by Darren Moss
I started your last birthday without you. Understand, not without you in the not being your boyfriend sense, my sweet, but without you in that you were on a pulsating dance floor and I was stuck in an empty gay club off Hurst Street. In a white toga. I’d got lost from your toga party. People had laughed. A man had pulled up his skirt to reveal himself as a woman. All I wanted was the toilet. All I found was that Saturday’s Birmingham is full of homophobes.
Five hours later I was sat on that bench in the depths of the Aston night. The streetlamp went dark every so often and then turned on when I shivered. No fear, my darling, for I was OK. I had been busy imagining you turning the corner with a man holding your dark shoulders. A big brawly man who could flick me to Selly Oak with his little finger. You would be laughing at something that would be funnier than anything I could ever say. And you would laugh at me flying across the sky.
I looked up to your flat. The light was on but I couldn’t get in. Telecommunication breakdown, this night.
Your friends came round the corner chatting and bustling. Your laugh wasn’t there. They were very concerned when they saw this shivering wreck on the bench. “She’s been back since two!”
Trish went to the front door and it magically opened for her. It had been open all along. Of course.
I ran upstairs and found you, light on, pyjamas buttoned wrong, sprawled in peace across the bed. I smiled, ran my hands through your twisted hair and kissed you on the cheek and hoped you were OK. And your friends made me some tea.
Four hours later I went to the bakery on Corporation Street. I bought you some bacon and pasties and a sugar roll I used to love as a child. I walked back along the canal and my dear it was quite beautiful and serene with the clear blue sky. As beautiful as Birmingham can be on a cold October morning.
I crept in once more and secretly cooked you a cheese sliced bacon sandwich, extra mayonnaise. I put the pasties in a cute circle around it on the plate. It looked awesome. You got up tentatively and were very thankful, albeit thankful with black smudges around your eyes and a hung-over speech impediment.
I think you liked your present. You at least pretended to be very excited. I enjoyed that hug very much and we kissed a bit. You’d always wanted roller-skates. They came from America. They’d ruined my previous week. You’d always wanted them. But you never wore them. Then, who gets their girlfriend roller-skates? The big brawly man wouldn’t. He’d give you a day of incredible sex. I would watch from the corner of the ceiling like on that Cure video, my tears splashing into the sweat of his heaving back. You wouldn’t see me because your eyes would be shut in ecstasy.
I got you roller-skates and a sandwich. Woah.
Later on I took you to get some ice cream like you wanted and then to an Italian restaurant that Sven Goran-Erikkson once visited. Every time you went to the toilet he was smiling wryly at me from the photo. Boring 4-4-2, that’s you, he said. But I didn’t tell you because you hate football.
The wine was churning up my stomach acid. It wasn’t mixing well with the rum from the previous night. You were laughing. You looked beautiful.
We stumbled home and I cannot remember if we had sex. Does it mean something that I can remember the brawly man’s sex with you better my own?
I was never sure if you enjoyed your birthday.
Darren Moss lives in Hyderabad and is not a consistent Shrewsbury Town defender. And it’s his birthday.
Welcome to The Pygmy Giant at WordPress! It’s our first birthday – have a celebratory cup of tea, or a pint if you must. Congrats to Mr Moss who is the winner of our birthday competition.