Fantasist.

Last week I was in Melbourne all week (I had a friend coming up to Sydney, so we swapped) and it was very agreeable. I got a chance to catch up with some friends. At one point I was sitting in a cafe in Chapel St with a woman I had a huge crush on when I was 16 and by a remarkable coincidence a friend of hers walked past, saw us and joined us. And, predictably, I had had an even huger crush on the friend when I was 16. It was that sort of week.

On the Monday I drove my friend's manual (!?!) car over to the other side of the city to meet a guy I'd been chatting with for a day or two on gaydar. He was about 50 and judging by his pics was reasonably attractive and what appealed to me about him was that he was just very straightforward. He likes being in charge, he likes to fuck. And I was in that sort of mood. Not lets meet up for coffee and chat to see if we get on (so often a passion-killer), it was more like walk in the door, clothes off and do what you're told. Which is, of course, what I often like to do with women.

And it was great fun, but I'll spare you the details. I sometimes think I like the idea of being fucked a lot more than I like actually being fucked, but I did pretty well. Then, after we were dressed we chatted a little. And in the 15 or 20 minutes we chatted he must have told me at least half a dozen times that he'd been on the global management team of [large manufacturer of telecoms equipment] and that he'd been a dancer and a professional motorcycle racer and a few other things and I couldn't help thinking that for someone so accomplished he lived in a remarkably crappy house. It unnerves me when people bullshit too much, but he was an IT guy and it was all a bit Walter Mitty-ish and pretty harmless. For the first few minutes we chatted I quite liked him but then I got slightly creeped out.