Those reading this column regularly will notice the pattern. Member of the LGBTQ community gets Grindr, has either shit or great sex, then leaves. Of course there’s no problem with that. I’ve had a lot of great (note not shit, as I carefully vet my recruits) sex that way. But, dear readers, there is also the good old fashioned club hookup. Cast your eyes back prior to Android phones. In the misty shades of the past there lies an age where dick pics could only be sent through an expensive SMS or through the post. I’m talking about the club hookup, which is still alive and well in Oxford.
Forget Bridge, Parkend and Wahoo. If you want sex (and can’t wait until Plush comes repeatedly on a weekend), then Cellar and Kiss bar are the place to be. With the death of Babylove (rest its grimy soul), we all needed somewhere to go and be as edgy/ horny as fuck.
And in fair Kiss, we lay our scene. Unlike Grindr hook-ups, get enough overpriced cocktails in you or cheap vodka snaffl ed in your friend’s bra and you don’t have to put up with awkward chit-chat. Lock eyes, dance in a sultry manner, lay a hand on a guy’s waist and hey presto, you’ve pulled. Although in this case, it was more stagger aimlessly, bump into someone and then end up being straddled by them in the corner of the club. Oh, and only remembering this actually happened to you when someone sconces you at crewdate and everyone laughs when you don’t stand up.
Straddling complete and after a few drunken rounds upon the dancefl oor, you’re raring to go. Thrusting into a taxi when you’re struggling to remember someone’s name and hurtling into some far-fl ung fi eld is far more exciting than checking how many feet away your Grindr Romeo is.
Plus, I’m a gent. I give the guy my coat because he’s cold. Which the guy responds to by hurling himself out of the taxi onto the pavement outside his house, whilst throwing the contents of his stomach onto my beautiful denim in the process. From this point onwards, it’s merely damage control and hoping the guy hasn’t got alcohol poisoning. After a few more chuns in his neighbour’s garden and earcrushing shouts, we finally get into his house. Far from the fuck I imagined, I’m now holding a cup to puke into as he refuses to leave his bed. Mother Theresa would be proud of my chastity and charity.
Finally, a click at the door. His housemates have returned and my babysitting has come to an end. I plan my escape. Except, it’s 3:30 a.m. I have no money and am an hour’s walk from college. I am resigned to spending the night in the den of puke. Finally relieved from my duties as carer, I get to sleep. Yes, it was an ordeal and a great deal more traumatic than a Grindr hookup, but the ‘sorry I vommed on you’ blowjob I got the next day was still pretty good.
