The Fag Hag got chatted up by a real-life man on Friday night.
He was quite a handsome man. He was quite a young man. We really likee (straight men over 35 are only good for two things, I’ve decided: doing your taxes and defending you in court). He was a man with a fabulous haircut (think Franz Ferdinand synth-pop flick meets WH Auden) and a reassuringly taut frame in a skinny jean.
He was even quite an honest man: ‘Can we go out on a date?’ he asked on his phone message. ‘Although I feel I should warn you first, I have a small willy.’ (Well, at least he bothered to warn me, which is more than I can say for some…)
So, go already, I hear you cry. What’s stopping you, you neurotic insania Fag Hag? Well, there’s just one teensy catch…
My gaydar is flashing like a rent boy in The Pleasuredrome. And my gaydar is the best in the business. Maybe it’s a Russell Brand thing. Maybe it’s a bog-standard metrosexual thing. Or maybe it’s a trusses in The Hoist thing.
Anyway, I intend to get to the bottom of it. Help me my pretties. As La Houston once wailed, ‘How will I know if he really loves boys?’