Mouth to Mouth

It's not often that I go out clubbing these days, but on the rare occasions I do it always seems to involve getting spontaneously snogged by random strangers. I've referred to this phenomenon before, and the question about permission remains unanswered; I'm certainly not aware of doing anything to provoke it.

When I mentioned this to a friend on Saturday, his response was "Well, you're very cute;" which may or may not be true but hardly seems relevant either way. Nightclubs are full of unmolested cute people. At least, I think so; perhaps molestation is common practice these days and I just haven't been paying attention.

In any case, the last couple of times have brought new wrinkles of psycho strangeness to the experience. On Friday, for example, visiting Club Kali in the company of, inter alia, assorted bloggers, I was pounced on by a not-unattractive young gentleman who, after sticking his tongue in my mouth, and without the benefit of an introduction, addressed me by name; or so I thought at the time. Caught off guard, I tried to press him on the matter, but he feigned ignorance and I beat a hasty retreat.

Two weeks before, at Popstarz, I went alone to the bar while my companions stood in the horribly-long queue for the cloakroom. While I was waiting to be served some guy pushed up and tried to pick a fight with me, seething with aggression and resentment. A man who looked like a bouncer, who'd been leaning against the bar with a drink, urged him to restraint with a friendly arm and the immortal line "He's not worth it." Angry and insulted (I was an innocent bystander; and I bloody well am worth it!), I got my drinks and headed back, and the incident faded.

Later, beside the main dancefloor, holding Edgar's Red Stripe while he went to the loo, a man came up and started kissing me; and I'm sure it was the same one. I asked him, and he denied it, so I figured I was mistaken; it was pretty dark. But a few moments later he changed his story: "That was me at the bar; I'm sorry."

Then he told me he loved me.

I don't know where all this comes from; I'm sure things weren't always this way. Maybe I've somehow developed an aura that summons them from the ether, calling like to like; a kind of psychic Kiss Me Quick hat. I'd like to imagine it's down to my irresistible loveliness, but more likely the broadcast says cheap slapper desperate for physical affection.

Even the I want to fuck you boy from the office dragged me into the street to make out after the Christmas party.

"I'm not gay," he told me some minutes in, not in the least defensively.

"I know. So why are you doing this?"

He shrugged. "I do what I want."

At least we seem to be on better terms at work now than before.
Posted by matt at February 20, 2006 08:12 PM