Anyway, after that, one night #110 and I were out having dinner and getting merry on wine. We had very little in common in those days, except that we liked going out for dinner, drinking, and writing porn. Our evenings usually started out a little bit awkward while we searched for other conversation topics, and then after a while we’d get into the swing of things and bond drunkenly and it was all super. We had reached that point. “Hey,” I said, “let’s pretend we don’t live here, and ask someone to recommend somewhere to go tonight, and then we’ll just go there, wherever they suggest.” That was how we wound up at Tackno’s porn night. We stopped at our respective flats to change on the way; #110 opted for the skimpiest outfit I had ever seen, and the door staff still tried to charge her full price – you were supposed to get a discount if you dressed for the occasion. “They must know I usually look like this,” she lamented.
And then there was a fire alarm and everybody was evacuated. No time to collect our coats. This was January in Edinburgh and it was snowing and it was porn night. It was brilliantly pathetic. We huddled together for warmth and then #108 and I made out for the fun of it. He was dressed as a pizza delivery boy in hot pants.
This is possibly the only time we kissed, or possibly we kissed the night we got drunk and wound up in Whistle Binkie’s and had a heated argument about gender politics until a scary man threatened to shut us both up, which united us in common fear. And/or we possibly kissed a few weeks ago at my Five Years of Freedom party. I thought for a while that maybe he wasn’t speaking to me after I got kicked out of his flatwarming last year and #184 sent me home in a pedicab and I left my shower on all night for no apparent reason, but it turned out everything was fine. Although I had offered to make out with a boy in a gold lamé jacket, who politely declined on the grounds that he was gay, which kind of weirded me out because it seemed like rather old-school reasoning.