#38 had just started seeing this American dyke who we’ll call Helena. Helena was not my standard ‘type’ but goddamn I had a crush on her, just like everybody else. The women of the LGBT society were collectively the Helena Fan Club. I can’t begin to describe her even now because I will sound like a gibbering twelve-year-old. Okay.
So then #38 held a party and a bunch of us went along and then at some drunken point in the evening, #38 pushed me into her bedroom in the dark and made out with me. This was a complete surprise, the sort of complete surprise I was happy to go along with, but why the hell was she bothering given that she alone had the privilege of getting off with Helena? I wound up walking home with Helena afterwards, making drunken small talk and hoping desperately that she didn’t find out what I’d been up to, in case she beat me up.
I don’t remember what became of Helena and #38 after that, actually, but I do remember #38 coming round to my place and lying around with me and talking like she was trying to figure life out, and dancing at Café Graffiti, and me wondering if something more was going to happen between us. On Valentine’s Day, she came round and gave me an actually-let’s-just-be-friends talk, so I got my answer.