Note: for a definition of “jump the shark”, please see here (I particularly like the third definition).
I went drinking with a friend on Friday night. Now, my recent stories about drinking seem to have ended in me crying. Not this one.
After drinking, I made my way home full of plans. I had committed, once again, to going to a Bear Night. The Dublin Bears were having their Halloween Party last night, and the friend I went drinking with was going to go with me.
I am a bear. I really wish I wasn’t. A bear is a larger, hairier gay man. There are, of course, lots of types of bears, but in general they embrace traditional forms of masculinity. They generally have big beards and they wear checked shirts, because they think they’re lumberjacks. They often like motorbikes and leather. They like rugby. Some of them actually growl during sex. Like actual bears. Imagine.
I bet a lot of bears have never seen ANY of the High School Musical films.
This is a video of a bear event in Dublin.
I don’t find it at all sexy. Life would be a lot easier if I did.
But I need to keep putting myself out there. I need to stop being so implacably single. Sometimes I feel so deprived of male touch that I let my fingers linger a few seconds too long on shop assistants’ hands when paying for groceries.
So, I was to go to the Bears’ Halloween party on Saturday night. And on Friday night, I drunkenly planned my costume. Of course, I have my cloak. I had also bought a cheap set of fangs in Tesco. So I could be a vampire.
But I don’t have a black suit, or a white shirt. And a new shirt is an investment for someone my size. I can’t just go to Penney’s. Even Marks and Spencer doesn’t carry my size. I’d have to go to an (expensive) specialist shop. Probably not worth it. I could just go as some kind of plain-clothes/bear vampire in jeans and a checked shirt with a cloak and fangs.
I was trying to think of vampire variations, when I had an idea.
I would go as a swimming vampire. I could wear my little swimming togs and my swimming goggles, with my cloak and fangs. And a pair of flip flops.
Anywhere else, I’d be vile. But at a bear event, it would presumably go down a storm. The pale, stretchmarked, hairy, blobby belly that I find grotesque is sexy in that world, so of course I should show it off, along with my flabby legs, breasts and arms.
If I showed up in nothing but my swimming togs and a cloak, I would definitely pull. I had fevered imaginings of man after man rubbing my belly in the pub, of everyone trying to cop a feel. One of them would definitely want to take me home. Dressed like that, I’d be “asking for it”.
I thought about the practical implications. I probably wouldn’t go to town in the bus dressed like that, but I could change in the pub and leave my clothes in a bag, in which I’d also keep my phone and wallet. I’m sure when I pulled that my friend would mind the bag. It’d be fine.
And then, when I’d pulled, we’d either go to his place or mine. If it was mine, I’d have to sign him in. I had visions of standing in front of the security guards in my swimming togs at 4:00 in the morning while a bearded man slobbered all over my neck, signing him in. Then we’d have lots of sex. If it was in his place, then my “walk of shame” the next morning would be spectacularly shameful. I would be the talk of Hall, something which didn’t sound completely unattractive to me.
After spending Saturday night in town practically naked, nothing could ever really scare me again. I’d be brave enough to go back to boxing next week. I wouldn’t be so scared about the back, sack and crack wax I’m booked in for on Thursday. I would be able to face up to what I have to do with my PhD.
Being a swimming vampire would get me laid and solve all my problems.
I woke up yesterday hungover. I had a serious case of the beer blues. I ate myself into a food coma. My friend was hungover too. We didn’t go to Bear Night. I had been invited to two other parties last night. I didn’t go to them either. Instead I ate even more and watched the X Factor.
I’ll get laid another time.