the twilight world of the suburban homosexual
So the boys and girls in tje office were huddled together yesterday. It was Raquel’s birthday, and plans were afoot.
Finally, a sheepish Raquel approaches me and asks if she can have a word in private. We retire to
“Um, Derek,” she says, “We’re all going out tonight. To Pause Bar.” This last said with the sort of emphasis I might use for, say Paradise Garage. If PG still existed, and I was honoured enough to be going to it. “And we wondered if you - but just you - wanted to come along.”
I was honoured. The last additon - the ‘but just you’ - was their way of saying ‘Not the rest of the management. But you can come. We like you.’
I had to decline. “I’ve got people coming around tomorrow,” I explained, “For the Eurovision” this last said with the sort of emphasis young Raquel might use for, say, Pause Bar. “And I need to get some stuff done tonight.”
The honest response seemed to gain me some more ’spect points. “That’s what we love about you,” Lavinia - heiress to a huge crumbling pile in the middle of Northumberland; or, as she likes to call it “Prime redevelopment prospects in the arsehole of nowhere when the mater’s liver finally gives up the ghost - said, her voice thick with the afternoons six Marlboro’s “You’re not afraid to be naff, are you?”
Charming.
So, as the kids trotted off to their hot club, filled with music and prowling, sex-hunting pretty young straights, D and I went to Tesco in Gatwick.
Oh. My. Word. Not one male/female couple. So much testerone in the air, the eggs in the egg aisle started hatching.
Cruising of the type rarely seen outside of a gay sauna. And the boy with the tribal tattoo, the cutoff vest and the biggest guns this side of HMS Belfast. And the pint of milk, who cruised me for all he was worth, till D loudly asked “Is he shoplifting?”
I resisted the urge to reply “Not shoplifting, dear.”
Honestly, the only thing missing was a disco beat.
Next week, I’m so bringing my iPod.