Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Which Steals Men's Eyes

Oafish whistler is balanced somewhere between out and in, hovering over the threshold, whistling tunelessly from his fat fucking face and straight into mine. Spittle and sweat. The stench of three day old bacon caught between his fat, at the back, teeth. He’s letting me out or letting me in, the sensory spray causing this confusion as I too hover and, for a second, look into his eyes and then to his lips and then, inexplicably, I’m overcome with the urge – desire isn’t the right word – to kiss him, to kiss him hard.

WC Fields said, of the city: “It ain’t a place for women gal, but pretty men go there.”

There was also – the whistler incident has just reminded me – the time I popped into an upmarket hairdressers to ask if they carried the brand of hair wax I favoured. Fudge, as it happens. On my approach to the reception area I thought to myself, upon spying an attractive young girl: “I’ll ask that bird there.” But she wasn’t a bird, she was a man. A pretty young man, thin and athletic, eye shadow and rouge, a hint of chest hair curling out from his low cut T-shirt. Beautiful hair. For a moment I was flustered. By what? My initial mistake? By his undeniable loveliness? By homosexual panic? Odd though that I had no urge to kiss him.

There’s a theme emerging here.

I was out cottaging one night, years ago, when cottaging had this subcultural bent that made it attractive to the likes of me in my cultural vultural mode. I was out cottaging one night and doing my usual thing of taking things so far then backing off before things got too gay. You know, like with knob touching and kissing and any other kind of touching. I was out cottaging and, because back then I was young and quite attractive with hair and no gut and a jawline that at least had some definition even in the dark, I was able to entice – if entice is the right word – quite a few men into the toilet where I would look them up and down, walk around them, and declare either yea or nay. Mostly nay. I enjoyed seeing their crestfallen faces as these men, mostly fat middle-aged types let’s not forget, were denied my obvious charms and pleasures. And to those to whom I said yea I took it only as far as suggesting they go into the cubicle and wait for me. Which is where they waited until realising I’d gone on my way. Or been arrested.

For using the phrase ‘yea or nay’ I should be arrested. Really.


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