#35

First there was my friend’s party, then some flamboyant dancing in Café Graffiti, then back to my place in a taxi. #35 was a refugee from a place so exotic and a cause so worthy it’d have scored me multiple cool points in white hipster circles, and maybe that was on my mind or maybe it wasn’t, things happened pretty fast and he was cute. Later, looking back on that night, I half found it hot and half felt uncomfortable about it. It was something about the script and the expectations, and I thought that was a pitfall of the fact that we were from completely different cultures, but now I think that’s bullshit, an easy and lazy way to categorise it: the average white Western boy wouldn’t be wildly different, and anyway #35 respected my boundaries so whatever. He didn’t spend the night, which was probably my idea. We met up the following afternoon but I felt weird and awkward now so I made it clear that nothing was going to come of this.

I got a phone call a while after that from somebody who claimed to be #35’s cousin or something. He said #35 had told him what a nice time he’d had with me and would I like to meet up. I declined and felt creeped out, and later #35 phoned me and apologised profusely for his cousin’s behaviour.

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~ by Nine on 17 November 2008.

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