I was standing drunkenly by the dancefloor, watching people dancing or maybe watching a band, I don’t know. #185 was standing next to me, maybe we talked for a while, and then all of a sudden she was making out with me. I was a little startled. It was the same night that #184 kissed me for the first time and it wasn’t like the whole of Edinburgh had received a memo about my newly single status, but somehow that night progressed much like the olden days without any attempts on my part to make anything happen.
After a while I stumbled outside feeling sick and threw up in a bus shelter, the bus shelter outside the Forest that probably sees a whole lot of vomit on a regular basis (“if there’s not someone playing a bongo drum in it,” says my friend Gregor). #120‘s ex-flatmate turned up, I hadn’t seen him in ages, and he had a conversation with me for a while before he realised he was standing in my sick. Later, back inside, #185 returned to make out with me some more and I warned her I might taste of sick, but she didn’t seem to mind. We are classy people.
The next weekend I ran into her at a magazine launch in Glasgow. We talked for a while and I was relieved to hear she had done a brief stint in prison because that meant she was likely to be over eighteen. She had in fact just turned twenty. She was ten years younger than me and she was complaining about how she was so old now. She lived in a tree on a protest site. She showed me how she was scamming Megabus and travelling for free, and I was glad that she knew about Brian Souter and Section 28, but it was kind of a headfuck to think that back when I was sitting in pubs with my friends using up all the free postcards so we could overload his freepost address, #185 was busy being twelve. Anyway, I found myself making out with her again.
This has since happened a couple more times, usually at QueerMutiny when I’ve been ludicrously drunk, so it’s kind of blurry.