NAT
By Kewtieboy

Luck really didn’t come into it though many thought I was lucky. At 34 I still felt I was a good-looking catch. My interests in other guys were mainly in those my own age. I was a man’s man liking men who acted like men, men who acted like me really. When Nat started talking to me one night in the main gay bar in town, I paid him little heed. I was cruising a rather attractive David Beckham lookalike at the other side of the bar and was at the sly smiling stage where each time our eyes met we would smile at each other like we had a hidden secret. He was really attractive and just my type – hard to get!

Suddenly there was a hyperactive explosion of conversation at my right elbow and there was Nat. It was more of a continued conversation in which I had not been party to its initial stages. “They always do that to me; did you see that?”

“Uh,” I said, rather lamely. “Sorry I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“These bloody barmen, they treat me like I’m underage or completely invisible. I’m over 18,” he shouted to a passing bar queen! “I won’t report you for underage serving.”

“What are you trying to buy,” I asked?

“Just a bottle of beer,” he replied.

“A beer please,” I shouted to the returning bar queen!

“Coming up,” he said as he minced past, picked one up, flipped off the top and dumped it on the counter. “That’ll be £3.50,” he said, looking at me then down at the overpriced bottle on the counter.

I paid.

“Thanks, I’m Nat,” said the blonde thing in front of me. “It’s short for Nathan, not Nathaniel.”

“Right, I’m Rory and that’s short for Rory,” I said.

I really wanted peace to eye up my good-looking footballer hero lookalike and I looked up to reconfirm to him that I was still interested in a second half to our little game. My eyes met an extremely overweight and sweating forty-something who seemed to be keen on taking my now missing piece of eye candy’s place.

“Shit,” I said aloud!

“What is it,” said little Nat?

I explained that while he was flirting with me, the centre of my interest had left and 45 minutes of batting eyelids had been completely wasted.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s his loss anyway ‘cos you’re a good looking hunk!”

I looked at this piece of candy floss that had just called me a “hunk” and took him in for the first time. Standing about 5 feet and 8 inches against my 6 feet and 1 inch, he was slim with shape, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t skinny and had some shape where it mattered. He had a round face, which looked almost cherubic, and real blonde hair with just enough brown streaked naturally through it to make it textured. His eyes were a piercing blue that looked almost like coloured contact lenses but weren’t. His chest hugging pink top should have looked really effeminate but wasn’t somehow, and his washed out jeans were fitting around his hips and just sitting low enough to show the pale blue band of a pair of Emporio Armani briefs peeking over his belt.

For those of you salivating over this image, he wasn’t me at all. Though he wasn’t camp, he should have been as his image said he was.