Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Monday, December 15, 2003

Sex For Breakfast, Sex For Tea

Just when one assumes you’ve shed all shag buddies, what I believe is the last has just crawled out of the woodwork. This is despite the almost ceremonious quitting of the more... racy websites available, the closure of several hotmail accounts and leaving my phone barren of numbers soon upon meeting the Wife. I thought I was free, but no. It appears this persistent little one has lain in wait, choosing to wait over two years before dropping me a line to ask me ‘how u doin?’ via text.

I did - briefly - hanker for the old days of meaningless sex in my fabulous royal bed when I received his slightly illiterate message (he wasn’t employed by me for his brain, lets say) until you weigh it all up. One argues that ‘why have cotton when you can have silk’, but in the case of these people, it’s more ‘why have nightly plastic disposable incontinence sheets when you can have a gorgeous Australian?’ Besides, I’m living it though Gertie anyway, who shed any vestige of moral high ground by having sex in a lift this weekend.

How very council.

Oh, he’s always maintained that he has the moral high ground: when confronted about this sort of thing, he always looks slightly taken aback and splutters that he listens to jazz and the World Service - like that covers everything. For one, he may be humming extracts from Berg’s ‘Wozzeck’ from his headphones in the middle of the night, but it’s normally in the rose bushes of Hyde Park attached to a Latvian. I, for one, would find it difficult to get the subtle nuances the arias with the gentleman tugging away down there with his mittened hands.

The second card he plays is that I once attained gentlemanly company when walking through Vancouver at 4am one morning with jet-lag, and ended up in an alley with this fellow. He’s just jealous as it was the alley that Sylvester McCoy got shot in during the 1996 Doctor Who TV Movie. Also, he somehow readily forgets that he too had a boy in an alley in the middle of the night, and was stopped by the police to boot. There have been many more: bushes, pub toilets, trains - the list goes on and on. He believes that he is somewhat purer by the belief that I did a lot of this first, and to some extent trained him to do it. But no - Gertie may be the follower in my footsteps in some respects, but he’s beating a whole new path through the bushes, and one I’ve never even dreamed of before. He’s most certainly Darth Vader to my Ben Kenobi. Oh, it was a long time ago he relinquished the moral high ground, and there’s certainly no way he’s going back up there, no matter how many lifts he rides.

His excuse for which? That the lift was that the blessed event was in was Art Deco.

Anyway. I’ve told this old shag to be off with himself, and after several semi-literate communications back about the various parts of my body he misses, he has finally got the message and gone off into the night. Besides, if the Wife does see sense and up and leave me, all I have to do to get my list back is hang around outside whatever Gents Gertie’s currently in and console whomever tearfully comes out of the cubicle, chased by the cheerful cry of “It’s not you, it’s me.” Or “I’ll call you. Really.” It’s often like the Normandy Landing when he’s been in there, truly.

How things have changed indeed, young Skywalker.

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