I spent all last week working days (well, 11am to 7pm) and while getting up in the morning was a little difficult, it was nice to have a little time free in the evenings. I spent most of Friday night sitting in the rafters of someone's half-finished loft conversion in Clapham, kicking my legs, slugging at bottles of wine and flicking bits of naan bread at people, like a chavvy Hunchback of Notre Dame, though. Reminded me of growing up on a building site, so that was fun.
Another plus of working days is that it reintroduces one to the pleasure of eating and talking socially. On nights, I usually just wolf something down at my desk after getting back from the gym; plus, we night staff, being denziens of the dark, are rarely social unless there's a pint glass in our hand. But sitting round talking with non-zombies, when the canteen isn't freezing, the food is fresh(er) and there's daylight in the windows, mindless chit-chat can be as enjoyable as birdsong. No that I'm a huge birdsong-fan, you understand, but when I'm in the mood, it can be pleasant chewing-gum for the brain and ears.
Anyways, now that the scene has been set at 'urban-pastoral', we were talking at lunch last week about one of my colleagues' new boyfriend. Said colleague, and perhaps this is also indicative that the joys of spring are upon us, was extolling how good it felt not to feel shallow about his choice of boyfriend; that said boyfriend was a 'cub' and not my colleague's normal type, but because he was in love, looks didn't matter. All of which made perfect sense, except the fact that he was claiming to be going out with a young animal. Translation follows:
Bear: a gay man who is big and hairy, posibly with a beard, more round than muscly. Think lumberjacks.
Cub: like a bear, but slimmer.
Twink: slim, well-dressed, plenty of hair-gel and moisturiser. All five members of Westlife, be they gay or straight, would be twinks. Someone asked whether I had a touch of the twinks about me, but apparently I'm too rough. Still, if i bought an iron, new clothes and lots of face potions there might still be hope for me.
Swish: a theatrical camp. Lots of gesturing, innuendo, etc. The most stereotyped gay behaviour, from Kenneth Williams to Roger the Alien from American Dad.
Muscle Marys: those humourless bitches from the gym. More vain than twinks.
There are loads more, and plenty from lesianism too (as I write, I'm being asked to decide between putting a picture of the Desperate Housewives cast or some of the hunks from Lost in the paper - what's a girl to do?). So anyways, why don't straight people have names and categories for the people they fancy?
