outs
When I tell people I work for a government department, I often get asked whether there are any other gay men working there, as if there was a strict screening process to weed us out and I miraculously managed to butchify my act and slip through the net.
Until last Friday, my answer was "Well, one of my colleagues keeps on his desk a picture of himself dressed as a nun at a Sound of Music sing-a-long". That's the chap I recently referred to him as "the gay guy I befriended at work" - which made Dr B. crouch down, slap his knees repeatedly, smile broadly and say "Where's the poppers? Where's the poppers then? Good boy!" (his interpretation of my expression). There's also someone else that I swear I saw suspended in mid-air in at Fist during my "slut year" (that's like a gap year between relationships, only, ahem, wider). As of Friday night (office do for the launch of the website we are working on) I can add another one to the Friends of Dorothy list, if the following conversation with a very drunk man I already had a hint that he played for my team is anything to go by. Italics are to be read with an Irish accent. Repeat conversation every twenty minutes or so throughout the party. Groping is optional.Can I ashk you a question?
Of course.
I really fancy you a lot.
That is not a question.
I know. I'm shorry. I'm really really shorry.
I just bumped into him in the kitchen and said hallo. I am not sure he even remembers it. I feel hurt.