Le vendredi

I hadn’t seen J since September: my trip back to Ireland, his trip back to the States, my having X visiting for a week, and his shagging habits, had made it impossible to catch up before.

Who is J? Our friendship extends back ten months, a considerable duration for acquaintance in a world where the average relationship lasts as long as it takes to wipe up the spunk. Knowing that you will assume the worst whatever I tell you, it’s better to be honest and open about how it all came about.

While looking on Craig’s List for accommodation last January, I noticed advertisements for gentlemen who have sex with gentlemen. Imagine my surprise to discover one advertisement that I might have written myself: a brilliant, desirable, well-endowed and eminently shag-able gay male of the same age, arriving in the same week, same interests, same everything, who was interested in making new acquaintances. It was quite uncanny… and so of course I responded, in the knowledge that it was highly likely that we’d hate one another upon sight.

Upon meeting, despite our stunning good looks, all thought of our bodily fluids ever being exchanged was forgotten, and small talk quickly gave way to open discussion of our tumultuous personal lives: he was stepping out from a five year relationship that had been going wrong, and in yet another coincidence I was stepping out as a single man on the scene after a five year break: a year travelling, following a year in the gay-less wilderness of New Zealand, before which I was with in a relationship with X for three years. By a strange twist of fate, we even found ourselves living on the same street in the 11eme Arrondissement, meeting regularly to discuss the trials and tribulations of settling in Paris while practicing our French. He poured out tales of online encounters and sexual fantasies that he was tempted to fulfil, remaining hesitant before taking a plunge that was sure to end his committed and monogamous relationship: I poured out frustrations brought about by the strangest sexual involvement that I’ve ever had in my life, concerning P (my life at that time was being scripted by David Lynch: it’s a tale worth waiting for, believe me)

Suffice to say that at one point J went back to the States, then returned to France happy, single and unattached, and into the welcoming arms of every available gay man in Paris. Fantasies were no longer unfulfilled, and internet encounters no longer ended with a little hand-relief after a quick fumble at the keyboard. Before long, I was vicariously enjoying a fulfilling sexual life, without the risk of picking up anything nastier than the bar tab.

As I approached Le Duplex on Friday, fond memories came to me of the last night we met. In the space of a few days of freedom, he’d already arranged thirteen meetings (an unfortunate number, I know) kindly sharing with me his satisfaction with the first four of those highly charged encounters (details will not be posted on this website for fear that screens melt.) He sat in the basement of Amnesia Cafe, with his mobile telephone vibrating gently in his pocket, announcing regular messages from men declaring their indecent intentions to shag him senseless for the remainder of the week.

Later that same night, J and I wandered to our perennial favourite Oh! Fada, and one of J’s platonic gay friends joined us, a short stocky and indisputably handsome fellow called Z, accompanied by an attractive blonde Aussie (who will remain letter-less, for soon to be obvious reasons)

A night of drunken revelry ensued, with much gin, much dancing and much fun… causing much offence to those standing around; at one point, I engaged in apology for toes metaphorically trampled upon. But I digress: what matters is that I liked both Z and the attractive Aussie, who undoubtedly intended to take one another home and do unspeakable things, and at the end of the night I left their company expressing my hope of meeting with one or both for more mindless drinking and conversation.

Having been provided the means of contacting the attractive Aussie, with whom I had spoken for a long period about careers, I duly invited him to another planned night of drunken revelry, on this occasion in Pigalle, which offers a pleasing contrast to the Marais, with my preferred ambiance of light sleaziness as opposed to completely stylish sleaziness. I had arranged to meet with C and one of her several friends in La Fourmi, an appropriately named bar, for ‘the ant’ marches all day and night with its zinc and patina tables, enormous antique mirrors and superb hedgehog centre lighting. J was invited to join us, of course, but circumstances made it impossible to attend.

What might cause two inseparable friends like ourselves to part? Childish nonsense, of course.

It appeared that the attractive Aussie and Z, having exchanged bodily fluids and telephone numbers, did what all gay men are driven to do… play excruciatingly silly games with one other. Unfulfilled promises to call, unanswered invitations, unreturned messages… it must be said that it was all the fault of attractive Aussie, behaving in what can only be described as an immature way, not openly declaring his lack of interest. Unfortunately, it spoiled everyone’s fun: it left J unable to attend our social gathering, fearing that he might offend his friend Z, who certainly wasn’t coming… all excessively like returning to adolescence, I know… but such is the gay world. Suffice to say that I allowed the Aussie make his own way to the gay horizon after that night, without knowing or caring if Z ever heard from him again, or if Z knew that I knew that he’d… oh, hell, you see, that’s what happens, it becomes so confusing for everyone.

Let’s return to Le Duplex, shall we? I was going to see J after a two month break, and there was a certain skip in my step as I made my way through the frosty and badly-lit streets, for it had been several nights since I’d been well and truly inebriated and a little sensational gossip was long overdue. There’d been suggestive emails from J about a man who resembles no other than Mr O Martinez, the Frenchman involved with our own Ms K Minogue… in short, I was guaranteed an entertaining evening.

Little did I know that before the night ended I was going to be enjoying lively entertainment of another sort, from a gentleman caller, for the first time in… why, I blush just thinking of it!