The Cannibal Straight Out the Closet…

…One Sam was harmed during the research for this…

Hello dear readers! I know I promised a mid-week footnotes to my last post, I’m sorry…ish. As much as I want to be sipping downing gin and analysing my love life all night, I have to go out and make a love life to tear apart first. Now that the weekly apology is over let’s get to business, who did I screw over this time?

It’s been an odd end to January for me. Apart than the usual advances from cretinous old men, which were as well received as the Immigration Ban (whoops I got political) its been quiet on the man front (quiet here meaning: I woke up naked in a man’s bed like a narcoleptic prostitute). This is because I’ve suddenly entered a strong union with my phone, I’m messaging a guy who’s completely unavailable and therefore the sole object of my desires. Show me a sane available man and I will find a fault with him, one glimpse of a hairy toe and they’ll be dead to me, my dogs and my dog’s puppies (I refuse to have kids). If you bring me a broken emotional shipwreck of a man, I’ll turn into James Cameron trying raise the Titanic, current boyfriend be damned.

Rose who?


I’m starting to wonder why I’m drawn to terrible men like moth to a flame fuelled by insecurities. I thought it might be because I’m scared of rejection, but after three men crying during sex I think I’ve crossed that depressing bridge. I just like a challenge,  I’m the Edmund Hillary of dating and poor judgement is my Tenzing Norgay (that culture reference is so out of date it’s cool again). My petulant complaints about a situation I put myself in aside, I do like this guy more than usual so I fully intend on Anne Boleyn-ing his relationship.

Top Tip #54: Learn from history, if Henry can have six wives you can treat yourself with two tinder dates this week.

Other than my long-term plan to set someone else’s relationship aflame (wow that sounds bad out loud), I did meet a new man this week. My night started off as innocently as possible, I went out for dinner with my mother. Other than Mrs Sam’s staggering ability to turn wine into hangovers, I usually enter a taxi clasped in the warm embrace of fried chicken and a vodka jacket. When I got to the restaurant I immediately knew I was in for a rough night, there were two G&T’s waiting for me… My mum is ‘feisty’.  Sadly on the table adjacent were the children I had just finished hosting a party for, and yes I do children’s parties, let that sink in. This meant that for the first hour I had to pretend that smoking was for fires, Gin was a friend from the country and the last time I handled a cock was at a petting zoo (I touched a chicken too *wink*… sorry, one bad joke per post guys).

Me, always…


We ended up in a very straight bar where the live band was playing Bony M to a barely live audience. I’m not over exaggerating when I say that the average age was probably the same as a normal person’s I.Q, hell a Harvard student’s I.Q… I begun orchestrating a  Liver V.S. Tequila death match when I bumped into a friend who used to work with me, we’ll call him Andrew.

Andrew was out with some friends and invited me to join his table outside. Not one to avoid fresh air with a side of cigarette smoke, I went over. Sat at Andrews’s table was a mixed bag of awkward straight guys but only one is important to the story, Brad. He was about my age? I’m slightly hazy on the details, at this point my bloodstream had become the biggest European distributor of Jose Cuervo tequila (sponsor me!). I do remember him being my height, white and incredibly geeky. Brad’s fringe was still close friends with his chin where some awkward white-guy hair struggled to grow… My perfect man. No matter where I sat, everyone else would part like the red sea so that me and Brad were as close a physically possible. My set-up senses we’re tingling but as far as I knew Andrew and his little crew were all straight, like Jonah Hill in a serious role, something felt wrong.

It’s like watching a monkey do taxes…


After this puppeteered game of cat and mouse Andrew finally explained why Brad and I were being kettled together, he had recently come out to his friends. It’s lovely that they are supporting his debut (I don’t think that word is appropriate) but it’s not like you can stick two gay guys together and hope they bond, we’re not like Lego guys. I also resent how suddenly I’m been offered up as a welcome hamper to the community!

“Just come out have you? Oh we’ll send over Sam. He’s young, there’s some fresh fruit in there along with some obligatory glitter. Just give him some tequila and put the flowers in fresh water…”

Should I be insulted? On one hand maybe they think I’m a nice guy who’ll show him a fun evening, maybe some light flirting. It could also mean that Andrew thinks I’m easy and will give this newly minted coin a slot to go into…

Top Tip #276: Don’t be picky, let your friends send insecure newbies to you.

The question of whether I’m Saint Peter or the patron saint of pity fucks is moot anyway, Brad had a fun night (if you need a clue, the closest I’ve been to Heaven is the club in London). We went to a bar nearby where instead of pensioners the bulk clientele were druggies, both are slow and confused but the oldies don’t hog the cubicles (sorry about those adult diapers Maureen). I switched to beer to curb the tsunami of alcohol ready to wash upon me, sadly all I got was a taste of life as King Canute. In the haze of cheap beer and nineties R&B, Brad decided to make his move…

-Every man who has ever gotten with me


On the bright side, We didn’t have sex. Unfortunately we did make-out everywhere in the bar… My judgement was more impaired than someone’s who still books flights with Malaysia Airlines and I let Brad go to town on me. We kissed at the bar, we kissed in the smoking area and much to my shame I think we had a moment on the dance floor. Usually I can ignore my drunken antics but we weren’t exactly pecking, Brad likes to bite. All I can imagine are the horrified faces of people off their heads on weed thinking their witnessing the overtures to a Zombie Apocalypse. I’m not opposed to a little nibble but those bites hurt, when I woke up my neck felt like it had shared a lift with Solange Knowles.

A few hours of self-imposed public humiliation and mutilation later, it was time to leave. Brad went in for the jugular, literally and metaphorically;

“So where do you want to go now?”

Home, Brad, home to safety of a scarf and some Salvon cream. Drunk me had different ideas and offered to go to his house (drunk me would be so easy to kidnap). He declined for some vague reasons, my personal guess is parents who don’t realise Hannibal the Homo has started chewing on both genders. I took my leave of Brad but not after exchanging numbers and the empty promise of a date sometimes.



I woke up feeling sore. I had to get ready for work but took an extra thirty minutes examining my body for evidence of my sins. Despite feeling like it had been attacked by a bisexual lion, my neck looked unscathed (shame about my reputation). I looked at my phone and saw that Brad had already messaged me and promptly ignored it. I feel awkward now because I’m obligated to go on a date with him. If I don’t then I’m the shitty welcome hamper that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, the community deserves better goddamnit. For now I’m going to mull it over and avoid watching vampire related content for a while…

This week I learnt that be it mosquitoes or men, drinking gin doesn’t stop you from being bitten. Next week we’ll explore the positives of going on dates within walking distance of your home (hint, it’s not about dodging taxi fares…)


Exercise: I’ve lost a couple of pounds but it could just be my liver shrinking, lets not be too opptimistic…

Dates: Two! One is a ninja date which I will explain when the time comes… (how ominous)

Cigarettes: I can’t smoke at the moment, my neck couldn’t take the strain…








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