Slag Meeting (Desdemona and Arthur)

Friday night's are always run through with the anticipation of sex. Most people who go out have the intention of pulling. Even though they may have a boyfriend in a Marks and Spencer jumper waiting for their return. And those of us who harbour no such anticipation continue to assess the fuckability of each and every person we cross on our jolly out across London town.

And my Friday evening was divided into two clear slag events.

8.00pm: Was running awfully late for a meeting with Desdemona. Satsuma was the venue, and we were in the basement. The thing about Desdemona is that we can spend weeks apart and when we eventually meet it's as though we're meeting after the night before. We always have things to talk about. And of course, the conversation takes yet another step on the rung of my revolutionary ladder.

Now, the main point of discussion was an email I had received earlier that morning. It was in response to the advert I placed on Gumtree looking for a 'beautiful confident sexual mentor'. It went something like this:

"I'd love to talk to you about your search! I'm currently doing research for a sensitive Channel... Documentary about younger men seeking instruction from older, more experienced sexy women. Would it be possible to speak, or email? My number is ... And my name is... Thank you."

Who would have thought. As you can probably imagine I was quick in my response. Immediate almost. And later that afternoon I received a phone call. Of all the comments made, two struck me as interesting:

Can I just ask, are you really a virgin? I mean, I know there are some people who have a fantasy as coming across as a virgin, and if you're one of those them I'm really not interested'.

To which my response was

'Firstly, I AM a virgin though some people choose not to believe me as I am rather sex obsessed. I think about it all the time, in fact, I have a blog entirely based on my sexual musings (I wonder if they read the blog?) and secondly, how will you prove that I am in fact a virgin. If I had a man-hymen I would have masturbated it into extinction many many years ago.

So, we are meeting tomorrow afternoon. A posh cup of hot chocolate and perhaps even a slice of posh cake if the offers there. I couldn't appear on television. I really couldn't.

Right, so Desdemona thinks it'll be exciting and I'm totally inclined to agree. She also expressed a certain level of confusion over my latest slag adventure (the good looking Norwegian. Desdemona believes that I'm actually quite straight and am too desperate to paint over my sexual canvas with as many different colours as possible which is correct. But she also believes that I should find myself a 'nice' woman who'll give me all the sex and more. Experience is important to me. I have come to realise that having sex makes you sexy. 22 years it has taken me to reach this conclusion. If only I'd known sooner.

In contrast, Arthur, as we were dancing away in 'Shadow Lounge', (gay club and no pun intended, gas chamber) where I thought I was going to suffocate, said that he'd 'always known that I was gay'. Oh, how I hate that line! How can somebody know you're gay before you know it yourself? All he was saying was that he's always thought of me as camp. And therefore I must, like all other camp guys, be gay. I admit, many gay men are camp. But also, many straight men are camp. And many butch women are straight (just no fashion sense whatsoever). How can I know which sex I prefer until I've slept before. Arthur would argue against this notion I'm sure and suggest that it all boils down to a chemical feeling in the gut whenever you see somebody. But sometimes in life, a gut feeling isn't enough. And sometimes you have to give sex a chance, yourself a chance, the pussy a chance, the cock a chance. And chances are, you'll end up in greater confusion. but also, you may become demystified. And that's the stage that I'm at. Exploration before acceptance.

Back to the club. No room to move. It forces sex. And forced sex is never a good thing, no matter how up-for-it you might be. And to think all those big brother Z-list celebs were boogying down there. Ah, what an orgy of bitching that will have been.

10.30pm After a few cocktails I'm walking Desdemona back to the tube station. Arthur knows she is around and is supposed to be meeting us before she leaves. And, in the nick of time he does.

A background history is required. Sort of. Arthur would like to sleep with Desdemona. In fact, never grew tired of telling me this once she had left and we continued our Soho rampage. She's, and I quote, 'the only white girl I find attractive'. Which I believed (he has a thing for every other colour bar his own), had he not then introduced me to a Polish ex shag-ess who was also white and whom he tried desperately to re-pull. I have yet to discover whether anything has happened between them, though I would be totally unsurprised if something has. In her defence (though she doesn't know he has a girlfriend, so no defence is truly required), she makes a mean Daiquiri. And she can open beer bottles almost sado-masochistly. Yummy.

Arthur mentioned to me that he had a dream.
In the dream Desdemona was wearing one of his new Alexandar McQueen woolen jumper/jacket thingies (the technical term escapes me). And they were stood opposite each other. And they kissed twice, as the result of a pang of passion (the chemical gut feeling I mentioned earlier you understand). Long, passionate, all encompassing kisses I was told. And then he woke up with an erection. I must admit, he was much more flowery in his description, though flowery language is too much for me to muster this Sunday evening.

Desdemona and Arthur could have wild and wonderful sex with no strings. Nope, not even one. But I don't think she would. For fear of what it might be like. For fear of her self. For fear that she might jeopardize everything in her life, which at this moment, is so worth fighting for. It's only when faced with temptation of such an extreme level that the distinction between Desdemoma and Arthur becomes apparent. Whereas one would embrace the sexual urges the other, despite feeling those urges, will register them and push them far away. Which one of these methods is correct I have no idea. And for once, I'm left perplexed at the dismal confusion and failure of lust.

Sometimes when you want it the most, saying no is a self-sacrifice every one of us should make at one time in our lives.