Never go clubbing with your ex.
This is what I did with favourite ex, Simon. Now blissfully unhitched from the slightly creepy Michael (after six gloriously unsettling years), Simon is back on the singles scene, and has the arms to prove it.
Simon is one of those people who has arms. Big, proper arms. The kind of arms that make Ben Browder look like a girl. Plus breasts that would make Jordan envious. Simon is seriously, wonderfully buff. And most of the time I manage to forget this. But Simon, unhitched from slimy not-cheating-on-him-at-all-even-though-he-had-a-gaydar-profile Michael, has really hit the gym. And he's hit the gym hard. So hard it's wincing.
He could barely fit through the door when he turned up on Friday. He was wearing the one of those Emergency Issue Gay Special Forces tshirts that only get given out to men with a serious figure to hug.
"Do you like the tshirt?" he asked, the gravitational force of his pecs making the woodchip wallpaper explode. "I'm worried it's a bit in-your-face."
"Yes please," I muttered, making a feeble effort to chop coriander. "Help yourself to a really big portion of Naan bread. Blow job?"
"Sorry?"
"Chutney? The jars are on the shelf on the left."
We ended up in the Black Cap. Simon suddenly got curiously envious of my Brazilian fun, and demanded I set us up with a threesome. I duly trotted off into the crowd, and fetched him back something he liked the look of.
Five minutes later, all was going well - young Brussels tourist Matteus and I were snogging, and it was up to Simon to step up to the mark, join in, and then we'd be merely a swift taxi ride away from making our French friend lucky Pierre....
Alas, I had forgotten that Simon's chat up technique was a little rusty. Simon stepped forward, smiled, and issued the immortal question:
"So, Matteus, what shape would you say Brussels was?"
Appalled, I went off to the loo. Five minutes later, my worst suspicions were confirmed. There was actual small talk. Interaction at a human level. They were even talking about some of the historic roof structures in Belgian churches.
A quarter of an hour later, it was worse still. Matteus was, in halting English, trying to describe me to Simon. "You friend... he is keen. No. Sharp... No... I mean, yes, easy."
Soon, I went home alone, spared the slight freaky trip of a shared shunt with my ex.
Simon turned up at my flat later the next day. Obviously happy for a man who hasn't had sex for two years.
"How did it go?"
He shrugged. "It was really nice. We went back to his place, cooked a simple meal, and then had a really warm cuddle. It was meaningful."
Meaningful? Pah!
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