Went to an exceedingly showbiz party last night, which was a great success in that I only elbowed the upcoming controller of BBC1 in the face the once. Sadly they weren't serving Green Wing Cocktails, but it can't all be about us. Sometimes you have to sit back and let the little people have their moment.
I did, however, indulge in a certain amount of SexyDancing with an unknown lady, who had frankly made her intentions clear from my arrival. Sometimes I forget the simple ways of Londoners, and make undue use of my sophisticated country charm to dazzle and confuse them, which is obviously unfair of me and very poor form. Although possibly she had picked up on the weird anti-glamour of me being without any doubt the poorest man in the room. Anyway, she acertained that GW Richard's girlfriend Laura wasn't my girlfriend and inquired into my marriage status. I warily informed her that I was single, and ran away, only to encounter her accidentally on the dance floor. At which point she started SexyDancing me, so I thought 'right, you sod' and started SexyDancing back.
The thing is, being a tall man comprised principally of feet, elbows and knees, I have to navigate a crowded party in the style of a giraffe tiptoeing through a pride of sleeping lions. And as you can tell from the BBC1 controller incident, this isn't always successful. Even when I haven't injured a) important executives and b) my career prospects, I usually make it to the far end of one of these parties with unconscious posh girls draped over my elbows like a maitre d' at a particularly odd restaurant.
But ah, when the dancing begins...
Okay, I'm not that good. But I can SexyDance like a good 'un, and last night I went too far. I was expecting nuns to be bussed in, purely so they could faint amusingly, or cover the eyes of small children who definitely shouldn't have been there. And then Blue Monday stopped, and the crazy lustful frenzy abated somewhat, and I realized that a) I had frankly taken advantage of a simple city girl, whose publishing baron father would now accept nothing less than seeing the two of us married within the week and b) I had to run to get my last tube.
So I ran away (again), only the annoying bit is, I went to give her a quick (and frankly rather chaste) kiss on the cheek before I left and she squirmed away (bear in mind she's been rubbing her arse against me for at least two songs). Obviously I thought she had perhaps slipped on a vol-au-vent, or something nasty left behind by Angus Deayton, so I tried again, and she recoiled once more. Other than shouting 'bloody hell woman, I'm not trying to tongue you', I wasn't sure what to do, so I left.*
Probably all for the best. Anyway, never SexyDance in anger, that's my tip. I'm heading back to Cornwall tomorrow, where I shall recline in a bejewelled chaise-longue in one of the many glittering salons and wow the courtiers with tales of the mysterious ways of the natives here in London Village. But I thought I'd better write it down first before I forgot.
*The bells of London Church were tolling midnight as I left, and in my haste one of my trainers fell off. Still, I'm sure that won't lead to anything.
21 comments:
Dude, you pulled (nearly) a London Laydee! Congrats!
I totally have to see you SexyDance (from a safe distance). I have yet to see a bloke SexyDance without him inducing hilarity in all those in the nearby vicinity, but I would be happy, nay delighted, to be proved that there is a master of the art somewhere.
once had a boyfriend who dislocated his knee dancing to voodoo child by jimmy hendrix. really loved him.
hmmmmmmmmmm.
Licking would have worked.
Well I wasn't trying to pull her. I was trying to disengage politely without making a scene. But I may as well have tried to lick her, quite frankly. However, I am saving up that treat for the Right Person, when she finally appears, in a blinding flash of light, with Rufus playing something appropriate in the background (trousers on, please Roof).
Gosh, and I thought men were confusing. Sounds like a lucky escape - better it happened in London Town. You can't get away with anything in Falmouth these days (I should know)
*laughs*
In a blinding flash of light- you hopeless romantic! A bit of Rufus and a cornish accent, how could she refuse!
I DIDN'T WANT HER TO KISS ME.
Maybe I should have headlined it 'Man comfused by apparently contradictory social transactions, goes home.'
a) she started it, and b) it was a thanks-for-dance-but-I-have-to-go-now peck-on-cheek. Or it was meant to be.
This is like Open Source Dating.
Or Open Source therapy. Maybe she thought you were a gay?
No camera could withstand the sight of my SexyDancing. Its lenses would fog, and its shutter defocus, and its battery probably go 'pzap'. Or something. And possibly she thought I was an gay, but she'd exerted a lot of resouces in the other direction. Sometimes it's easier to pretend I am an gay just to get home safely, but on this occasion my ire was... whatever happens to ire.
She's probably sworn off all other men now, until she discerns the identity of the mysterious SexyDancing stranger. Well it's too late. I'm back in Cornwall now. She should have just treated me nicely, instead of like some kind of sexy object.
Quite understandable though.
I have another theory on SexyDance lady, I think she may have been using you as a method of jealousy arousal in someone else there tonight in a "Look this man wants to SexyDance with me so nerrr ner" type way. The bottom rubbing thing may have been an excuse to scope the room and check out said hypothetical persons reaction.
I say this because I wouldn't SexyDance using my bottom with a man I believed to be straight and didn't know from adam without very good reason. In fact I've only SexyDanced using my bottom with a man when I was a semi-pro fag hag at the turn of the century, since then its only been used in that manner with female friends.
Now that's an excellent point, and one I hadn't considered. Hmm.
Also really like the phrase 'semi-pro fag hag'.
I've been looking for a phrase to describe one of my roles in life, and 'semi-pro fag hag' is spot on, for those times when I'm not being a domestic goddess or earth mother.
In fact, I don't just love lots of gay male friends, I seem to have some magic power to transform heterosexual men into homosexuals. It's happened to 2 of my boyfriends. Rubbish for your self-esteem but excellent for birthday presents and chat about bed-linen.
And isn't it amazing how this post has a such a strong life-force. It's because it's about romance and kissing.
From the distorted confinement of our goldfish bowl we're beginning to find each other strangely attractive.
It is difficlt to sexy dance when your a fish, due to not having any bottom (to speak of). However there is good music played here sometimes by that beautiful blonde who feeds us. We are also now relationship experts having been forced to listen to the drunken twitterings of those five.
Having given up sexy dancing, we generally stick to playing kisschase and grabass. Though sometimes Mr Solice takes it all a bit too seriously.
Oh my god, I knew you guys were up to something. Buying goldfish food from www.sexydancingfish.com was a bad idea.
How can you play grabass if neither of you has a bottom?
Well thats what girls with enquiring minds are for, working out the possibilities for deviousness in any given situation.
Thank you I appreciate the compliment upon my turn of phrase. I was very, very good but didn't want to turn pro and destroy the fun that comes with high level amateur fag-hagging. Sadly all I do these days is feed and make pink drinks for lesbians. Thats York for you tho.
grabass it some what challenging with out an ass, but hey, we're goldfish we tend to forget these things.
me thinks you need a bernard black-style girlfriend-for-the-summer? Falmouth is a hotbed of non-perspiring washing-hair-in-mountain-streams kind of girls who could cure your square square heart.
I'e checked, and it bloody isn't. I want my money back.
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