BY Anthony Gilét

There’s comes a point in every man’s life – especially that of an image and age-conscious gay man – when he realises that he’s actually starting to grow up. As much as you deny that it will ever happen to you, run away from any real responsibility and never commit to a long-term relationship… it will happen to you. Maturity will find you and snatch your youth out from beneath.

And what is it that makes you realise that you’re not the most youthful chicken on the gay farm any more? It’s not the more painful hangovers, or the inability to keep up with the newest trends, or even that those daddy types start to seem more like brothers. Nope, it’s that bastard new generation that prove exactly what young looks like.


Don’t get me wrong, we thought we were the shit at 19-years old; stumbling around Fire in our aviators and slashed vests, with permanent rings of Mephedrone around our nostrils… Oh, how little we knew. Now when the site staggers past, we can’t help but clutch our invisible pearls as if we’ve never heard of a k-hole – let alone thought we were magic carpet when the reality was the medic room stretcher. But when did this happen? I’m not sure when it started, but I know that it lead up to a shuddering realisation. OK, perhaps “shuddering” is a bit melo-dramatic, but here’s a moving coming-of-age tale…

So it was my 24th birthday, a whole nine months ago. I’d met a boy five years my junior in an after-hours club in Vauxhall (obvs) a few weeks before. And being so horrifically off my tits had seen it acceptable to eat his face in the middle of the dance floor. This obviously turned into some dry groping, again in the middle of the dance floor. After that we barely spoke; because having a fumble in the mirror arch is hardly the basis for a relationship.

But then I invited him out for my birthday drinks as a goodwill gesture – and to have somebody that would stare at me doe-eyed all night, while I sat there and filed my nails. Look, I’m gonna level with you, the only reason I even let him have my number was because he was young and naive, and I wanted to ruin him in the sack. Is that evil? Whatever. *Sips low-fat Frappacino*


Needless to say he didn’t arrange to meet up with us, but we ended up in the same bar as him and his friends anyway. Because there aren’t a hundred gay bars in Soho she could’ve gone drinking in. Anyway, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that flirting ensued. Too much, in fact…

I know, I know, this is what I wanted – but be careful what you wish for. I wanted a little banter and someone to buy me drinks; not a twink stuck to the side of my face, linking my arm like we betrothed. Regardless if we were, my take on it is that anybody above the age of 21 should know better than to engage in public displays of embarrassment. But that’s just it… He wasn’t even 21 yet. And I looked at him, and his friends in their shirts, and their pointed shoes, and suddenly felt like I was in a time warp. Since when were the generation beneath me old enough to drink? A couple years ago at least. And just like that we weren’t the new kids on the block any more.

So why then did I agree to go to his house warming party eight months down the line? Well it would have been rude to decline his invite. Well, that and I still hadn’t ruined him in the sack yet.*Sip*


So I dragged one of my girl mates along, picked up enough Tequila to kill a cow, and made our way to his house share.

Well, it was like something off animal planet.
I mean, if you’ve ever seen wildlife smoking rollies to the butt and have a slurring dispute about how Breaking Bad is the only notable TV show on the air. Yawn, please excuse me while I smash my skull repeatedly with a stiletto heel. At least the skanky bitches had the appropriate footwear on.

So yeah, Animal Planet – if you’ve ever seen a Rhinoceros holding back a gazelle’s hair while she puked into a wine glass. And instead of vultures picking at the scraps of a dead lioness, it was college kids picking at the scraps left in the bottom of a baggie.

Even their mating calls were less discrete. Cut to some Jezebel spread out on the counter top like she was an Iceland buffet, and me on the sidelines throwing condoms at her. Bitch was like “make it rain” and I’m showering her with rubbers. Hoe. Still I suppose the fact that she was laid there like some chicken platter at TGI Fridays was appropriate considering most of these kids were probably waiters.


I’d seen enough. And to be honest I felt kind of out of place, because I’d obviously missed the bit on the invitation that stated the dress code was last season’s H&M and beaded jewellery. Please tell me accessories made of wood aren’t a trend?

“Shall we go?” I ‘asked’ as I grabbed my hag’s arm and dragged her to the front door. Pushing skinny chickens out the way and stepping over puddles of spew as we went. No, hunty. We may not be the new kids on the block any more, but if that’s what it is – I’m content with being old news. “TAXI!”


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