Your first night out as a fully-fledged gay is a rite of passage. I hung up my dancing shoes a while back: scrapped the mayo off the heels, popped them in a box and tucked them away ready for weddings and New Year’s Eve. Now that I’m out though, it’s time to explore this brave new world of mine; to dust off my heels and my heart and take them for a night on the town. It’s scary – and exhilarating.
I may have ‘done’ clubbing in my youth but the fact is every drink, wink, flirt, kiss and desperate 3am chicken burger happened to a woman who wasn’t quite herself. Those should have been the years of frenzied kissing with women in the back of cabs, years when I couldn’t wriggle out of my g-string fast enough. I hunger to have those good times again, to have a sex ed that’s a little less straight-laced this time around.
For my first Big Gay Night Out my mates take me to a bar in Soho. We descend into a grimy basement with faux leather chairs and a disco ball where women sit defensively in pairs, eyeing us like we’re a pack of cobras.
“Friendly bunch,” my friend murmurs, making a beeline for the bar.
We stock up on white wine and tequila and park at a table near the back, my friends ushering me into a spot near the wall, which provides maximum lady ogling opportunities.
“Who do you fancy? Ooh, she’s fit!”
“Erm, I don’t know,” I mumble, glugging white wine and shooting a nervous glance round the room which merely establishes that yes, there are some women present in this room. If I can’t even look at a woman how am I going to actually talk to one?
It turns out I don’t need to worry about talking to a woman because the tequila is more than happy to do it for me.
“Whash your name…?” I slur at a startled blond in Converse trainers and a beanie who mewls something back that I don’t hear.
“Thish plaishe ish a bit weird ishn’t it?” She nods before edging slowly backwards saying something about her friends.
I spot a pretty girl in a group and swagger over, sloshing white wine down my top. I haven’t even opened my mouth before her friends turn on me: “No!” they shout in unison “She’s got a girlfriend!” “I’M HER GIRLFRIEND!” one of them bellows. Bloody hell, alright! Guess that’s a no then.
At last I get chatting to someone. After a few minutes of gurning and pouring wine down the side of my face, I lean in for a snog. I’ve imagined this moment so many times – the sky ablaze with stars, soft wine lips and warm hands blurring into one.
Back in the club, my partner thrusts her tongue in my mouth and waggles it vigorously. I try and respond with softer motions but nothing’s stopping the whirring jet propeller in my mouth. We stay like that, motionless but for our angry tongues, until my neck aches.
“I just have to go to the bathroom,” I say, before grabbing my friends who are twerking drunkenly on the dance floor in a sea of boob. “We have to go!” I hiss, “I’ve been attacked!”
They usher me up the stairs and into the night air where I fill them in.
“You’ve popped your lesbian cherry!” my friend cackles.
I’m not sure it was popped so much as stuck in a blender but deep down I can’t help feeling a flush of pleasure. I kissed a girl! And I liked it.