Would you go to bed with me?

Here’s the rub.

The rules of attraction can be extremely complex. Who you want to get between the sheets with is completely up to you but personally I’m drawn to a six-pack and a man bun. However, I’ve heard a great big fat tummy does it for some guys too. Which, when Guido looks at me naked, is probably just as well.

“Did you know that in a recent survey, 84% of gay men felt under intense pressure to have a terrific body?” I asked Guido yesterday morning.

We were still in bed at the time. It was almost 11.30 a.m. The sun had been up for hours and hours but our blinds were still resolutely pulled shut and I’d just energetically eaten a large bowl of Cocoa Pops. The milk was cold and chocolatey. I have to tell you I was in a sort of nirvana state. It could possibly have been called post-coital, but in a breakfast cereal sort of way.

”Only 1% felt fully satisfied with the way he looked,” I said slurping the last morsels from the bowl.

I knew which percentage point I belonged to.

I lay there admiring Guido’s gorgeous flat stomach. It’s very different from mine which resembles a small Alp. Guido’s ripples in a tight muscular formation which I could only ever dream of replicating, unless I underwent extensive liposuction. But the problem with cosmetic surgery is you get one thing done and it shows up your next defect. Then before you know it you’re hooked and looking like The Bride Of Wildenstein.

”I suppose it depends on what you consider to be a terrific body,” he said -throwing my statistical analysis into total confusion as usual.

”But would you go to bed with me?” I asked boldly.

There was a moment of silence.

”What do you mean, would I go to bed with you? – I AM in bed with you,” said Guido.

”Yes, but if we’d never met before and I was a totally random stranger with a protruding belly laying here naked on this here bed, would you want to get in it?”

I suddenly realised I had a milk moustache. Add that to the bed head hair and buttonless pyjama top I was wearing, boy, I must have looked hot. Guido was lucky to have me; what a catch.

”It’s not all about looks,” he said.

I chewed my nail. I wondered what Nick Jonas would say.

”What else is it about?”

”Personality you big dummy,” he said.

”Yeah, yeah,” I nodded, “of course – a personality. Fortunately mine is as disproportionately large as my waistline is.”

Guido put his arm around me.

”I like you just the way you are,” he said reassuringly. “Let me explain it this way, I can’t possibly imagine licking guacamole from between the toes of just any other guy.”

He had a point and it wasn’t only mashed avocado we had history with down there.

”Dont worry about statistics. There’s only one thing you need to know,” he said.

”What?”

“That I have terrific taste in men,” he said smiling.

It goes without saying, I naturally agreed.

Advertisements

I’m weird, you’re weird

I always eat a sandwich in exactly the same, but, bizarre way. And it doesn’t matter what the filling is. Yesterday it just happened to be a delicious BLT Guido had made for me.

The bread was powder white, the iceberg lettuce was shredded, the tomato was a juicy red buffalo and the bacon was grilled to perfection. It goes without saying things went flaky when I started to eat and I’m not referring to the sandwich. I have culinary musts.

1. Must be served on a plate. Preferably oval but any shape will do in a crockery emergency.

2. Must be cut into two horizontal parts. Four triangles? I’m not a three year old.

3. Must peel back the top slices off first and eat those both separately before anything else. Which then obviously necessitates an urgent need for cutlery.

4. Squiggle a line of ketchup precisely. This should be exactly 6 centimetres in length but absolutely MUST NOT touch the bread.

I could probably carry on right beyond number 10 but I’ve limited word count.

“Do you have any idea how weird you are?” Guido asked me staring at my deconstructed lunch.

”Yes,” I said, “and it’s taken me years of careful practice to get to this point.”

”In fact I’d go so far as to say you’re possibly the weirdest person I know,” he said.

Which I have to tell you was pretty rich coming from Guido, who always religiously reads the back of a shampoo bottle whenever he’s in the shower.

”Though I have to say you have some peculiar idiosyncrasies yourself,” I said measuring my squiggle.

Here’s the thing. When Guido gets dressed in the morning he insists on putting his clothes on in a strict order. He never deviates. Boxers first. Socks. Shirt. Then lastly, jeans. If he throws everything on in a rush he can get quite discombobulated and has to strip off and start all over again. Which is a pretty big deal at 5.30 in the morning.

”Prove it,” he said slouching back in his chair.

I crunched a piece of bacon. I drew up a long and extensive mental list. I wondered what to pick first and which to leave out and what would make him sound even more of a freak than I was.

”For starters you read newspapers backwards,” I said.

I lifted the top left hand piece of bread and nibbled the gooey bit first.

“You always set the volume level on the TV to 10, even if this means neither of us can actually hear it. If I turn it up to 12 you turn it back down to 10.”

By the way, I leave the crusts for last.

”You’re afraid of birds. Particularly one randomly landing on your head.”

I lifted the top right hand piece. It was gooey too but not overly. This was good. Infact on a scale of gooeyness it was a 5. Having a scale of gooeyness is not in any way weird.

“I once saw you eat ice cream with a fork,” I said.

Speaking of forks – I needed one.

“And, you have the ability to sneeze with your eyes still wide open.”

There was a brief silence.

“But hey some of my weirdness I know you definitely like.” He cocked an eyebrow.

There was another brief silence. I was happy for him to prove it.

Stuck on you

Sometimes people have a very specific view about their lives and unfortunately it isn’t always exactly the same as someone else.

”If your life was suddenly turned upside down what would you do?” asked Guido over lunch today. “I mean, think about it. Imagine everything you thought was real and dear to you, wasn’t.”

This is what happens round here. Guido ambitiously decides to substitute grilled chicken strips for jumbo prawns in his paella, then starts to question the meaning of life.

”Like what?” I said sipping a very cold glass of white wine. By the way it was barely noon but I was drinking alcohol, and I’m making no apologies for that.

I had some terrific Sauvignon Blanc in one hand and a Greek olive on the end of a cocktail stick in the other. Everything was normal and real and as far as I could tell I was the right way up. The wine was cold, the olive was salty and earlier, when Guido and I had been in bed, we’d had terrific sex without any extraneous assistance. Sometimes you just have to live dangerously folks.

”Well,” said Guido crunching a breadstick, “Arnold, the guy who delivers the sacks of potatoes to the cafe every week, told me Friday his wife Alice had just run off with his best friend.”

I’ve actually met Arnold. He has a very small body with tiny little arms and legs but a very large and oversized bald head. What he can’t tell you about a potato probably isn’t worth knowing about in the first place.

”Look on the bright side,” I said optimistically with my mouth full, “I expect Arnold will probably be much happier without her.”

”Nope,” said Guido shaking his head. “The bank account with all his savings in it is in his wife’s sole name. Arnold thinks they might have both fled to Belgium.”

Which, if you’re serious about fleeing a husband who resembles a Mr Potato Head then, it’s probably just as good a place to go as any.

“Okay,” I said, “then maybe there’s no bright side to look on after all.”

Guido took another crunch.

“Arnold wanted to know if I had any idea how to alert Interpol,” Guido said in all seriousness. Which just goes to show the sort of idiotic questions a humble London cafe owner is expected to field these days.

I took another sip of wine.

”Poor guy,” I said, “I suppose for us it would be a bit like me running off with your best friend Ted.”

And trust me, you have to perish that thought for my sakes. For a start Guido has no money to steal and the dire condition of Ted’s boney knees means I don’t think he’d be able to flee much further than just south of Pimlico without being on the verge of collapse. Let alone the watery shores of Antwerp.

”Hey kiddo,” I said, “you’re going to be stuck with me for a very long time indeed. I won’t be fleeing any where any time soon. Our world is exactly the way it should be.”

I thought about Alice blissfully enjoying a potato free existence on continental Europe. For her sakes I just hope it’s all worth it.

Oh by the way. If you ever need Interpol you can call them on 616-9000.