I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else
“Did I ever tell you about the time I got chatted up by Jo Guest in a gay bar?” It’s at this point you have one of the following reactions:
1) Cool! Go Fee! (Am still eagerly waiting for this reaction to happen of course)
2) That’s it? That’s your one big story that makes you beam with pride?
3) You made that up
4) Jo who?
So yeah that’s it. The one story I got that doesn’t involve turd, global bums, Britney Spears or cranberry cheese. It is true though. And for those (i.e. most) of you who are wondering if Jo Guest is a reality TV show builder, Jo Guest is indeed a glamour model. A rather thick, once quite ugly but recently (and at time of chatting up) quite hot titty girl.
It all happened on the same night and in the same club that Boy George threw himself down the stairs more dramatically than he throws on his make-up. It was the end of a sweaty night of dancing in a cool gay bar (clearly not in Aberdeen) and this little minx was shaking her ass on the not-so-crowded dance floor in little more than a rubber dress. After agreeing this was in fact Jo Guest and moistening our panty liners with the joy at having spotted someone who isn’t famous for staring in a reality TV show, I decided to go stand near her at the bar with the intent of saying something clever and cool, even though I had my 4am hair-do and pounds of glitter streaked across my face. I swaggered up to her and thinking of nothing cooler to say, spluttered, ‘wow you’re Jo Guest.’ What an opener. The conversation should have stopped there but no, I actually managed to pick my jaw off the ground and engage in conversation, the content of which still remains a mystery to me today. And then she says she wants to buy me a drink and because I am so cool I say, ‘No I am going home.’ Yeah because that’s what you say when a hot chick you have already seen half naked wants to buy you alcohol. It’s around this time that she starts giving my two male friends dirty looks when they try and get in on the conversation. I make my excuses and leave, feeling the vomit wave pass through me. And it’s all over. Instead of haning around to see what was actually happening I go home and textually harass my entire phone book 5 times over. You can imagine the array of language I was privy to that night.
Is it even cool to be chatted up by a glamour model? Let’s look at the evidence. She gets her boobs out for trashy tabloid newspapers. Never mind, Jo Guest still chatted me up. Of course it is possible that I completely misinterpreted the conversation seeing as I remember very little of what was actually said. But just let me stick to the original story for the sake of my amazing silence filler.
And so I go hang my head in shame for leading you all to believe something even vaguely interesting happened to me this one time about two years ago.
PS Did I ever tell you about the time I got chatted up by Jo Guest?
12/14/2003 07:47:00 PM
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