[NSFW and TMI warnings. This is so going to be one of those posts. You have been warned.]
I put clean sheets on my bed on Friday morning before going to work. It made me think of Dublin Connor, when I would put on clean sheets before going to a gay pub or club “just in case” and I came home alone to my sheets of failure. London Connor is different. London Connor needs the clean sheets.
It was French-Train-Station-Platform Boy Day! Is this my sixth post about him? Golly. I have actually planned out the first act of a musical about us. The stage would open on me arriving in London and discovering the world of online “chubby chasers” in an optimistic sequence along the lines of Good Morning Baltimore from Hairspray. Then there’d be the scene at Stratford Train Station. There could totally be a song where I read out the terms and conditions from his online profile. Then we’d have our first actual meeting, where there’d be a song where I remind him that I’m a professional and that I have a PhD before I let him into my bedroom to reveal all the pink fluffy things and One Direction posters, just like Christian Grey warning Anastasia about his “very singular” tastes before he shows her his “red room”. Then of course there’d be a musical number about how he told me I’d have to get an STI test because he’d got oral gonorrhoea and how I was so excited by the glamour and “real gay” of that that I couldn’t resist telling my work colleagues. I’d totally go to see that musical. And trust me, you could easily get some more musical numbers from the story I’m about to tell.
I had booked a table at a little Italian restaurant near my house. This was different. We may already have shared a bed five times, but we’d never actually had a date. I came directly from work and met him at Streatham Hill Station, where he greeted me with a big sloppy kiss. Right there in the station. I love London.
We went for dinner and had a lovely chat. The restaurant was full of straight people, but he held my hand across the table. His eyes twinkled throughout the meal flirtatiously. I was genuinely excited. And also charming. I’m getting good at this, folks.
We walked up the hill to my house. We were obviously a couple. We both squeezed each other’s bums. We were walking very close to each other. And excitement was building about what was coming. We passed by a young man and a young woman, about eighteen or nineteen years old. The boy made a comment, something along the lines of “imagine being with someone so fat” and the girl laughed.
My date bristled and said something like “I’m not having that” and he turned around and followed them down the hill shouting at them. I stood there panicking. What if they got into a fight? I shouted after him, feeling like I was Eastenders and I was Bianca shouting after Ricky that he should “Leave it, Ricky! He’s not worth it!” The couple apologised. The girl seemed genuinely worried. They said that they weren’t laughing at me, but rather at something on her phone.
We walked the rest of the way to my house. My panic subsided. I held my man’s hand for the last five minutes of the walk. And I felt protected and defended and safer than I’ve ever felt before. Not only did I have a slender handsome Frenchman who wanted to do things to me in the bedroom, but I had someone to protect me, someone who cared about me and wanted me to feel safe. I’ve dreamed of this for years. I always remember Tom Daley’s coming out video on YouTube when he talked about how his new love made him feel ‘safe’ and that’s all I’ve ever really wanted from a relationship, to feel safe.
We got into my house and he was still angrily muttering about how people had no respect these days. We got inside and I LITERALLY SAID THE FOLLOWING WORDS: “Stop talking, push me against this wall and kiss me now.” He did. And then he started stripping me and he took off his blazer (he’d dressed up to go for dinner with me <3) and our clothes were strewn across the hallway. Oh My God. This was like Grey’s Anatomy sex, where we couldn’t wait to get to the bedroom to take our clothes off.
It was an amazing night. A night of firsts. I won’t tell you about them all. But as well as it being the first time we went for dinner, it was also the first time he stayed the night. When I’ve had other men in my bed overnight, I haven’t been able to sleep and I have positioned myself as far as I can from them while still being in the same bed. For the first time, I actually started drifting off in another man’s arms. This is the stuff of movies.
Because he has very strange taste in men, he finds snoring sexy. Imagine. This man is such a catch, it’s ridiculous.
And then, we had morning shenanigans. I don’t think I’ve ever had morning shenanigans with a man before. And in a way, they’re better than night-time shenanigans. We spent quite a long time about it.
We said we’d have to see each other more often and we made our next appointment. He asked if we could see each other weekly instead of monthly.
I was crazy happy. He told me he had heard me singing in the shower. I didn’t even realise I’d been singing. I was floating on air.
We went out for breakfast, but because we were gay, we called it brunch. And we had a long and lovely conversation in the cafe. He told me about his childhood on a tropical island in the Indian Ocean. And I told him about Ballincollig. He asked if we could maybe go together to Ireland for a little holiday in October.
I literally didn’t know how to react. A man, who is handsome and whose company I enjoy and who has repeatedly done sex to me, wants me to take him on holiday to Ireland. Is this what being a thin person is like?
Our conversation covered a lot of areas. He talked about what it’s like to be a chaser (as men who love fat men are called within this weird sexual subculture). I’ve heard other men say this since I arrived in London: chasers have to come out twice. When they tell people they’re gay, people make a certain set of assumptions, so then they have to “come out again” and tell people that they’re not interested in thin men. And once again, we had the conversation about exes of his who have had weightloss surgery. Seriously, I’ve been with three different men in London who bemoan their exes’ new lives post-gastric-bypass.
Apparently, one of the things that’s sexy about me is that I’m not as apologetic or ashamed of my body as most of the fat men that these chasers sleep with are. I somehow give off the signal that I like being fat. I don’t. I hate it. I will say that I have deliberately learned how to find fat men sexy and that certainly helps me in the bedroom. So, I get what they find sexy about my body, but that doesn’t mean that I find my body sexy. I guess I’m just a good actor. I have to admit, I want them to think I’m confident. I certainly didn’t mention to him that I’m on a diet and I hid my weighing scales before he came over.
So, yes, we’re going to be meeting once a week and yes, he’s swept me off my feet, and yes, we now do social things and go on dates as well as sleeping together, and yes, he wants to go on holidays with me, but it’s all built on a lie (that I love being fat and don’t want to lose weight) and it can’t last. And anyway, neither of us has any intention of being monogamous and he has repeatedly stated that he doesn’t want a relationship. He told me all about the chubby Australian guy he was meeting later that day, and I told him about the date I had set up for later that day too. Men are awful.
We kissed goodbye on Streatham High Street and he went off into the rain. I couldn’t get down from my high.
There are a few issues going on in my family at the moment and I was supposed to phone my brother and I couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t want to lose the feeling.
It was the most amazing day. Coming to London has really been such a good decision. Life here is technicolour. I feel like Dorothy arriving in Oz, where everything is in colour, coming from Kansas, where everything is black and white.
And my encounter later in the day was absolutely crazy too. I had an absolutely terrible date, with a man who was physically very attractive, but with whom I had no meeting of minds. It was like having a conversation with a very angry Wikipedia page, who just spent two hours vehemently spewing facts and dates at me about the London Underground, about Barbados, about mediaeval headdresses and about caffeine. We had a lovely hug and I’ll never see him again.
I came home such a ball of emotions that for the first time in four months, I binged. I went on justeat.co.uk and ordered half a pizzeria. It had to happen at some stage. And it’s OK. Today I ate like a normal human being again, so it’s alright. Someday, I’ll learn how to deal with feelings, but honestly, Friday night and Saturday morning was such a big deal, that I’m OK that I reacted irrationally. I’m experiencing things I never thought I would. It’s a bloody miracle and I love it. I love it all.