Tuesday 25th November – Woke up to the startling, but not unpleasant, sight of a semi-naked German man squatting by my bunk and rummaging through his underwear.
This put me in a good mood for the rest of the day, despite the pounding drink-induced headache that came from one of my eyeballs. Perhaps sharing our room isn’t so bad after all?
I’ve been ‘chatting’ to our new German roomies, with the aid of hand-gestures and a phrase book, and you know what? They’re not actually that different to normal people. They don’t know much English but I know even less German so I can’t moan. The only phrase I can remember from school is “shnell schnell kartoffelkopf” which apparently means ‘quick quick potato head’ so fuck knows what my teacher was on.
If I can wake the girls, I’m gonna try and persuade them to join me on a trip back to St Kilda today. I really want a tan! The only thing whiter than me in this country are the Calvin Kleins currently housing that German fella’s ample frankfurter. Besides, I’m tired of people ‘accidentally’ mistaking me for an albino. It was even discussed at last night’s ‘comedy’ show, and you don’t want the spotlight aimed at you at the best of times, but it’s worse when the ‘comedian’ gets the whole room to howl at your face because it looks like a full moon. It was excruciating.
“I’ve heard it all before,” I smiled sweetly, whilst dying a little inside.
11pm
I’ve just SKYPED the dog. Mum had text me to say he wouldn’t stop barking and she was threatening to cut his nuts off to ‘calm him down’. Calm him down! If someone cut my nuts off I’d be flipping fuming! It was a weird five minute call, like looking at my old life through a window, but that short burst of it was more than enough. I’m sure he’s fine and she’s just looking for ways to guilt me home, but I only got to see his tail anyway as he spent the whole time looking for me behind the computer.
Today was mostly spent on the beach and it was pretty uneventfully. I’m happy to report my flashing white skin didn’t prove a distraction for nearby surfers, my moon-face didn’t cock up the tides and no do-gooders attempted to spoon me back into the sea believing me to be a stranded whale. So, all good. Still no tan though.
This evening, after a few cheeky voddies for courage, I asked Hamish if he wanted to go out for dinner. He agreed, but only on the understanding that it wasn’t a date.
“Yeah, obviously,” I told him, laughing.
I admit I had hoped a slap-up meal might lead to some slap and tickle in return, but not a chance. He’d looked so uncomfortable just being seen alone with me in public that I ended up feeling a bit creepy, and when the waiter lit the ‘romantic’ candle he was so quick to blow it out that he knocked over his shandy. He managed to tell five complete strangers that there was “nothing go-go-going on between us” before we’d even g-g-got to the dessert, and it was insulting! I don’t want to push him into something he isn’t ready for or anything, but where’s the harm in a bit of inappropriate touching between friends? He had no problems with me paying for everything though, nor did he have any issues skipping straight back to Irish Karen the minute we got back, the little p-p-prick-tease.
I don’t know why I’m even bothering. Why go through the motions of romantic dinners and deep and meaningful conversations when I don’t even want a relationship anyway? Not here, not now, and definitely not with someone who has more issues than I do. I could be getting up to anything this far from home. I should be out there grinding against total strangers and sowing my wild oats or something. Or, as Rachel says, “bumping uglies with other dirty bumders”. But instead I’ve fixated on making the vicar’s virgin son my new boyfriend. Only me!
I have spotted another Gay in the hostel recently, and this one’s a definite raver. No Gaydar needed, just eyes and ears. He’s the type that farts rainbows or shits glitter or something. Unfortunately, he’s far too cute to approach. It’s hard enough making small talk with a Straight stranger, but it’s impossible to say hi to a homo when there’s all that extra judgement flying about. At least I’m safe with Hamish. How can he judge me on looks when he’s no sex bomb himself? And if we ever did get jiggy, at least he’d have no one to compare me to. I bet this new guy would. He looks like a right tramp.
I’d pointed him out to Bev earlier.
“See him? He’s definitely on my team.”
She’d turned so quick to stare that one of her hooped earrings had flown off like a frisbee.
“How do you KNOW that?” She had stamped her foot in frustration. “I keep getting it wrong!”
Turns out the guy she snogged last night had ended up going home with the barman, even though he’d ‘looked like a proper man and everything’.
“It’s just my Gaydar.”
“Gaydar? Is that an App? Can I get it on my phone?”
She wasn’t even joking.
“No! It’s just a feeling I get. An instinct.”
How can a Gay possibly explain Gaydar to a non-Gay?
“It’s body language, I guess. I must be subconsciously picking up on a million little gestures, the swing of an arm, the arch of an eyebrow, the pout of a lip…”
She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.
“Are you spouting bollocks?”
“No! It could be something as subtle as eye contact, or as obvious as a flamboyant hairstyle or outfit. Or, as is the case with the twink over there, he could just be wearing a skin-tight vest-top with the words ‘I Love Boys Who Love Boys’ on it.”
I pointed at him again and Bev noticed that his sexuality was actually written right there on his chest in bright pink letters.
“They’re usually harder to spot than that,” I’d laughed. “The lines between straight and gay have got increasingly blurry since The Rise of the Metrosexual.”
“The Rise of..?” Bev looked confused. “Was that the film that came out after Star Wars?”
It’s the sudden influx of meterosexuals that I blame for fucking up my Gaydar, actually. That and its lack of use. It used to be that a well plucked eyebrow or manicured nail could only mean one thing on a fella, but now man-scara, guy-liner and all those Beauty Products For Blokes have clouded the issue. Get it wrong and you could be facing an angry but well-groomed straight man.
“Approaching a gay guy with any certainty is a whole lot riskier than it was when I was last single,” I told Bev, wistfully. “Unless you meet up via the internet, of course, but some of us want a little more than a quick bit of cock and bum sex.”
“Snob,” Bev laughed.
“Besides, on-line profiles are not for me. They’d skip straight past my photo. I need a bit more time so that they can get used to my face. Time to show off my fabulous charm and wit. Maybe time to get some booze in me to raise my confidence and in them to lower their standards.” I smiled, but I felt a bit sad. “I can’t do all that online.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment.
“So, let me get this straight. I mean gay. You know what I mean. You’re saying that you want to meet a guy you can be sure is also a ‘player of the pink flute’, that you want to be able to show him how amazing you are, and that you wouldn’t be so scared if you were a tad drunk first?”
“Yup! And what are the chances of all that happening at once, eh?”
“Oh, sweetie.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Quite high, if you think about it.”
I stared at her, confused. She never knew something I didn’t.
“Why haven’t we been to any gay bars yet, Kev?”
I swallowed nervously. Oh. That.
Because I’m too fucking terrified, love. That’s why.
