Day 8: Make us want you...

Hah.

When I was 20*, I just used to post shirtless pictures, and the denizens of OUTintheUK would all say nice things about me, or proposition me for sex, or offer me money to watch me masturbate furiously before the cold, hard, lifeless stare of their digital lens. Or sometimes, if I was lucky, all three.

And I won’t lie. I kind of liked it. It was flattering and fun and exciting. (I never took the money- FYI.)**

But always done with a pinch of humour. I wasn’t *just* being a vacuous attention whore. I’d like to think I was pretty amusing at the same time. I think I was. But I did like being wanted.

And now I’ve grown up, and I don’t post *quite* as many shirtless pictures. Though those linked to me on Facebook will doubtless disagree.

Now I have to rely on charm, wit and my kind, selfless, caring nature.

I have stopped worrying about being wanted as well. It used to be a big deal. It really isn’t now. Now I have to settle for being stable and solvent and interesting and friendly and witty and amusing. Ironically, I honestly think I was actually far more witty and amusing back in those days though. When I had time to be, probably.

It is nice not to be so preoccupied with impressing people and trying to be appealing, sexually or otherwise, though. But I sort of think I’ve grown into my looks in a way. I’m probably a more appealing package these days than I was when I was 20. And I only take my shirt off nowdays, and rely on my slim, tanned, athletic body, if it’s absolutely essential.***

*and maybe a few years beyond...

**I was giving it away.

***to the fee.

Any time, at your convenience.

Day 10: Most embarrassing moment.

Friday night.

Drunk.

Silly.

Walking home, I decide it would be terribly amusing to throw things at Simon. I throw my keys at him.

“Hahahaha!  Mind out!!  Hahahaha!” I cry.

I don’t see exactly where they land.  I see them fall, but I can’t see them on the ground. Where can they be?

                                                                                                                                         

Saturday morning.

Sober.

Hurting.

I am outside the police station, on my knees, scrabbling around in the gutter over a drain. In my hand I have a wire coat-hanger, unwound and transformed into a makeshift hook/robotic arm.

I spend a long time poking it between the bars, waggling it around and scraping at the tantalising twist of steel which I can see but not reach. Some of the things I draw up from this hellish abyss are unpleasant. 

Inexplicably, long, rotting tangles of what appears to be human hair are freely available from these recesses in abundance. Also damp, rotting leaves and elderly tissues can be unearthed by the wiliest explorers.

The most rewarding part is how, when frequent passers-by amble along outside the police station, I feel the need to stop what I’m doing and explain my situation through a series of loud and unnatural proclamations:

“HARK- I HAVE ALMOST MANAGED TO REACH MY KEYS! OH MY KEYS! MY KEYS! IF ONLY I’D NOT ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED THEM!”

in case people thought I was doing something weird or planting a bomb or something.

Oddly, no police challenged me throughout the endeavour, which lasted about 25 minutes but felt like hours.

Eventually, I retrieved my keys and sat them in a bowl of bleach for the afternoon.

What did I learn?

Never throw precious items.

Or always keep spare coat-hangers.