I met with my man Gee earlydoors yesterday for a morning brew. It proved a revealing experience. Arriving, I walk over to meet him in the coffee joint and clock his upmarket canvas shoulder bag casually astride a chair in the corner. Lying on the seat opposite a flowing deep yellow pashmina trails down to the ground. Guy's no slouch with the ladies, but it's not even 8.30am. This is sterling work even by his standards. Spying him at the bar ordering coffee in his well-cut marine blue suit, I go over. 

"Who's the chick mate?" He smiles. I repeat the question. He looks quizzical. "The scarf." A shrug. I look around. Apart from some old dude with The Guardian superglued to his forehead and the barrista making our coffee, there's not a soul in the place. "The chick." Still nothing. I stare at him. Completely blank. Time stands still. Then splutters reluctantly back into life. And then the moment of dawning comprehension. Oooooh right. As of yesterday, it appears my great friend and new flatmate has a novelty orientation of sorts. 

Let it be known from now on, Guy will be receiving his balls.. from the pavilion end. 

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There's being in touch with your feminine side. And then there's wearing shit that makes you look like you love touching sweet male ass.

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