Fag Hag Diary

One hot enchilada.


Last night the Fag Hag was walking through London’s glittering Soho (Mon and Tues only my darlings – any other night is for strippers, Austrian tourists and girls who’ll fuck Ashley Cole) and suddenly had one of those feelings. You know the ones, where you say to yourself, tonight Matthew – off-of Sri Lankan houseboys – I got it going on.

The Fag Hag hair was blow dried to perfection without being so heavy it looked like I charged by the hour, and the heels were chanelling those Addicted to Love slags. In short I was one hot bitch and Soho was damned lucky to have me.

As I strutted past Tottenham Court Rd blowing kissed to the junkies, I caught sight of a group of guys walking in my direction. One of them checked me out. I checked him out. I gave him a killer smile. He gave me a killer smile. I winked. He winked. It was all getting too Borderline video for words. Finally he said softly, ‘Hey. Fancy a toyboy? Ha ha.’ And ran off laughing.

A toyboy? The man was about 30. He had eye bags and a briefcase and sensible shoes. So how old must I fucking look? I’m off to get an endoscopic brow lift before they ask me to go on Loose Women.

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One comment to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. I had that feeling once. 1983 it was. Lasted a whole ten minutes.

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