The Accidental Cougar

Friday night I hung out with friends of the Swede, and had a gay ol' time!
Seriously, it was so gay.

We started our drinking in Surry Hills, a fabulous gayborhood that I've yet to truly discover. I was excited when the Swede's friends asked me to hang out earlier that week, as it not only gave me plans but proved that our short-lived liaison wasn't all for naught. Now (f)unemployed and 75% mobile, I am allowing myself to have fun--you know, dance like no one is watching and all that shit. The Swede's friends (now mine, yay!) are a hetero couple in their mid-30s who pretty much only roll with gays. Seeing as I'm suffering a gay shortage, I am glad to find this hidden world of fabulosity. I'd had two glasses of rose before I left the house, then had three jack and cokes at their friends' house before heading to the bar. We went to a place called the Clock Hotel, and that's where I first noticed that you cannot tell gay and straight men apart in this town. All the dudes are pretty and coiffed and buff and tan, so how can one really tell?

After one drink there, we went to The Colombian, a gay club where I instantly felt at home. This could be because a few gay men were staring at me, and one approached and asked, "Are you famous?"

"Why, yes, I am a blacktress," I said sincerely.
He nodded, then ran back to whisper to his friends.

Phase One of "Operation: Make Everyone Think I'm a Big Deal in America" is complete.

I then started dancing with a petite, sassy gay, and we're having fun. After a few minutes, he starts rubbing me up and down, and, you know, I'm still not put off yet, cause he doesn't want to buy what I'm selling. Then, after a few more minutes, he's sticking his tongue down my throat.
WTF, mates?!
If a gay club isn't a safe space for a blacktress, what is?

Turns out, this gay club is actually mixed, and many straight guys pounce on the hags whose defenses are weakened. In fact, many of the guys use their gay friends as an in. When they first started talking to me, I had dreams of becoming a Diana Ross-like figure, but then I realized they were acting on behalf of their mate, who wanted to take a dip in the Chocolate River.

Anyway, we were rolling about 8 deep, and I'd met a few of the people in the group on New Year's Eve, post-ambulance/pre-Swedish-coitus. One such character was Simon, a smiley British lad who just sort of wandered around and came in and out of the group all night. About 6 wines later, Meg informs me that Simon thinks I'm gorgeous.
"But I thought he was gay?" I ask, totally confused.

Maybe it was the 7 drinks, but for some reason, I thought I'd hook up with Simon. Clearly, flattery will get you everywhere with me-- especially if you're too shy to tell me. I LOVE AN AWKWARD.

However, I do NOT love erectile dysfunction.

We went back to his place and started making out, and it was just as awkward as I'd envisioned. Simon's English accent just lent a sense of "Notting Hill" to the whole thing, and I got way too giggly for a woman of my age. We start to....physically express our emotions....and Simon is as limp as a wet sock! Luckily, my lack of interest in him made this okay for me--but he was quite stressed out.

"Ugh, this always happens," he said as he struggled to not fail at sex.
"It's all right," I said.
He then went on and on about how a guy is expected to perform, and how he wants to but just can't. I tried to calm his fears, and just held him as he recounted various sexual experiences that went awry.

Things I Learned That Night:
Never ask a man if he's a homosexual while he is inside of you.

Yup, I did it. He didn't let the question phase him, saying, "No, no, I've thought about that and that's not it. It's just, you know, hard sometimes."

Or soft, as the case may be. (oooh, call the burn unit, cause that one was fierce!)

I asked him how old he was, trying to piece together a history.
"I'm 20," he said.

OH MY FUCKING GOD.

I was in bed with a 20 year old. I am an accidental cougar. He didn't look very young, and besides, we had been out with 30-somethings--how did his underaged behind slip through the cracks?

This is what happens when you live in a country where the drinking age is 18. You could very well end up in bed with someone who didn't even grow up on 90210 version 1.

I forgot what happened after that--I think my body blacked out to spare myself the trauma.

I woke up the next morning to him trying to wake me up for more--you've got to admire his pluck. I realized I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
I was, like Danny Glover, too old for this shit.
I quickly got up to get some water, and saw his roommate downstairs. She was a nice gal, and we'd chatted a lot the night before. She was heading to a friend's place in Glebe, and asked if I wanted a ride.

It was 10:30. My breath reeked of penis and red wine (yeah, I said it.) and I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.

I ran upstairs, grabbed my bag, and gave Simon a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name.

Let's just quit while we're ahead, I thought.

Now, a few days later, I don't feel so terrible, though I am a bit disappointed in myself. I am really trying not to do things just for the sake of doing them--and that includes sleeping with underaged randoms who may or may not be homosexual. I should be writing, hiking through the Blue Mountains, or having love affairs with dynamic artists who know how babies are made, you know?

Ah well. This is, like, the foot injury, a minor setback.
From now on, I'm checking ID.