We recently discussed the definition of gay karma, well now here’s a little story about the circle of life – on the Vauxhall scene anyway. So this week we took to the Vibe launch – as we are in full support of fierce R&B beats and a bit of slutty south exorcism. Maybe it was a change in the tide, or maybe it was the two days I’d been awake for on whatever powder was circulating the scene this week – but I’d had a sudden wave of confidence.

“I think I’m gonna go and talk to that guy over there…”
Either there were pigs flying over Westminster or a sister was pure buzzing.
“Go for it” encouraged my mate, Ryan. And that was all the push I needed (along with a mega-bump in the toilet) and I was off.

flirt

After the introductions were done, he asked me what I was on. OK, so clearly, that flawless exterior I thought I’d applied wasn’t covering up my steering wheel pupils.

Anyway, he said he “only wanted a bump”, but I talked him into buying a whole gram and said I could hook him up. Also knowing that would be the perfect opportunity to get him alone for a second…

punani

…Well, not quite like that, but cut to us bumping from his bag and fooling around in a cubicle. (Totally scarlet, but I was higher than Kate Moss in the 90s at a Michael Barrymore house party). Slinking off into toilets is not my style, but sometimes we do things we normally wouldn’t do. And those things tend to happen when you’ve been awake for a few days and your judgement has been dissolved in alloy cleaner. Meh, blame it on Vauxhall.

Five minutes of head from a stranger and a few heaped keys of mephedrone are exactly what the ego needs for a little more short-lived confidence. Once that was over, I sashayed out from the cubicle before he’d even done up his zipper and disappeared onto the dance floor. It might sound like I being an emotionless sket… actually, yeah, that’s about right.

Then later that evening, after more or less a whole night of ignoring each other, we finally brush paths again as he’s leaving a cubicle and I’m entering it. Cue the courtesy smile and nod (and hiding side of ones face with a palm).

victoria

As I entered the cubicle, what I noticed in the toilet bowl was shocking; it wasn’t a shit-smeared pan, nor was it a slimey used johnny – it was, in fact – the bag of meph that I’d sold him earlier, with no more bumps taken out of it than the ones we’d had.
Now, I can already picture you cringing at what you think is about to happen.

lionking

And you’re right. In went my hand to fish out the baggie. The baggie that he’d reluctantly spent £20 on, before dropping in the toilet. In my defence, the water was clear so there was no piss in it (or at least the healthiest kind if there was). And don’t think when I pulled it out with whatever bodily fluids where dripping off the it, that I held it up to the flickering lights in some glorified moment of happiness like Rafiki did to Simba, I just dried it off with paper towel, and tucked the it into my pocket.

As I’m standing at the sink, washing my hands like some kind of hyped up skank that just waded through shit for a little bit of drugs – wait…? Anyway, in he power walks, erratically scanning the floor. Did I ask him what he was looking for? No, I knew what he was looking for. Did I say anything? Absolutely not. That’s the circle of Vauxhall life, darling.
*Powders cheeks and leaves*

Other posts you might like:
>> The Definition Of (Gay) Karma
>> The Definition of Fame Karma
>> The Hardship of Being Famous and Gay