The Interested ones
I’m not one to judge (well!). Surely “Love” must be out there… somewhere. But (I like my buts) when a paperless, financially unstable cutie supposedly fell in love with my overweight, redneck flatmate, I got suspicious. Exactly what is a 26-year-old sexy Latino doing with a barely legal gringo fresh out of Alabama?
I have been dating for 10 years. The one hit wonders, the “I’ll call you”, the “Its not you it’s me”, the “Jeez your best mate is hot do you mind”, the “Well I’m leaving the country”, the “I can’t be tied down”, the “Monogamy is such a heterosexual idea” and the Oh so popular “It’s was just a BJ” have somehow made me a bit cynical. And girls think they have it tough.
As a boy, an 18-year-old boy who had been fed dreams by Walt Disney’s Charming Princes on white horses, I wondered when mine would come and sweep me off my feet. I imagined us singing in harmony tightly embracing one another on a flying carpet.
What has happened to him? Has someone stolen his horse? Is there a shortage of flying carpets? Doesn’t he have a GPS? Surely, he got lost on the way.
In time, I understood that I wouldn’t get my magical wedding and ride away in a golden carriage. I lost all hope of it ever happening shortly before it became legal.
But with new rules came new players. It’s not just about “Love” and cheerful tunes anymore but also about opportunities. Out in the open, we have to face a new kind of boyfriends: The interested ones. Yes, they’re exotic and sensual. Yes, they’re hot. Yes, they shake our beds and make us scream for more. Yes, Yes, Yes!
A new breed of Villains: The kind that wears a shellfish pendant around their necks to hide their true colours.
Weeks ago, I got invited to the spontaneous wedding of my desperately single friend Jorge who had found, weeks before, the long awaited love of his life. I got a manicure, a pedicure, a haircut; I even got myself a new suit. In the words of Elle (Woods from Legally Blonde the Musical – Yes, they made it into a musical) I could not wear something I bought on sales so I splashed. I went to the stag night where both parties were present and glued to one another. Going for a simple cup of low fat, soya milk Starbuck’s coffee with the bride-to-be had become impossible as he now was a conjoined twin. Surely enough the wedding happened and vows were exchanged in a sea of teary Drag-Queens. Paperwork was not far behind. His happily-ever-after was not to be. His honeymoon, an all-paid trip to Ibiza he surprised his new hubby with, turned into Hell. Apparently monogamy was not included in the vows. But it was his happy ending and he would make it work even if it was the last thing he did.
Jorge called me last night at 3am, in tears. His hubby, who had been missing for the last three days, reappeared that morning without a word, smelling funky. He wondered if his illegally-immigrated lover was in it for love or for something else.
And now my dear Southerner of a flatmate is taking his lover home to the land of opportunities…
Passport anyone?
