Needing to let my hair down after recent let-downs in the boy department I decided to go on a night out with one of my long-time friends, David.
We grabbed a spot of dinner and updated each other on recent conquests, who we had our eye on currently and the ones who got away. It’s become quite a tradition for the two of us, in this small gay world, to have ‘friends’ in common. It’s become bit of a long-running joke. However, for the first time in a while all my interests were exclusively mine. We raised a toast and proceeded to a mutual friend’s gig in Soho.
Spurred on by too many two-for-one mojitos and attempting to chat up three quarters of an X Factor boy band, we were clearly in a mischievous mood, so decided to head to a local club so see what other havoc we could cause. If I’m honest my memory of what happened next is vague.
I have flash backs of pink and purple lights and trying to out-dance Rihanna. Not cool. I also remember chatting to a tall, bored, dark haired man with incredible biceps and a deep Mancunian accent. He was a squaddie out on a gay weekend with friends. JACKPOT. After a lot of attempted dancing, David headed home to recover ahead of his audition the following day and left me in the capable hands of my very own soldier boy.
Not long later, I slurred ‘fancy getting out of here?’ and off we popped. A very gropey taxi ride later we were back at mine. And I’m afraid to say at that point I blacked out – I’m unable to tell the rest of the story.
I regained consciousness the following morning to find someone lying in the bed next to me. I didn’t remember having gone to a club or chatting anyone up, let alone bringing someone home – nor his name, or where we’d left our clothes.
I crept out of bed to search the house and gathered our clothes, which felt like the hardest mental and physical Crystal Maze challenge, and proceeded to wake up ‘Soldier Boy’ as he has now been coined. A muscular guy, he was covered in cliché tattoos (union jack, British bulldog, knife through a heart and, erm, a merry-go-round horse(!)). But what I failed to notice in my inebriated state was that he was also ginger – and a bit of a chav. I handed him back his Reebok trainers and Ben Sherman shirt and left the room while he got changed.
After an awkward good bye in the hall way I returned to my room and kicked aside the sweaty Playboy boxers he’d so kindly left behind on my bedroom floor as a souvenir. I began to tidy my room and noticed something on my desk. A pile of £20 notes. He had paid me. HE HAD PAID ME! I had accidentally become a prostitute!
I was both mortified and excited at the prospect of being paid for my services. I obviously rocked his world; I just wish I could remember doing it. I have no idea what I said or did to make him think I was up for hire. However on the plus side I’m £60 better off. Time to go shopping.