12 October 2012


So anyway, I met this Construction Worker out the other night.

I know, it's kinda hot. Emphasis on the kinda.

I know there's a Village People reference in here somewhere, but I didn't actually think there *were* gay construction workers! I thought it was some sort of hard hat wearing, big tool slinging tradesman fetish reserved for grainy 80s VHS porno. No, there are actually men who identify as gay who are construction workers. Where's their parade?

I wonder if it's like, a construction company that only hire gay guys? Can you imagine them breaking for lunch and cat calling hot guys as they walked past? Not so much fun when the shoe is on the other foot, is it? But it is shoe I have been itching to get my toe into for years. I would be doing laps of that street.

Just gotta pop out to post a letter guys, just gotta get to the bank before it closes guys, does anybody want any lunch, I'm happy to go again if you need? I need a starbucks.

So, after a few getting to know you moments, I realise he is Australian. Yay. Although I did come all the way across to the other side of the world from Australia to live in London, it is comforting to know that  if I do fall in love with someone and ever want to go home, the transition back into Australian life is not going to be so jarring because they have spent most of their lives there and I am sure, ultimately, want to end up there.

That aside, he was such an Aussie fuck-knuckle.

We had a pash on the dance floor pre-fuck-knuckle realisation and ended up back at his place feeding each other popcorn chicken in bed.

And then he fed me something else.

All was fine until the morning, when it dawned upon me how much of a bloke he was. I know that can be hot sometimes, but if you had to use his bathroom you would be whistling a different tune. His idea of cleaning was to piss the skid marks off the toilet bowl and believe me, he wasn't doing a very good job. You could have built another person out of the DNA spread throughout that en suite. Perhaps he could build a cleaner.

We went out for breakfast after I convinced him not to cook in the kitchen that looked like it still had remnants of a dinner cooked circa 2009 strewn across it. Then I realised breakfast was probably going to be him throwing me a can of beer because in his words the best cure for a hangover was to "stay drunk".

So we went for breakfast. True to form, he had a beer. I had a juice. I thought, I can make this work, he seems nice enough, after all he is Australian, I know how this works. Then I am pretty sure he farted. In fact I am quite sure he did because he lifted one cheek off the stool he was sitting on as an audible noise that could only be gas being passed was omitted.

I sat horrified.

When the food came he ate like he was guarding the plate from an attack. I don't think I have ever seen anyone eat so aggressively, like he was punishing the food.

Again, I sat horrified.

Unfortunately I had no plans to run off to and he knew that because I had stupidly told him the night before I had no plans to run off to.

Then he asked if I wanted a beer because he was "gonna get back on it". I thought he already had. I gave in. Trying to dull my senses with booze. After two pints it was not becoming any less painful, so I decided to feign stomach pains and a hangover worse than I already had.

As I sat clutching my faux cramps, he said something I don't think I will ever forget.

"You need an arse spew."

Again, sitting horrified.

"Will you hold my hair back?" was what I wanted to say, but all I could say was, "I have to go now."

1 comment:

  1. Oh........my............fucking...........G!


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