I flew to Dublin, and #128 and #129 and I commenced drinking in a basement rock bar called Bruxelles. It was interesting. Some boy in a red t-shirt was playing air guitar with a tortured expression as he sang along to Bed Of Roses. We looked on in horror. Sometimes we made out with each other. We were giddy to all be together again. But, predictably, our presence attracted some attention. Some sleazy man noticed us and positioned himself nearby so he could leer better, and possibly took pictures of us with his mobile phone. We started to feel uncomfortable. He looked like the sort of person who considers himself a rock warrior except he works in a bank so he can’t grow his hair long. His friend was wearing an obnoxious sexist t-shirt. We knew what we looked like. Me and #128: hot lesbionic action. #129: the lucky male who got both of us. We didn’t feel like that was our story. We were all queer and all had long histories and complicated personal circumstances. We were happy together and we weren’t interested in what some macho asshole assumed about us. Before we’d even finished our drinks, we decided it was time to head to a gay bar instead.
En route, we somehow got into conversation with an English tourist, who came with us. We assumed he’d been going there anyway, but it was comedy as he gradually registered what was going on between me and #128 and what kind of establishment we were in. We looked on as he attempted to chat up all the women in the bar, and eventually managed to dance with one of them. When he danced he reminded me of Carlton in The Fresh Prince. Just as he leaned in for a kiss, she sat down with her dyke friends and they all had a good laugh. Later on, I saw him making out with a boy. I had the impression all of this was new to him, but it looked pretty hot.
Meanwhile, #129 was busy getting married: the stand-up comedian he’d started making out with was not the sort of person who you can spend a few minutes with and then disappear. #129 managed to kiss a hot Italian boy while he was outside having a cigarette, but was essentially stuck to the comedian for the remainder of the evening.
In the toilets, I saw the woman who’d been dancing with the English tourist. She offered #128 and I a bunch of unsolicited drunken advice on life and sex. Her closing thoughts, it turned out, were that she wanted to watch us get off together and then she wanted to get off with each of us in turn. This was ridiculous, but something about her and something about being in a queer space made it completely different from the sleazy asshole in Bruxelles, so we obliged for the fun of it. Just as I was kissing her, another woman walked in to say, “#133, your girlfriend’s outside waiting for you – OH. Yes, your GIRLFRIEND OF ELEVEN YEARS.”
Once we were finally alone, #128 collapsed laughing on the floor, and then we went out and searched for #129 and moved on to a bar called Isolde’s Tower where we were able to get off together without anybody really being weird about it, and then in the morning #129 went to get a new tattoo and nearly fainted.