Sunday, December 07, 2003

...I left G-A-Y with an Irish guy called Martin...

...and went for the worst shag of my life.

It turned out that this guy owned a 12.5% share in (and was head chef
at) a trendy bar on Little Portland Street which is allegedly
frequented by "the MTV crowd" (please bear in mind whilst I relate the
rest of his story that there is a point where I stop believing it - I
just haven#t decided where that point is, yet). He opened the door,
turned off the alarm, and declared that I#d have to be gone at 7am at
the latest as his boss/partner (from whom he had supposedly extracted
his stake after lending her some money which she couldn't pay back at
the time) was due in at 7:40 ready for opening time at 8am.

Without wishing to go into too much detail, we attempted to amuse ourselves in various parts of this place, including the kitchen (yum), across the
bar, on a table and in various seats. I use the word "attempted"
because endowed as he was with a one-and-three-quarter inch cock and a
bad attitude we didn#t really get anywhere.

I finally lost patience after about an hour of fucking (or not) about
and told him that he was shit and I was going. I then went to the
disabled toilet (grab bars are very handy when you're almost too
pissed to stand up) to clean myself up. By the time I got back the
(non) fucker had fallen asleep. I therefore took the opportunity to to
write a short note about my experience which I (think I) left behind the bar (-remember writing it, and can't find it now...), and cleared off with a couple of bottles of wine, which I have now drunk.