#u guys r so casual wearing jeans and t shirts in hell…… could not be me that’s for sure!!!!

[devilishdelights]

It never really occurred to me that mammon is just straight up wearing jeans. Like I know he does…. But when I see them…. I get so confused….

[andyangus]

Wednesday 17th March

11.10 a.m. Gordon Bennett flinched when he first saw me at the bar. ‘Andy, is that you?’ he asked, in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell! What happened to you?’ I believe he would have yelped, ‘Gordon Bennett!’ but that would’ve been ironic, I loath to report. I spun a yarn about spilling a large glass of red wine over my original outfit and having to, unfortunately, borrow this ensemble from a colourblind fashion victim of the New Romantic period. He didn’t sound convinced when he asked, ‘And the hat?’

‘My hair was singed badly by one of the many scented candles my flatmate irresponsibly leaves burning around the flat,’ was my swift reply, as I shot daggers at Ryan who was oblivious and having a whale of a time at the bar with his moocher friends. ‘Drink?’ I yelped, in an attempt to move away from fashion completely. Ryan winked at me as if to say, ‘All going well so far.’ I could’ve killed him. I was the fashion equivalent of Pricilla Presley’s Botox job.

Despite this, the night got better. Let’s face it, the only way was up. Ryan let his hair down and even got a bit of interest from a few students. ‘I’m at that age when younger men find me fascinating and alluring,’ he wailed over the music to Gordon. ‘The experience of an older man is very enticing to the younger generation. This is no revelation to our Andy, mind you, as he’s considerably older than me, Gordon Bennett!’ I detested that he took every opportunity to say Gordon’s full name with an exclamation.

‘Sixteen months is not that much older,’ I interjected.

Ryan flicked his hair sloppily, as he was well on his way to drunkenness, and ignored my protest. ‘Of course, all this allure and youth is wasted on me as I just can’t see past my gorgeous Tony,’ he slurred.

I wanted to grab him and say, ‘You fool! Tony is a tactless, egocentric streak of piss!’ while shaking him feverishly by the shoulders and slapping him up and down the bar, but I could hardly shake a leg in my circulation constricting jeans. Instead, I opted for the slightly sarcastic and yet safe, ‘Aww!’

Despite my awful attire, Gordon was keen to get close to me as the last track was played and T-shirts were pulled back over sweaty, youthful torsos. I was glad they turned up the lights as Gordon’s teeth went neon every time the bar’s UV strips caught his grin. It was like talking to a Cheshire cat. Still, only one minus so far, so not bad.

Gordon leant in and gave me a kiss with such passion I was delighted the anaesthetic had worn off. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling out of the kiss but still holding me close. ‘Just checking my work.’

‘All okay?’ I asked, blatantly flirting.

‘I’d better check again. You know, to be thorough. I need to get as far back as seventeen and thirty-two.’

‘Is that far back?’

‘Molars, baby, we’re talking molars.’

What’s a boy to do? ‘Ah, okay.’ I opened wide, and he slipped his tongue deep into my hungry mouth. He was that far in me, I could feel his breath in my lungs. My arousal was so apparent through the stretchy jeans I became embarrassed when we parted again, covering it up with my beer. Gordon, however, seemed amused and impressed at the now prominent silhouette. He pushed the bottle out of the way and squeezed the denim hard, causing me to pulsate in agreement.

Ryan slid his hands between us and pushed us apart. ‘Ugh! Enough, girls. Get a room. Honestly, keep this up and I’ll …’ He didn’t manage to finish his words, but we soon got the gist when he took a mighty gasp and proceeded to projectile vomit at our feet.

‘I think we’ll call it a night there,’ said Gordon, retching as he inched back in disgust from the diffusing pool of WKD, bile and M&S Chicken Tikka Marsala that had been served up between us.

‘I think you’re right,’ I sighed as we watched Ryan crack and collapse like a condemned high-rise block that had just had a ton of explosives detonate at its feet.

It wasn’t easy supporting Ryan on the road home. Even the taxi warden wouldn’t allow us the short trip up the street, which says something as I watched her guide a raucous hen party into a hackney moments before.

‘You know, I’m glad you came back. I really do love you, Andy,’ sprayed Ryan as he slid down the front door. I fumbled for the key as quickly as I could. It doesn’t come naturally to requite love when your mate’s hair is matted with a mixture of Paul Smith, alcohol, bile and curry.

Tony wasn’t best pleased to be woken by a drunk husband-to-be and his wedding planner, but I don’t give a damn. It was well worth torturing him for a night after the bath incident. What’s he going to do? Throw me out? I don’t think so. Any-rate, I have a date with Gordon on Friday night. A lovely, single, sane, handsome, professional homosexual. Already I can see a lifetime of comfort and gleaming molars.

Result!

7.33 p.m. A text from 4x4 Guy: ‘R U free tomorrow at 12?’

His timing is rubbish! And short notice. But I agreed. We’re meeting at Joseph Pearson’s on Elm Row. I’ll be wearing my usual casual attire. I will most certainly not be making an effort for a married man. He’s lucky I don’t turn up in my TARDIS pyjamas.