Smoking fags in London.

So I've spent the last week or so enjoying bad weather, bad food, and bad teeth in lovely London. I don't really romanticize London the way a lot of people do - I've only been there on business travel, and the charms of a foreign country tend to get lost in that environment, so more often than not I've come away viewing England as a dreary, silly place where the bars close too early, the meat tastes like tree bark, CD's cost thirty dollars, and I can't plug my Game Boy into the fucking wall without it exploding (five years ago or so we fried a Nintendo 64 in a frenzied attempt to feed our addiction to Super Smash Bros). But this time, after the rain cleared (however briefly) and I had the opportunity to explore the town a bit and have some fun nights out, I came away thinking maybe this place isn't so bad after all... If only someone would send it some orthodontists. And somehow, like every other time I've stayed in London, I managed to get a couple good stories out of it involving ridiculous situations with obscure celebrities (ask me sometime about Tom Jones making out with some skeezy British chick behind a couch in the penthouse at 5am).

The hotel I stayed at is the type of posh, ultra-modern, Ian Schrager style-over-substance wallet-drainer where the bellmen are black-clad aspiring models who fancy themselves too good-looking to help you with anything, and a Snicker's from the mini-bar will cost you eight dollars. The hotel bar is a roped off, guests-and-important-people-only type of deal, and models are usually stumbling in and out of the elevator at 3am. But damned if it isn't conveniently located, so I found myself in there almost every night, begrudgingly adding $20 drinks to my room tab over and over again. As of this writing I haven't seen my final bill, but it's not going to be pretty. It's funny how easy it is to forget about the exchange rate after a couple drinks. "Oh, it's eight bucks. That's a bit pricey, but what the hell." Except it's not eight bucks. It's eight pounds, which is sixteen bucks. And you just bought three of them. Dumbass.

Anyway, so one night we wander into the hotel bar and see that a good portion of it is being monopolized by none other than Boy George and his harem of man-boy playthings. My friends and I took an empty booth in the corner and couldn't help but keep an amused eye on the lavish cornucopia of faggotry that was on display at George's table(s). There was also an extremely drunk, and probably high, woman dancing frantically by herself in the small open floor space. She was twirling and squealing and singing entirely different words to whatever music was playing, and then she twirled into our booth, and sat next to my friend, and started telling us that she was a bumble bee, and she needed to fly, but she'd sting us if we weren't careful, or some other such nonsense. This seemed like a good time to get up and order another drink, so I wandered over to the bar. While I was waiting, a man standing against the bar next to me, sipping a martini, looked me over a couple times and then said hello. He was dressed very GQ, with tan skin and about as much stubble as that guy from Coldplay, and he had a low, creepy, Jude Law British accent. He made some small talk before asking me if I knew George, gesturing at Boy George. No, I said I didn't, and he told me that he was an old friend. That should have been the first sign of trouble, but I wasn't paying attention at the time. He then made some comment about sexuality, and asked if I was gay. I made the mistake of joking around with him, saying: "Oh, I like the girls. Well, for the most part." "For the most part, eh?" His interest was far too piqued, but again, I didn't notice, and continued to joke: "Yeah, you know, I smoke a bone or two every once in a while, just for kicks." He laughed, and said: "Oh really?" Um, no. Not really. I told him I was kidding, that I'm straight. But it was too late. The damage was done. His foot, he felt, was in the door - the back door, if you will, har har - and it was time to fight his way in. He asked me if I'd ever been with a guy, and I made the mistake of telling him the truth: No, I haven't. I probably should have said yes, because I think the tantalizing opportunity to be the first was tremendously exciting to him. The wheels were turning in his creepy little head. Oh, the possibilities! At this point I was well aware of what was going on here, and made an awkward escape into conversation with someone else. But he quickly re-appeared, and asked if he could buy me a drink. Oh, no, I don't think so, I'm okay. That's what I told him, but he wasn't going to take no for an answer. So I said okay, yeah, buy me a drink. Mostly to shut him up. He disappeared for a bit, and I thought maybe he'd forgotten about me, when suddenly he made a grand re-appearance.

He slithered up to me, drink in hand, and said, with his eyes looking dead into mine: "You know, you're very attractive. I'd quite like to blow you." Now, unfortunately no amount of words could describe how creepy that sounded in his particular voice, with that debonair accent. I was kind of taken aback. What the hell do you say to that? I laughed awkwardly and again tried to turn it into a joke, by pointing at the drink and saying, "Ha ha, well, uh, I haven't had quite enough of these yet." That was a stupid fucking thing to say. Very seriously, he responded, "Well how many will it take? Because I have a tab running." Still chuckling awkwardly, I told him I appreciated his forwardness, but really. I'm into girls. Really. He rolled his eyes, as if my sexual preference was not even remotely a factor in the situation. "Come on. Trust me, it'll be the best blowjob you've ever had." You know, that's entirely possible. I wouldn't know, and I don't plan to find out. Not tonight, at least. So he backed down for a moment in favor of a different approach, which was revealing to me that he's some sort of gay porn star in England. Great. I tried using this to turn the conversation away from my penis being in his mouth, and we had a brief chat about the levels of censorship in British porn. And then Boy George walked by, and said hello to Mr. Gay Porn Star, and asked how he was doing. "Not bad," Mr. Gay Porn Star replied, "just trying to convince this straight boy how much fun he could have with me." Boy George looked at me, cocked an eyebrow, looked back to Mr. Gay Porn Star, extended his hands roughly a foot apart from each other in a gesture of measurement, and said, "does he know how fucking big you are?" Mr. Gay Porn Star just looked at me and shrugged and said, again in the world's creepiest voice: "Well, I am a porn star for a reason, you know." Oh Lord. How do I escape this? Now with Boy George's support, Mr. Gay Porn Star continued his assault on my heterosexuality: "Trust me, it'll be amazing. You just lay back, close your eyes, and think about a girl. You'll never know the difference. I could be out of your hotel room in ten minutes." Jesus Christ. Really, ha ha, um, it's okay, but really, thanks for the offer. "I really love blowing straight guys. It's a sort of hobby of mine. And I give incredible blowjobs. It really will be the best you've ever had. Just ask George!" Oh, fucking hell. Now I've got this atrocious mental image of Boy George's lumpy old skinlog in this dude's mouth, with his long old man balls drooping off of his chin. I can't drink fast enough. Please, someone ssaaaave meeeeeee.

And then, like an angel from Heaven, who suddenly appears? None other than crazy bumble bee lady, who twirls her way right in between me and Mr. Gay Porn Star, screaming nonsensically along with the music. And that was my escape route. "Hey there!" I say delightedly to the crazy lady, "I guess I owe you that dance now!" "LET'S FUCKING DANCE!!" she yells back, and I twirl away with her, mumbling something about thanks for the drink to Mr. Gay Porn Star. And then, instead of dancing with the crazy lady, I get the fuck out of there, and feel like I need a thousand showers to wash that dude's breath off of my face.

Ah, London. You don't disappoint.


P.S. - Because I really want a front row seat in Hell and still can't stop making fun of Terry Schiavo, please enjoy these two links:

Terry Schiavo's Blog

Photoshop Terry Schiavo on to Album Covers