Right from the Start, I approved of You…
 (Continued from Yestderday’s post)….
He was standing in a shadowy corner, and scanning the dancefloor. I didn’t have my glasses on
(there weren’t many spectacle-wearing gay role models; this was before they discovered that Clark Kent was a big ‘mo), so I shuffled a little closer.
And squinted. He looked OK. He was young. He was dancing. And most importantly – he was alone.
He saw me squinting, and thought – well, I’m not sure what he thought, but he didn’t run when I walked up and shouted “Have you got the time?â€He stopped mouthing the words to Vogue – Greta Garbo and Monroe, Dietrich and Dimaggio – long enough to look me up and down. I shuffled uneasily on the balls of my feet. It was meant to look like a cool, confident, relaxed boogie along to the hip tunes. It probably looked like early onset Alzheimers.
“Got the time?†I roared again, closer to his ear, a little spit flying out on the ‘T’ in ‘time’. You’ve just gobbed on him, said my internal monologue. Not more than thirty seconds into the chatup, and you’ve spat at him. Now, I know that there are certain establishments where that sort of behaviour passes for courtship ritual, but Bang at Busby’s wasn’t one of them. I got away with it. He had the time, and gave it to me, glancing pointedly at the wristwatch on my arm. I was ready to lie that without my glasses I couldn’t read the watchface, but thankfully, he didn’t push it.“Cheers,†I said. Hardly Dorian Grey, but it was a start.The music changed I’ve got the Pow-ah! Exclaimed the sort of woman you wouldn’t mess with, while the drum track kicked in.
He turned his face away, back to the dancefloor.Shit, I’ve lost him, I thought, the panic rising. Got to do something before he figured I was just too creepy, and moved off. Got to say something – anything – to keep him talking. If I was ever going to learn to be a rough tough find ‘em f*ck ‘em and flee type of ‘mo.
Keep calm. Calm? I could barely keep my flatulence in check, so nervous was I: You see, I’d always been the one who got picked and dumped, never the one who did the picking and dumping. Suddenly, the prey was the hunter, and it came to me in a flash: You’re totally crap at this. You suck, and not in the way you’d like to!
And meanwhile the powerful singer’s equally loud partner in crime was informing anyone who cared to know that it was Gettin’ gettin’ gettin’ kind of heavy. No shit, Sherlock.
Say something. Anything! What? It doesn’t matter; just keep him talking, or he’ll go!
“D’you want a drink?â€
And, from the direction of Pere Lachaise cemetery, the corpse of Oscar Wilde could be heard scraping as it rotated 360 in it’s box.
It wasn’t the most glitteringly witty phrase I’d ever uttered – stick around here, and one day I’ll prove that to you – but it worked.
He had a Holsten Pilsner – that was his drink in those days.
I went to the bar, convinced he’d have done a runner by the time I got back. After all, it’s not every day that you’re the subject of an attempted seduction by someone with Oscar Wilde’s hair, Dennis Nielsen’s gift for internal monologues, and Deleriums Tremens that would make Dylan Thomas proud.
But he was still there when I got back. I passed him his drink, and gave him my name. He gave me his. We shook hands very formally, and then, having smiled briefly, turned our attentions back to the dancefloor, where New Orders World in Motion had kicked in. John Barnes advised us that
You’ve got to hold and give
But do it at the right time
You can be slow or fast
But you must get to the line
They’ll always hit you and hurt you
Defend and attack
There’s only one way to beat them
Get round the back
We caught each other, word pefect, miming the lines, and we both smiled. Less shyly this time, and, enjoying the ridiculousness of the song, the release of the moment, we started chatting. Right now, I can’t remember what we talked about. What d’you do? Where you from? Where d’you live? That sort of thing, probably. And all the time, I’m thinking don’t look desperate. Play it cool. Don’t scare him away.
We danced. We looked at each other, and realised that we were both singing the same Yazoo song – Don’t Go – word perfectly again. We were born for pop stardom if our miming abilities were anything to go by. That or a career in drag: Claudia Bottom and Irma Phrodite. We smiled at each other, less shyly each time, and I knew then and there that I was doomed: I’d never break his heart. I’d never be a find ‘em f*ck e‘m and flee type of ‘mo.
And it felt wonderful.
more to come
 Thirty One Days To Go…   Â
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