Nelson Galaxy

I had a night out with my gay friend Pedro the other night. I have known Pedro for a couple of years and he is a really nice bloke; mild mannered, intelligent and a little shy and inhibited. However, once he has imbibed a few ales he becomes overly camp, gesticulating wildly and grabbing men’s bottoms. I must say I really enjoy watching any straight man within his vicinity suddenly become very uncomfortable.

Pedro once asked, “What’s the difference between a straight man and a gay man?” His answer was, “About four pints.”

Whilst drinking with him I made the mistake of getting rather drunk. A mistake I have made on many an occasion. His suggestion that we visit a nightclub seemed a great idea after eight pints. So off I went into the middle of darkest Soho, believing the sensible side of his character would overcome and we’d soon be sat in a civilised establishment, drinking cocktails and talking to beautiful ladies.

Unfortunately, I remember nothing else except bizarre glimpses of gyrating bodies and loud music. I have the faintest memory of coming to, suddenly aware of my surroundings. I was in a very dark room; the smell of sweat pervading the air. I could make out figures cavorting all around me, making unusual squelching noises and getting themselves into all sorts of compromising positions.

“What are you doing Nelson?” I said to myself as I ran away. I do not remember how I got home. The next day my skull felt like it had been used for nuclear testing. I rang Pedro to see if he could shed any light on the events of the evening before.

“The last time I saw you Nelson you were dancing like a lunatic and was headed for the Fisting Room.”
“The what Room? Where were we?”
“We went to Manhole, the notorious butch leather Soho gay club. I do hope you enjoyed yourself, you looked like you were.”
“Oh dear. I’m just glad I didn’t accidentally fall into a man.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh dear.”