"If I can’t even look at a woman, how on earth am I going to actually talk to one?"
For my first Big Gay Night Out my mates take me to a bar in Soho. The night gets off to a bad start when the bouncer fixes my male friend with a steely gaze. “Five pounds,” she barks whilst waving me through. We descend into a grimy basement with black PVC chairs and a disco ball where women sit defensively in pairs, eyeing us like we’re a pack of cobras.
“Friendly bunch,” my friend murmurs, making a beeline for the bar.
We stock up on white wine and tequila and park at a table near the back, my friends ushering me into a spot near the wall which provides maximum lady ogling opportunities.
“Who do you fancy? Ooh, she’s fit!”
“Erm, I don’t know,” I mumble, glugging white wine and shooting a nervous glance around the room which merely establishes that yes, there are some women present in this room. If I can’t even look at a woman how on earth am I going to actually talk to one?
It turns out I don’t need to worry about talking to a woman because the tequila is more than happy to do the work for me.
“Whash your name…?” I slur at a startled blonde in Converse trainers and a beanie who mewls something back that I don’t hear.
“Thish plaishe ish a bit weird ishn’t it?” She nods before edging slowly backwards saying something about her friends.
I spot a pretty girl in a group and swagger over, sloshing white wine down my top. I haven’t even opened my mouth before her friends turn on me: “No!!!” they shout in unison. “She’s got a girlfriend!!” “I’m her girlfriend!” one of them yells. Bloody hell, alright. Is she mute?
The memories get a little hazy after that but somehow, miraculously, I obviously make a good impression on someone as I have my first kiss. I’ve imagined this moment so many times – the sky ablaze with stars, soft wine lips and warm hands blurring into one. Back in the club, my earnest partner plops her tongue in my mouth and waggles it vigorously. I try and respond with softer motions but nothing’s stopping the whirring jet propeller in my mouth.
“I just have to go to the bathroom,” I say, before grabbing my friends who are twerking drunkenly on the dancefloor in a sea of boob.
“We have to go!” I hiss. “I’ve been attacked!”
They usher me swiftly up the stairs and into the night air where I fill them in.
“You’ve popped your lesbian cherry!” my friend cackles. I’m not sure it was popped so much as stuck in a blender but deep down I can’t help feeling a flush of pleasure. I kissed a girl! And I liked it.
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