Thursday, 10 February 2011

Badface Investigates – Being Kissed:

I’m in a club with a couple of friends, quite drunk. That’s a lie. I’m biblically drunk. The happy drunk where everything is hilarious and you keep shouting cheers and smashing your pint glasses together.

Did I mention that I’ve pulled?

I don’t really ever pull in clubs, it’s a bit tacky. Besides it gets in the way of all the drinking. Also it could potentially lead to drunken sex with a stranger, which for me is a lot like the azetc zone on the crystal maze. When you’re actually there it’s much more confusing than it looks on the tele, there’s loads of pressure to perform, and a bald man with a jazzy waistcoat keeps looking in through the window.

I should probably consider drinking less when I got out. Or watch less crystal maze when I’m hungover.

The other slight problem with this whole kissing situation is that it’s a bloke.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite a liberal guy, but this bloke is fat and ugly. Also this is totally against my will. He’s literally grabbing me by the head and forcing his tongue into my mouth. This, my internet savvy friends, is actual facerape.

I probably shouldn’t have told him I was gay - all those times.

I was having a jolly old time in the club finding everything hilarious and testing the stress limits of pint glasses with excessive ‘chinging’. When from over my shoulder I hear someone say; “he looks like a right girl.”

I get this a lot so I spin around and say, “pardon mate?”

A short fat chav leans into me and says, ”I said I think you look like a gay.”

Confused by his change of attempted insult and encouraged by my blood alcohol level I decide to deconstruct his attack by launching into a barely comprehensible tirade. I start by complimenting his gaydar and telling him that I am in fact gay, detailing at length my fondness for cock. If you’ll pardon the pun. For flavor I describe in minute detail a fictional homosexual liaison that I claimed to have just had in the toilets.

I can’t remember what I said exactly, but doubtless it was an excellently worded, eloquent display of powerful rhetoric. At the very least I know that I didn’t throw up at any point. I performed with a borderline offensive theatrical campiness that would have put all those gameshow hosts from the 90s to shame.

At this point I recognize a familiar look in his eye and brace myself to be punched.

You may find this hard to believe but I get punched in the face quite a lot. As such I’m pretty good at spotting the signs of an impending punch. People’s faces change when they are thinking about hitting mine.

Instead of punching me he grabs me and forces his tongue into my face.

Well this is new.

I’m not really sure what to do. I want to ask him to stop but he’s sort of got a monopoly on my mouth right now. I decide that the polite thing to do is to let him get on with it and hope that he’ll come up for air eventually.

While he’s kissing me I’m sort of stand there awkwardly trying to work out what has prompted this unusual reaction. I’ve got two potential theories. The first, rather vain, theory is that he believed my drunken faux campness and it awoke his deep-seated repressed homosexual desires that he was hiding behind his blunt butchness.

My second, more realistic, theory is that he knew all along that I was a drunk tosser and decided to call my bluff with a perfectly constructed comeback to shut me up completely.

I secretly hope it’s the first reason because it appeals to my ego – but if it’s the second, his plan has worked perfectly. I’m standing frozen, bolt upright, while he forces his tongue around in my mouth.

Finally he lets go of my face and takes a step back. He’s staring at me blankly.

I decide now might be a good time to head to the bar.

I turn to leave and bump straight into my open-mouthed friend who apparently has been standing there holding two pints the whole time. Great.


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