Tag Archives: Boyfriend

How to Give a Good Nose Job

My favourite gay club night was Spice, when it was held in SPY night club, South William Street. The plush interior of SPY, three rooms of amazing music and the crème de la crème of the gay scene made these nights memorable. The hay day of Spice coincided with the time I broke up with my boyfriend of three years. I spent many a night at Spice, dancing energetically to nostalgic tunes, attempting to convince myself I was happy as a singleton. Denial aside, I did have fun. Spice will forever be my Studio 54.

Later the same year, Boyfriend and I reconciled. We made another go of it on the basis we attempt remedy the issues that caused us to break up. Both of us felt we needed to socialise more as a couple. We injected a healthy dose of “coupley” outings into our relationship. One such outing was a visit to my favourite club night. On this particular evening, we encountered some of Boyfriend’s friends he made during our six months apart. One friend, Mike, was what you might term a ‘celebrity’ gay; a Eurovision song writer with an on-off-even-more-celebrity-gay boyfriend. He was – and always is – groomed and well dressed. He sported an air of self-importance and a tight t-shirt, showing his fine arms and pecs. I should chat with him and make an effort, I thought. He and I stood side by side in the nightclub. Dance music pounded from the massive speakers under the DJ’s decks. Strobes flashed in time with the music. I leaned in to deliver some small talk. I spoke loudly over the music.

“I love Spice. I’ve had more fun here than I have in any other night club.”

“The music makes it. I love it,” he agreed, nodding energetically.

I withdrew from his ear. What could we talk about next? Still thinking, I turned to survey the room, checking out the eye candy. I can only say I intended to talk to him again; I turned my head right, while looking to my left, absorbing the visuals on offer. As my head pivoted, my peripheral vision detected my companion’s head was much closer to me than expected. He was clearly doing the same as I, turning his head towards me, with no knowledge of where I was. It’s hard to describe the exact dynamics, but our heads collided at such a warped angle, just as I was about to speak, that Mike’s nose entered my mouth. It did not just graze or slightly poke my mouth; it went right in, withdrawing a coating of saliva as it exited. I was mortified.

“Eh, I am so sorry.”

He wiped his nose dry. “Don’t worry about it.”

The small talk continued, Meanwhile, I awkwardly remained next to him, praying we would leave his company. My face was red with embarrassment. I just sucked this guy’s nose, was all I could think. I just sucked this guy’s nose!

Weeks later, Boyfriend invited me to attend dinner with his friends one Saturday night. He noted my hesitance to respond.

“You really don’t like them, do you?” His tone was accusatory.

“No, they’re OK,” I said. I looked down at the floor. “I am a little embarrassed about seeing Mike.”

“Why on Earth would you be embarrassed about seeing him? Mike specifically asked me to bring you.”

I told Boyfriend the story of sucking off Mike’s nose. I can’t recall him ever laughing so hard as he did.

I never made the dinner in the end but I did provide a topic for conversation; Boyfriend repeated the Nose Story to the ten or so people in attendance. Apparently, the gathering, including Mike who had no memory of the incident, burst into convulsions at the tale.


Listen to Aunt Eleanor

“Do one thing every day that scares you” are the words used by Eleanor Roosevelt. I think Eleanor’s words are powerful. In my opinion she recommends we shake things up now and again. It’s just too easy to allow oneself remain stagnant and blinkered in life. We only can only see and learn what we allow ourselves to. I don’t adhere to Eleanor’s advice on a daily basis, but every week I attempt something that rattles my cage. I do the opposite of what my instinct tells me and by doing so, I put myself outside of my comfort zone.

During the week, I received a message from Conortje, informing me he and his other half would be in Dublin for the approaching weekend. He asked if I ‘d like to meet  for a drink. I’ve read Conor’s blog for the last year or so. I’m familiar with his story. I knew much about him. I even knew of his other half, “Newfie”. I wanted to meet them for a pint, but I was nervous. I don’t know why. Perhaps, it’s down to the fact I’m a control freak. I hate surprises. I fear the unexpected. Despite this, I made arrangements to meet.

I arrived in the Front Lounge at around 21.30. I was only familiar with his appearance from photos. I tried to spot him with my best squint and unsurprisingly failed. I texted him for his exact location, ordered a drink and waited patiently by the bar. He replied. I spotted him in the distance and rolled up in my usual over-enthusiastic-compensating-for-nervousness-extroverted manner. This eventually subsided and I relaxed into the conversation.

Time passed pretty quickly. I learned much about Conor and his boyfriend. They were chilled, easy to talk to and very interesting. During one discussion, we realised Newfie had never heard of the Twilight Series, probably one of the most successfully marketed, teenage angst-romance novels ever. I found this amazing. Needless to say the night flew. The transition from the Front Lounge to the Dragon was barely noticeable. The laughs continued long into the night.

All in all I had a great time. Why I was initially nervous, I don’t know. By meeting Conor and Newfie, I heard some interesting stories, laughed countless times and made some new friends.

Eleanor Roosevelt could not have said it better.

Getting OTT on Gaga

I was at dinner with Boyfriend and his London Friend earlier this year. I happened to bring up a favourite subject of mine.

“Can you pass the salt, please? Speaking of salt, what do you think of Lady Gaga?”

London Friend is a fashion designer that works for a pretty high end Italian brand. He obviously knows his shit when it comes to clothes. He did not speak about her creative design or think much of Haus of Gaga. He opined Gaga as cool for her individuality and self-expression.

“A friend of mine designs clothes for her,” he said. “He does some work for Haus of Gaga. At the moment he is working on a dress that releases dry ice.”

“Really? That’s amazing!” I was genuinely fascinated.

“Well this particular design is not going well. He’s not sure how feasible the dry ice dress is since it might burn or kill her.”

“Oh,” I answered awe struck. “Yes, that might be a problem. I am seeing her in the O2 in a few weeks time. Hopefully her dry ice dress will be ready by then. Some friends and I were thinking of getting all dressed up as a tribute to her.”

“That would be fun,” he commented. “I could probably get you some of her stuff, if you wanted.”

My thoughts left the dining table for another realm. I imagined myself turning up at the O2 in some of Gaga’s get up. My mind’s eye pictured people taking photos of me in my Gaga Costume.

“Your costume is so authentic!” they would cry at me from behind the many camera flashes.

“I know!” I would answer, revelling in the attention, behind a wacky Philip Treacy face-mask-type-hat.

My dream sequence rolled forward to Lady Gaga’s performance. I stood in the front of the standing area, dancing to Gaga’s vocals. She scans the crowd and looks in my general direction. She notices me. She turns to her production team and shouts something. The music suddenly stops.

“Excuse me,” she roars into the crowd. “Where did you get your outfit?”

The entire occupancy of the O2 is staring at me. Lady Gaga glares angrily from the stage.

I awoke from my trance. I was back at the dining table with Boyfriend and London Friend. A chill ran down my spine.

“That’s a very kind offer, but I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

Boyfriend and London Friend looked confused and excluded.

“It would end badly,” I added, before changing the conversation.

Cleaning Out My Closet

Since Monday, when I decided I was coming home for the weekend, I longed for Friday, the couch and a robust glass of red. I’m back in the Midlands sans le Boyfriend for the first time in a while.

Tonight, on arriving at the house, I walked into my old bedroom. Some random objects were spread on my bed.

“Mum, what is this stuff on my bed?”

She shouted from the kitchen. “I was clearing out some things from your room.”

I get a little defensive when Mum rifles through my belongings. There isn’t much. She has a four bedroom house. I ask if it is too much to expect a few boxes of my personal effects to remain untouched. I refrained from protesting. Instead I examined the contents of some unopened boxes.

The cardboard containers, similar to archive boxes, were full of college notes – marketing, statistical analysis and business policy. They were old and dog-eared. Some notes dated back to eight years ago. Those days are long gone. I emptied the box to the floor.

“I can’t believe I still have these,” I exclaimed.

Mum joined me in my room. She watched with satisfaction.

I opened the wardrobe. In the bottom of my wardrobe were more notes, magazines, bank statements and official documents. Stacks of paper, plastic folders and A4 pads formed a mound in my bedroom. I discovered some gay magazines; Attitude, Gay Times and the now out of print Gay Ireland. The covers were raunchy. I didn’t recall leaving these at home.

I felt around inside the wardrobe and came across yet another magazine. This one was different.

“What the fuck is this?”

“What is what?” asked Mum in supervisory mode.

“This magazine, Irish Wives. It’s a porn magazine. Look at it. Disgusting! Who left that in my room?”

I’m a big fan of porn, but this magazine was just nasty. The images were authentic; these women could only be Irish housewives. A selection of mature ladies posed next to ironing boards. One wife spread her legs akimbo on a kitchen counter. The magazine was creased, giving it a much used look and feel.

“Ewwww!” I threw it to the floor.

“Are you sure it’s not yours?” Mum asked.

“It’s not really my preferred type.”

“It’s not mine either!”

“I should hope it’s not, Mum. That would make for a major lifestyle choice. Do you think it was Dad’s?”

“I don’t know,” she said, leaving the bedroom.

I thought on how the rag mag ended up in my wardrobe. Guests that stay in our house tend to sleep in my room. The magazine could belong to anyone. I speculate my brother once stashed it in my room, thinking Mum would never ransack the room of her then most favoured son.

My brother paid a visit yesterday. When we confronted him, he denied ever seeing the magazine. He was so entertained by the tale of discovering the magazine that I believe him. The mystery on who in our household possessed a penchant for real, household women will forever remain unsolved.

He’s a Super Freak, Super Freak/He’s Super-Freaky

It appears I married a freak. Well, not so much a freak, but a man of freakish intelligence. Boyfriend is the annoying type of person that will nail an exam or assessment with (or what appears to be) minimal effort. Boyfriend combines study techniques with an amazing aptitude and masters any exam.

A couple of months ago he decided to make a go at the incredibly difficult exams that are GAMSATS.  He committed to studying, but did not do all that much. He did not even buy the right books. He considered this attempt a practice round. Following the exam he dismissed his attempt as a waste of time. Based on track record and his modesty, I knew there was a chance he’d nailed it.  As I said, he’s phenomenal like that.

The results for the UK GAMSATS were published this morning. Boyfriend attained the mark he needed. He’s amazing. I mean he’s incredible. I’ve never met anyone like him.

Essential Ingredient

I wished to make Guinness Stew last night. Boyfriend and I brainstormed for our shopping list. We hit the 24 hour Tesco and bought the ingredients:

  • Celery
  • Carrots
  • Onions
  • Stewing Beef
  • Tomatoes

When we arrived home, we realised we forgot the Guinness.

The Punisher

Boyfriend said he would be home at 19.30.

It’s almost 00.50. Is he home? No, he is not. I’ll tell you where he is. He is in Donnybrook drinking pints. Yes, in Donnybrook, drinking pints of all things.

He deserves punishment. I’ll show him. I’ll teach him a lesson.

This is why I am going to eat his large Toblerone he brought back from London last weekend. Harsh, but necessary.

A Tad Emotional

This week has been an emotional one. On Saturday, I was lucky enough to attend the wedding of two friends. I watched – almost teary eyed – as the Bride confidently walked up the aisle to her future husband. The wedding ceremony was beautiful. The reception was jubilant. It was the perfect celebration of a life-long commitment of love. I whole heartedly enjoyed myself. I could not help but constantly check my phone for news of my nephew’s impending arrival into life.

After artificial inducement, Jack arrived on Monday afternoon. Mum and Bro were understandably tired. Both were lost for words; neither was communicative. I felt excluded and distant from my family. I wanted nothing more than to get in the car and drive one hundred or so miles to the hospital to visit my nephew. Work commitments, distance and limited access to Jack did not allow me do so. I sat here in Dublin with a puss on my face, calling Mum every few hours for updates.

Last night, I received a picture of the Newborn. I swelled with emotion and pride. I have shown countless colleagues and friends his image. Jack is tiny. Despite his miniscule size, he bears my family’s resemblance. His distinct eye-shape clearly ties him with his father and me, his uncle. I will see him tonight. I know I’ll cry. Boyfriend will throw his eyes to heaven when I do. Mum will initially laugh and eventually shed some tears too. Bro will laugh at Mum and I, but he will secretly feel emotional too. It will make for a funny scene.

It’s no surprise I feel the way I do. Five days ago I joined two friends in a ceremony as they dedicated their lives to one another. Two days ago, my twenty two year old brother became a father. His twenty one year old girlfriend endured child birth to bring my nephew into this physical plain. Is it really any wonder I feel tender at the moment? A box of Kleenex would make a wise investment. I should really buy nappies too. The nappies are for Jack.

It’s Love, Actually

MyopicPsychotic – Sorry, what did you say?

Boyfriend – You never listen. What distracted you?

MP – Something shiny …

Boyfriend – My bell-end?

MP – I said something ‘shiny’ … not something ‘tiny’

Boyfriend – Do you realise I hate you?

MP – See that’s the problem; you don’t

Did you see it?

The short answer is no, I didn’t see “Britain’s Got Talent”.

 I didn’t watch the show, but I did:

  • Manage to locate champagne flutes for an OK price after work on Friday.
  • Attend hot yoga for an hour and a half.
  • Organise Champagne to celebrate Boyfriend’s birthday.
  • Bring Boyfriend for birthday dinner.
  • Purchase ingredients for a three course meal on Saturday.
  • Carry the ingredients half a mile due to squabble with Boyfriend.
  • Entertain my younger brother who was staying for the weekend.
  • Eat a Burger King with Little Brother before heading to Joanne’s.
  • Drink too much in Joanne’s.
  • Attend to Little Brother who also drank too much.
  • Wake up early Sunday morning expecting Little Brother to arrive home from Joanne’s.
  • Attend Brunch in Brassiere 66 with my cousins.
  • Rush home from aforementioned brunch in a panic.
  • Clean my house until it shined.
  • Set a beautiful table for dinner.
  • Prepare a three course dinner for seven.
  • Serve pre-dinner Kir Royales and canapés.
  • Celebrate Mum’s 60th Birthday with same dinner.
  • Have Sunday morning breakfast with Mum, Little Brother and his girlfriend.
  • Organise a T-shirt for Limerick Friend for Thursday’s Beyoncé concert.
  • Attend dinner with in-laws.
  • Swill a few bottles of Miller in in-laws garden.
  • Play with Boyfriend’s three year old niece.
  • Get soaked by said niece when she turned the hose on me.
  • Soak said niece when given permission from her dad.
  • Reminisce on pets we had growing up.
  • Have a laugh with Boyfriend’s family.
  • Attempt to clean Everest sized mess in kitchen.
  • Give up on cleaning kitchen and go to bed.

So while I mightn’t have seen Britain’s Got Talent, I have a good excuse not to. I am exhausted, but had an amazing weekend. I hope you had a good one too.