Gay Bars

So I necked for a girl at the weekend.

Does that count as cheating? Let me take you back a little…

Friday night I was out with the girls and, like clockwork, midnight chimed in and I was possessed by an insatiable craving for dancing, 90’s pop music and things covered in glitter – and the good thing about living in Brighton is that none of these things are ever more than a short walk away.

So off we headed to the Gay district of Kemptown. By the empty shot glasses, (and the fact two of my friends had already taken off and stashed their shoes) it was clear that we were on the proverbial bender. Ten mins later we’re on the dancefloor belting out the lyrics to One Direction. Good music, not assed.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, I felt the fingers of a small blonde girl link with mine whilst we we’re dancing – which considering a gay lad had been braiding my hair at the bar ten minutes before wasn’t really shocking. What was shocking was when she stuck her tongue down my throat about thirty seconds later.

What I should have said was:

  • “I’m sorry, I’m not actually gay”
  • “I’m sorry, I’ve got a boyfriend”

But I’m only 24 so fuck it, I’ll try anything once. Twice if I like it.

The rest of the night continued as normal… one of my friends fell over taking a table of drinks with her while my other mate screamed Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful” into the karaoke machine and ruined everyone’s night. Pretty standard.

2am rolled round, and we flagged down a couple of cabs, and being the only one out of the four of us who lived in the complete opposite direction I climbed into one alone..

So there I am, explaining to Mr Taxi Man the quickest route to my flat and I heard the slam of a passenger door, I turn round and there is the little blnde girl just sat in the back of my cab.

“Where are we going?”


“Erm… I’m going home..”

“I know, I’m coming too”

“Errrrrm… not sure my boyfriend will be too keen on that”

“Oh I’m sure I could convince him…”

She had a point like, it would have been much easier at that point to convince my fella to have a three-way with me and a random fitty, than to convince her that she wasn’t coming home with me.

Sorry to ruin the illuaion, but no – I didn’t take her home with me. After twenty minutes of driving around aimlessly because she point-blank refused to tell me her address and £15.30 in cab fare later, I finally dropped her off home. Not before she stuck her head through the car window, surprise-necked me again and shoved a piece of paper with her number on into my hand though.

Whatever, still got it.

Until next time… x


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