Throuple

A horrible, horrible portmanteau word. A word like “bromance” or worst of all for me, “Movember”.

After several drinks my enthusiasm for doing things and getting other people to enjoy them (stop it) tends to over-ride all sense. Suddenly I’m suggesting sponsored cycle trips to Paris, the three peak challenge or ski weekends with all sorts of random acquaintances.

On this occasion we were at drinks with tall Thomas from up the road (who we've played with on several occasions) and I suggested he join us for a ridiculous personal shopping experience at Top Man. “Ooh we’re such a throuple” said Tom with delight. It was like a cold shower. I realised we risked crossing a blurred line from couple hanging out with single friend to dangerous territory. Here be dragons.

Touting in Soho

The other night found me in a basement bar in Soho nursing an over-priced lager having been fleeced for £20 by the voluptuous lady on the door.

Flatdating

With the room to rent ad going nowhere I recently conceded that I needed to try something else. The lurid sticker on my chest confirmed that I was hustling. Resisting the tendency to congregate with the other hustlers and bitch about the people looking for rooms ("don't they know what a double room in Kennington costs...that paint is Farrow and Ball") I got the elbows out and made with the iPhone.

Yup - I have finally worked how to put pictures in files so I only ever need to show what's relevant ("can I see how the garden is going?" "Sure Mum - let's just hope we don't see R's penis at the same time"). Armed with iPhone I did ok. Dermot worked in IT and had relocated to London from Manchester and could see there was room for his Mac and Tom was starting a training contract with a city law firm and it's an easy commute.

I liked Tom and he liked the flat but he was smart (they’re pretty focused those millenials). He declared that he wanted to move in and once I’d confirmed that the room was his explained that he was looking at something else and promptly went for that. 

Back to square one

Alpine angst

So we were really good all week.

Then on the Thursday we skiied all afternoon with two great guys from Germany drank too much and ended up in bed with one of them - let's call him Hot Guy From Berlin (HGFB). Anyway next day James of the salopet insults (you can see where this is going) gets wind of our scandalous behaviour bides his time and as we take to the dance floor for some final night fun, moves in on HGFB with a very focused kiss.

History.

As a couple you don't really have a leg to stand on do you? I mean this is two single guys getting it on but, but what made it doubly galling was that James ended up going back to HGFB's room which means HGFB's less hot room-mate was forced to exit and ended up crashing in our room. Gritted smiles all round the next morning.

Might be some time before we hang out with James again.

Gay Ski Week

250 gay men in a small Swiss village who all ski - giddy. 

We agreed to join our friend James for Arosa Gay Ski Week a few weeks back. R and I have a tendency to conjure up a reality that is far more hedonistic than the actuality and I don't think either of us had pictured classical concerts listening to Beethoven piano sonatas in the parish church or glasses of Chianti in front of a roaring fire Russian oligarch spotting,

Anyway - the evening entertainments are hotting up. After tonight's night-time tobogganing and fondue in the mountains there's a "spa party" in our hotel (the spa fits 25 at a push - not sure how that will work). Anyway - the smiley Croatian in our ski group asked if he could change for the spa in our room and he's clearly committed the number that we gave him to memory - right.

And the skiing? Amazing - we're being guided through the mountains with 15 other guys by a charismatic Frenchman called Sebastian.  Gay men notice your ski wear and the blue 90s Columbia salopets that my brother didn't want have been a sensation, James suggesting earlier that the high waist line (they're really long) give me a trouser style that even Simon Cowell would be proud of.

Flatsharing

Things are tight in the Outcapers household this Christmas after a spate of DIY and too much fun so it feels like a sensible and practical move to rent out my spare room.

I did this earlier in the year and it didn't go well. Steve's nipple rings, tattoo and fabulous range of weekend wear weren't apparent as he sat sipping a coffee as we chatted about working in the City nor was his ability to lose jobs and the boyfriend who much preferred it round ours.  A friend suggested that Steve possible appealed to my "inner peacock" - but the day to day reality is I'm a bit conservative. A lasting lesson in the kind of guy I shouldn't share with.

So the ad is up and I've photographed the flat with the determination of a high end estate agent. Good old Grindr - have already rejected one chap who came round based on the rather alarming picture of him that popped up the other day.  Onwards.

My big fat mess

Ever have to fake amiability when all you really want to do is curl up under the duvet shed a few manly tears and think "what a fuck up"? That was me last night with former work colleagues Karen and Trish swinging my legs in a Soho tapas bar looking at pictures of Trish's new baby and feeling so low I let Karen choose all the tapas. 

Being the dumper

What a fuck up - the ex and I broke up over two years ago and as the dumper I have inflicted a suitable amount of pain on myself. The lecherous Vauxhall flatmate (two weeks), my brother and family (two months) and the sweet but ever so slightly OCD flatmate (two years). This dumper had to quit the house and in my case was never really allowed back in.

The dumper who moves out gets the crap bits of furniture you both knew neither of you really liked. The dumper who moves out gets all his University text books and photos really fast and is still waiting to receive the antique Chinese porcelain bowl chosen on an important birthday years ago by his brother.

Making the call

So almost a year on from the handover of stuff which wasn't really a handover I finally picked up the phone to the ex this week. The ex is a lawyer and knows how to hold his own in an argument and I got a commitment to not commit to anything.

Getting a grip

R of course knows all of this and has been through all the stages - my latest admission of having achieved nothing by trying to be decent got short thrift and there it was in black and white. The man I adore whose goodbye gesture yesterday morning was the finger and who never chews his food was deeply upset. I was being managed by someone who I last spoke to in February re the delivery of a set of belongings which would finally close a painful page in my life. My conversation with R was short and almost tearful - "deal with it".

Manning up

As a child I have an abiding memory of my first rugby match - another eight year got tackled and threw the ball at me as he lay on the ground.  I threw it back at him - humiliation. It wasn't like it was a conscious decision I just wasn't that interested and give or take a few horrors I've managed to avoid making a prat of myself in sports with any kind of technical factor since I left school.
But I digress. That doesn't mean I want to look like a shrieking wallflower but I do have shocking coordination so I was slightly anxious about the deep sea fishing trip while we were in Cuba. There we were in the middle of the Caribbean with two swarthy, taciturn sailors trawling for barracuda.

R (bastard) knows about these things and had already established a rapport with the swarthies.  I'd already been caught taking too many pictures of R fishing which the swarthies had wanted to look at. Thankfully I'd had the foresight to get rid of the naked pictures also on my camera or we might have had a man overboard situation. 

R caught the first barracuda in excellent fashion and then it was my go. Chief swarthy strapped me into a harness for additional control (a harness!) and off we went.  I was struggling with the idea of pulling in the fish and then reeling like mad as you let the rod drop - it felt like it was going to be confusing and I managed to unscrew the handle of the rod for starters. 
I took ages and made a prat of myself but I caught the barracuda and then another. The adrenaline was pumping and maybe it was that second rum and coke but I felt a particular affinity with my hunter gatherer ancestors.  Check out our final haul.