed now. Anything goes in here tonight. Men in leather and rubber, men in chains wearing a pup mask, thic, slim, and muscled people in harnesses – it’s hedonism. No shame. No judgement.
I recognise a face amongst the dancing bodies. As soon as we make eye contact, he looks away.
‘Skerrow,’ I call out. He’s hiding behind… ‘Jason. Jason.’ I go up to him and hug him. ‘Oh my god, it’s so good to see you.’ I realise I couldn’t be any more fake, but vodka makes people my friend. ‘Fucking hell, Skerrow.’
I survey him from head to toe. The sight of him wearing a rubber vest surprises me. He looks good. He blends in with all the other outfits that show off various body parts.
Skerrow looks deadly serious. ‘If you tell anyone you’ve seen me in here, I’ll make sure you’re down the back in economy for the rest of your life.’
‘You’d do that for me? I love working in the back galley.’
‘I mean it Callum; don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me.’
I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key. ‘I’ll have a vodka then please, with coke.’ I know he can’t refuse.
Skerrow makes his way to the bar.
Jason is looking sheepish. ‘Queen, you better not tell anyone.’
‘What about his wife and his newborn?’ I suddenly have morals.
‘You can’t help who you fall in love with.’
I understand. I don’t wait for my vodka from Skerrow, I dance myself into the crowd, leaving them to their drama. I’ve found my way back to Mr Blue Eyes. We don’t say anything, we chew each other’s faces off before coming up for air.
‘Want a shot?’ He asks.
‘If I have a shot, I won't remember a thing.’ We’re being bumped into from all sides by topless men in harnesses.
‘Is that a, yes?’
‘Fuck it, why not.’