The Night Before…
It’s been three days since the intervention during which my friends took over my life and decided to get me laid against my will. Pride is in full swing. There isn’t a single corner of the city left to the breeders; I wonder where they’ve gone.
My living room has become the HQ of operations. D is on the balcony, always on the verge of inviting half of the street up; F is simultaneously on five different gay chats, gathering the troops as he calls it; M is dancing to Whitney; and A is shagging in the bathroom - They seem to have moved in.
That horrible device they’ve lent me keeps buzzing with messages of random blokes asking me if I’m up for it. I tried switching it off but the damn thing hates me. Every time the phone beeps, one of my friends grabs it and gives the bloke my address. My flat has become a train station. Luckily though, when the random shag gets here, he is welcomed in by one of my friends and though he is meant for me, they are the ones enjoying him. I’ve somehow survived the last three days. But I know that tonight… Oh, God! I don’t even want to think about it.
F’s chose what I was to wear: yellow short shorts and a navy wife-beater (?). I'm going to leave my glasses at home. D grabs me by the waist and ushers me downstairs. Once I hear my door being locked, I know I won’t be coming back in one piece.
The crowd is so intricately webbed in a mass of sweaty flesh that it takes us half an hour to cross Gran Via. There is an old man throwing buckets of water on the crowd. There are hands wondering every which way. My ass gets grabbed, so does my chest, my arms, even my knees. I feel like I’m fighting off a giant human centipede whose only purpose is to mate with me. M hands me a drink; I’m thankful, I know I need it. We reach a quieter spot to watch the parade. That’s when M reveals the flag I’m to sway. A huge flag tied to a three foot tall pole. They tell me it will attract attention. And the Union Jack does just that. Every single Brit in sight wants to have his picture taken with it and with it, there is me. F decides that to get a picture they’ll have to snog me. Forty two pictures later, my lips hurt. I drink to give myself strength. D pats me on the back. They’re proud of me!
We reach Chueca; I’m hoping that the worst is behind me, it isn’t. I’m dying for a cup of tea and some quiet time with a good book. I can’t stand this overwhelming sea of naked flesh, this constant rubbing and grabbing, the multitude of tongues down my throat. It’s for my own good, they tell me – something to remember in my old age. At this pace, I’m not sure I’m going to reach old age.
M chooses one. D chooses one. F chooses one. A chooses one. And now I’m surrounded by four blokes handpicked for me. They’re hot, I’ll give them that. One of them even seems to have a twinkling of intelligence in his eyes.
Sex is inevitable…
To Be Concluded In “…The Morning After”
