“I’ll be on the hot grind, like err’day” – Beyonce, Radio.
As fun as the assault course of dating is, sometimes (when you’re so hungover, you’re technically still drunk), it’s easier to cut to the chase:-
“There’s an App for that”.
As everybody in the gay community (and the WORLD) knows, you can get sex at the tap of a button. Thanks Apple. Discussing this recently, we got into a debate about what constitutes acceptable behaviour for a hook-up, and what constitutes that of a hooker. So one morning, going back around a year, in UNCONTROLLABLE heat (it must’ve been mating season), I decided to open the app, close my conscience, and channel my inner ‘Pretty Woman’.
And if you thought meeting up with a total stranger for sex was hooker-esque, try hopping into ones car off a street corner. I was literally a pair of fishnet tights and a night stand with a pile of cash away from being a prostitute. This must’ve been my alter ego, cos it certainly wasn’t me. It’s supposed to be “lady on the street”, not “lady of the night, on the street corner”.
So after getting in his car, after the awkward ‘are we still attracted to each other in the flesh’ moment, we chated for a bit as he drove around. Thank god he was my age, cos this SO would’ve been a ‘Is he driving to the woods to bury me?’, sort of moment if he was older. While driving I learn he’s an estate agent… or gets coffee for estate agents… wait… maybe he just worked next to an estate agents, whatever, his monotone was so not rocking my world. We proceed to a flat he’s supposed to be selling (or letting?) the next day…
No furniture. No carpet. No curtains. Allow being seen by Thora Hird next door, giving her a stroke while she’s out pruning her roses. Ain’t nothing gunna make you lose a hard-on like a senior citizen with a sloping face. (“Think F.A.S.T!”) Speaking of which, I definitely saw someone having a stroke in Harrods furry hat department this week. There I am in this season’s leopard print cup hat, with attached netted fascinator, and Old man Rivers is standing behind me with half his face melting. Honestly, his eyebrow was touching his cheek and lip was touching his shoulder. I thought either that mans face is made of wax or death has come for me!
Anyway, back to the flat so empty you couldn’t squeeze out a fart without it echoing and the walls trembling. We fooled around in the bathroom as it was the only room without a window – ironically? And afterwards in true prostitution style, I got out of the car on the street corner (naturally) and never looked back. Where are my thigh high boots, cos I think a sister earned them!
P.S. Apologies to Mr & Mrs Bennett (that moved in the following day) for that sticky patch of the bathroom floor.
P.P.S. If you encounter any twats on a la grind… Feel free to click HERE and name and shame them 🙂