When my gay best friend Marc flew halfway across Europe, to Naples, this Summer to try to kiss and make up with his Italian boyfriend, Secondo, I crossed my fingers tight and hoped for the best. Really I did.
”I’ve got my fingers crossed,” I distinctly remember saying to Guido in bed at the time. That got him worried.
Of course I speak metaphorically because when someone you care about flies thousands of miles on a thong and a prayer looking for lasting love with a hot guy he’s known for only a few months, what else can you do? You hope love will out. Well things don’t always go to plan, do they?
Fast forward to last night and Marc was laying crying in our bed. I noticed my pillow looked damp and dented, and not in a good way.
“How could I have been so stupidly naive?” sobbed Marc.
He has passion.
“I mean, can you blame a guy for flying to Italy to surrender his body and soul to a man who’s a doppelgänger for Emmanuel Macron?” he asked.
I sucked my index finger. Then I chewed my nail. I don’t think I agree with his policies but I’d definitely vote to see Emmanuel Macron topless.
”Have you any idea when Marc’s extricating himself from our bed?” said Guido out of the corner of his mouth.
He was hovering in our hallway, wearing only a pair of plaid tartan boxer shorts. I have to tell you the sight was not unappealing.
“I mean, I totally get that he’s tried his luck with a guy who’s hotter than the French President but it’s all ended in a horrible romantic car crash and now we’re picking up the pieces.”
“His Love Boat has sprung a proverbial leak,” I said. I peered into the bedroom. There were wailing noises. “All I can say is Marc seems to be welded to our over blanket right now.”
Guido started pacing back and forth.
“I get it. Really I do. But I’ve got to get into that bed tonight and then back up out of it at 5 a.m. tomorrow to start frying homemade hash browns. Just sayin’.”
Whilst I realised the customers of Denmark Hill were counting on him, I told him to shoosh.
I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
”I’m never dating another Italian again,” said Marc blowing his nose. “In fact I’m never dating another man again.”
Ruling out an entire European nation was one thing but in my opinion discounting a whole gender was a bit worrying for a gay man.
”Okay,” I said, “here’s the deal. If you agree to shift your nervous breakdown from this bed onto our lumpy sofa then I can promise you hash browns for breakfast.” I gave a big smile.
If that hadn’t worked I was happy to lure him with the promise of a slice of Larry Mufffin’s Buttermilk Pie.
Later in bed Guido showed me his appreciation by offering me sex before lights out. He looked at his watch.
“We’ve got time for a quick one if you fancy it?” he said.
Obviously I switched out the lamp. I lay thinking about Emmanuel Macron and whether he wore plaid tartan boxer shorts in the sack.
Marc. This one’s for you.