Tuesday 20th November

Woke up to the startling, but not unpleasant, sight of a semi-naked German squatting by my bunk and rummaging in his underwear. Perhaps sharing our room isn’t so bad after all? It has put me in a good mood, despite a drink-induced headache coming from one of my eyeballs.

I ‘talked’ to our new German roomies this morning, mostly using hand-gestures and assistance from ‘Ask Jeeves’ online, and you know what? They’re not that different to normal people. They don’t know much English, but then again the only German phrase I remember from school is “schnell schnell kartoffelkopf” which apparently means ‘quick quick potato head’ so fuck knows what my teacher was on.

I decided that today we would be going back to St Kilda Beach. The only thing whiter than me in this country are the Calvin Kleins currently housing that German fella’s girthy frankfurter. My sudden desire for a tan was prompted by a painful experience at last night’s comedy night. Sat far too near the front, the comedian got someone to aim the spotlight at me because he said he’d never seen anything so pale. He called me an albino, got me to stand up and then encouraged the whole room to howl at my fat face because it looked like a full moon. “I’ve heard it all before,” I smiled sweetly, whilst dying a little inside.

Having spent most of the day stretched out on the sand, I’m relieved to say my giant moon-face didn’t cock up the tides and no do-gooders attempted to spoon me back into the sea believing me to be a stranded whale. Still no tan though.

Got back to a crowded common room and, after some Chateaux Cardboard for courage (what we’re calling the boxes of wine), I asked Hamish if he wanted to go out to dinner with me. He agreed, but only on the understanding that it wasn’t a date.

“Yeah, obviously,” I lied.

I had hoped a slap-up meal might lead to some slap and tickle in return, but not a chance. He looked so uncomfortable just being seen alone with me in a restaurant that I ended up feeling a bit offended. When the waiter lit the candle he was so quick to blow it out that he knocked over his shandy. He managed to tell five complete strangers that there was “nothing go-go-going on between us” before we’d even g-g-got to dessert and it was insulting! I don’t want to push him into something he isn’t ready for or anything, but where’s the harm in a bit of inappropriate touching between friends? Of course, he had no problem with me paying for everything, nor did he have any issues skipping straight back to Irish Karen the minute we got back, the little p-p-prick-tease.

I don’t know why I’m bothering. Why am I going through the motions of romantic dinners and deep and meaningful conversations when I don’t want a relationship anyway? Not here, not now, and definitely not with someone who has more issues than Vogue. I could be getting up to anything this far from home. I should be out there grinding against total strangers and sowing my oats or something. Or, as Rachel says, “bumping uglies with some other dirty bumders”.  But instead, I’ve fixated on making the vicar’s virgin son my new boyfriend. Only me.

I DID spot another Gay in the hostel this afternoon, however, and this one didn’t need Gaydar to notice him, just a working set of eyes and ears. However, he’s far too pretty to approach. How do you say hi to a handsome homo with all that extra judgement flying about? At least I’m safe with Hamish. If we ever did get jiggy, he’d have no one to compare me to. This new guy would. He looks like a right tramp.

I pointed him out to Bev.

“See him? He’s definitely on my team.”

She had turned so quick to stare that one of her hooped earrings flew off like a frisbee.

“How do you KNOW that?” She stamped her foot in frustration. “I keep getting it wrong!” Turns out the guy she snogged last night had gone home with the barman, even though he’d ‘looked like a proper man and everything’.

“It’s just Gaydar.”

“Is that like one of them MSN chatrooms?”

She wasn’t even joking.

“No! It’s a feeling. An instinct.” How can a Gay possibly explain Gaydar to a non-Gay? “It’s body language, I guess. A million little gestures, the swing of an arm, the arch of an eyebrow, the pout of a lip…”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Are you spouting bollocks?”

“No! It could be something as subtle as a little extra eye contact, or as obvious as a flamboyant hairstyle or outfit. Or, as is the case with the twink in question, he could be wearing a skin-tight vest-top with the words ‘I Love Boys Who Love Boys’ on it.”

I pointed at him again and this time Bev noticed his sexuality was written right there on his tight little chest in bright pink letters.

“They’re usually harder to spot than that,” I’d laughed. “The lines between straight and gay have got increasingly blurry since The Rise of the Metrosexual.”

Bev looked confused. “Is that the Star Wars film?”

It used to be that a well-plucked eyebrow or a manicured nail could only mean one thing, but now man-scara, guy-liner and countless Beauty Products For Blokes have clouded the issue. Get it wrong and you could be facing an angry but well-groomed straight man.

“Approaching a gay guy with any certainty is a whole lot riskier than it was when I was last single,” I told Bev, wistfully. “Unless you meet up via a chatroom online, of course, but some of us want a little more than a quick bit of cock and bum sex.”

“Snob,” Bev laughed.

“Besides, online profiles won’t work for me. They’d skip straight past my photo and onto someone prettier, fitter or sluttier. I need a bit more time with someone so that they can get used to my face. Show off my fabulous charm and wit. Maybe share some booze to raise my confidence and lower their standards.” I laughed, but I actually felt sad. “I can’t do all that online.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Let me get this straight. Or gay, I guess. You want to meet a guy who you definitely know is a knob-gobbler, with a chance to show him how amazing you are before doing stuff, and also that you wouldn’t be so scared if you were a tad drunk first?”

“Yup. What are the chances of all that happening at once, eh?”

“Oh, sweetie.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Quite high, really.”

I stared at her, confused. Bev never knows more than me.

“Why haven’t we been to any gay bars yet, Kev?”

I swallowed nervously. Oh. That. Because I’m too fucking terrified, love. That’s why.