Bollocks to fate; anyone with half a brain knows that everything – including matters of the heart and associated organs – comes down to luck. Sometimes things work out for the best (or worst) just because you’re in the right place at the right time.
Usually I’m in the wrong place in the wrong time. Here’s an (inexhaustible) list of the ones that got away.
Fit David was the only bloke at my artistic roller skating club and I was completely infatuated with him. He was fit even when he tore his groin this one time trying to do an arabesque and had to take two weeks off. Unfortunately, my best friend Hannah also really fancied him, which was sad for me as she was leggy and blonde and nine months older, which counts for a lot when you are twelve. I was completely heartbroken when he asked her out, but love’s young dream is often fleeting and they broke up within two weeks, much to my secret delight. Alas, I still had three tyres and more chins than a Chinese phone book so I didn’t even get sloppy seconds, but if I couldn’t have him I was at least happy that nobody else did either.
Fit David is now bald as a cucumber and, as far as I can tell from my extremely well-developed Facebook stalking skills, one of the most boring bastards alive. So actually this one was probably for the best.
I usually cycle to work, but if I have somewhere to go afterwards I take the bus. Sometimes a man I like to call Bus Bateman gets on and graces us all with his sexy presence. There is no doubt that Bus Bateman gets dressed next to a framed photograph of Christian Bale from American Psycho, who is surely the finest example of a man there ever was. Bus Bateman even rocks the hair – chestnut brown and slicked back. He wears well-cut wool suits with shiny shoes and once, on one glorious summer’s day, a skinny tweed tie. I know Bus Bateman is my kind of guy because he does nothing to hide his disgust when people get on the bus in jogging bottoms.
Nothing will ever happen with BB because I am 95% sure he is gay. Not to be unfair to straight dudes, but it’s rare that someone as well-dressed as him likes to fuck women. Also, one time he sat in front of me and I sort of leaned forward a bit to see if he smelled of Paul Sebastian for Men, which is what Patrick Bateman wears in the book. Sadly, his attention to detail was not as good as I had thought; not only had he neglected the all-important cologne factor, but he was also browsing Grindr on his Blackberry. Which obviously the real Bateman would never do.
Fit Harry is a client of mine at work. He has this George Lamb silver fox thing going on and one of those really deep, reassuring voices that are incredibly sexy. Unfortunately he has no business going around with a deep and reassuring voice because he actually turned out to be woefully incompetent and a real pain in the arse to work with because of his chronic uselessness. He also had this infuriating habit of dropping his girlfriend into the conversation at every opportunity, which annoyed me as it is a) unprofessional and b) shattered my elaborate fantasies of getting off with him in the office toilets. For instance, we’d be in the middle of
gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes a conversation about work and he’d suddenly stop and pluck a strand of long, black hair from his immaculate black T-shirt saying, “Oh, I’ve got hair on me. It must be my girlfriend’s. My girlfriend has such long hair, it gets everywhere.” True story, this was actually in a meeting with four other people and nobody knew whether to laugh or not. It was weird.
I met El Beardo at a party in a bar in Brixton. He was absolutely not my type – bearded and built like a brick shithouse – but absolutely hilarious. Sort of like James Corden. Also he was wearing braces (the good kind), which is always a trump card in my book. We got on like a house on fire but unfortunately I did my idiot drunken homing pigeon routine and ran off before I had a chance to get his number.
I was recently at a club in Covent Garden and decided to leave at around 3am because I’d lost everyone except the friend of a friend who was trying his best to put his hand down my trousers. It wasn’t happening though. This was because he
a) was shorter than me and
b) had regaled us at pre-drinks with the story of how his ex-girlfriend once blanked him for a week because he fingered her arsehole and wiped the run-off on her own wall. His words, not mine.
Anyway, I went to get my coat from the cloakroom but had lost my ticket. In an incredible and unusual feat of recall, I remembered the number and managed to convince an attendant to look for it without the hard copy. I told her it was a black leather jacket with a quilted collar, and it had a set of keys and a spare phone battery in the pocket. She went off to see what she could find and a crinkly-eyed blonde who looked a bit like Neil Patrick Harris struck up a conversation. How often do you find someone who isn’t a lunatic or off their dick with drink at 3am? Never. Crinkles was a rare gem.
Five minutes later, the attendant came back with my jacket. “That’s the one!” I said, relieved, as she opened a pocket to check that the contents matched my description. Unfortunately, I’d completely forgotten about the pair of emergency pants stashed in there. Only sensible, really, in case you have to crash unexpectedly at someone’s house or get so drunk you accidentally piss yourself (it hasn’t happened yet but it is one of my greatest fears), but Crinkle-eyes looked so appalled I decided there was no coming back from that and called it a night.
The Greatest Mystery of All Time
GMOAT is a man I met at university who seemed really into me up until the point that he actually had to do something about it. We met when I worked in a bar and he gave me his number on a scrap of paper along with the quid for his bottle of Heineken. At the time I thought it was one of the most romantic things that had ever happened to me. (When we were twenty we considered the pinnacle of chivalry to be when a bloke ties off a condom so you don’t get spunk all over your waste paper basket, so this was definitely something to get excited about.)
For years after we graduated he’d sporadically pop up on Facebook and suggest we go for a drink, but nothing ever panned out. It was so fucking weird I was sure he was a homosexual in denial. It was like he kept running into the great foaming sea of gash with rip-roaring enthusiasm and then changing his mind and running away as soon as he got his toes wet.
One night we both happened to be out in Soho at the same time and I ended up going back to his along with his friend Jules, who was staying over and allegedly flew helicopters for a living. I assumed it was On until we got there and GMOAT disappeared for about an hour to buy Lucozade at 4am. On reflection they were probably on drugs. When GMOAT came back he suggested a devil’s three-way and I ran off to sleep in a spare bedroom while he and Helicopter Jules snuggled up in the next room. Obviously I was furious but also consumed with Smug because I was right about GMOAT being gay all along.
I can’t be the only one as unlucky as this. Have you had any escapees?
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