To describe exactly why my stomach coiled and my heart rate increased when I saw him would be like trying to explain why the earth is round, or why Oranges don't have a more original name, or why, no matter how much gel I use, I can never get my hair to look like that model in the advertisement with the skateboard.
You see, this has never happened to me before. I've never had a primal reaction to another man in my life. Yes, this is one of those stories where the straight guy looks across a crowded room at the hot man who just walked in and Boom! All of a sudden he switches teams.
Only, the room wasn't crowded, it was a garden. He really wasn't all that hot in the grand scheme of things and despite the fact that he was all I thought about, I refused for a while after that night to admit my time with him was anything but a one-off.
I was new to the great city of London. A qualified accountant having recently been transferred from the North to the Hammersmith offices of a multinational dotcom company, I was taking full advantage of the significant pay increase and had yet to truly discover the cost of living here. As such, I still hadn't bothered with the underground. Black Taxi's were my only mode of transportation.
It was the middle of July and a muggy evening. The weather forecast had predicted storms but I was going to a private party hosted by a colleague in the Marketing department so I wasn't too bothered about dressing for the weather. It was Gary's Birthday and everyone on the third floor had been invited along to help 'commiserate turning fifty' as his email had so succinctly put it. I had initially decided not to go, but my manager had persuaded me with talk of 'getting to know your colleagues on a more personal level'. I eventually agreed, thinking I would show my face for an hour at most, then duck out of there when no one was looking.
That decided, Saturday night rolled around and seven thirty I found myself heaving my unwilling torso out of the comfortable old armchair in the living room and heading for the shower.
There are few luxuries in life I consider an absolute necessity. My shower Gel is one of them. It comes from a small shop in Yorkshire that hand-make their own products and smells wonderful. It also costs a fortune, but like I said, an absolute necessity. Of course, it's even harder to get hold of now I live down south, but I transfer the money and my wonderful mother goes into town every month and buys me a couple of bottles then sends down a care package.
The best thing about my shower gel is that the smell lingers. Hours after showering I can still smell the wonderful aroma of whatever it is they put in it to make me a repeat customer. It also means I don't bother with aftershave unless I have actually shaved, which, thanks to my genes is only twice a week, so I guess I can justify their outrageous prices by saving money in other areas.
Once clean, dry and dressed I stood in front of my mirror for a few minutes contemplating the nightmare that is my hair. I wasn't a bad looking guy. At twenty seven years old, five eleven and, thanks to growing up on a farm, there wasn't much extra weight to be seen. I'd even managed to develop some stomach muscles along with my biceps. I guess lugging bails of hay and kicking a football around at weekends will do that to you.
I grabbed the 'Extra Hold' gel from the desk and pulled off the lid. Running a generous amount through my brown hair I worked for almost ten minutes trying to get the Bed Head look I was going for. Nothing doing. Somewhere around Messy, But Not Horrendous I gave up and stood back for the overall image assessment.
Cynical brown eyes stared back at me through overly long lashes that had been the cause of mild teasing back in school. Black shoes, blue jeans, fitted black shirt with long sleeves that I could roll up if I got too hot. It would have to do. I grabbed a black roll neck sweater (in case I got too cold, you never know with English weather), checked I had my keys, wallet and phone and was out of the door by eight.
By the time the taxi pulled up outside Gary's house in Peckham I could tell the party was in full swing. Balloons had been strung up on the door either side of a plastic banner announcing 'Party Inside!', but the humidity and lack of wind had caused them to wilt and hang limp against the door frame. The noise coming from inside the house filtered out onto the street and as I paid the driver and stepped out of the cab I could already hear indistinguishable chatter over the base beat remake of some bad eighties track that refused to go gently into that good night.
Taking a deep breath and reminding myself of the promise that I had made to only stay for an hour, I walked towards the front door and rang the bell.
It took three attempts to get someone to hear me, but eventually my persistence was noticed by an attractive young woman in her late twenties who opened the door with a shy smile and stood aside to let me through.
"Hi" I nodded to her as I stepped over the threshold. "I'm Alex. From Gary's work." She looked blankly at me for a moment so I pressed on. "The guy who's party this is. Do you know where I can find him?"
Finally the clouds parted and she finally started to show some signs of life. "Oh, Pinky! He's in the garden with the boys. Go on through the kitchen."
Odd nickname, I mused as I thanked her politely and walked through the packed hallway and living room, dodging people carrying drinks and trying not to step on toes as I made my way to the empty kitchen as instructed, grabbing a still sealed bottle of single malt whisky on the way.
