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Brian Jensen

Expat. Diarist. Theorist. Delusionist.

Thursday, May 29, 2003

I do not want what I can have. I recently was in a bar. Having a drink after work. Kind of, but not really cruising the crowd. I got approached by a man in his mid-40s. Wasted drunk. Tried to lose him. Told me his life story. 73-year old hospitalised partner who he had met when he was a rentboy in 70s London. Open relationship. Looking to play around.

I made a few dismissive comments hoping that would end it. Did my best, "god, I'm bored of you" look and moved toward the bar.

But he intercepted. Tried to flatter me. Grilled me about what I did, and when I said, vaguely, "marketing" threw back his head and laughed an extravagantly loud, gargled laugh.

I could count his cavities.

I wondered momentarily if he was trying to unhinge his jaw to swallow me whole in some snake-like way.

He then went to grab my arm but missed, tripped, and fell whilst pouring his drink all over himself. His bald head shined with gin and he was soaked, but he stood up and resumed the conversation.

I left.

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