We called our mate Tony, ‘Straight Tony’. Originally because he was gay but, continually, because it wound him up so much. When we caught him flirting with a guy, we would stroll up and ask him how his wife was. It was hilarious.
It was back in the days when the pubs would shut at eleven, and he and I would go drink in this gay bar in Clapham that was open til five. I like gay bars: they’re nicely decorated, the bar snacks are better, the toilets are cleaner (if often rather busy) and I rarely get into a fight for chatting up someone’s girlfriend.
One night, Tony had got hold of this awesome Peruvian coke, and I asked him if he could lay a gram on me. “Only if you suck my dick.” he laughed. I gave him one of those looks that say ‘Are you fucking serious dude?” He was.
We found a unoccupied cubicle – nice thing about that bar was that they kept the lavs clean, so I didn’t have to worry about kneeling in a puddle of piss – and I set to it. I reckon guys are good at giving blow jobs, even if we’re not that experienced at it, because we know what it feels like to have a cock. Anyhow, Straight Tony seemed to enjoy it.
Afterwards, while I was snorting a line as long as my arm and as thick as my willie off the toilet seat, Tony giggled and said, “I would have given you the ticket anyway, you didn’t have to suck my dick.”
“I know,” I grinned back, “and I’d have sucked it anyway.”