The night was drawing to a close and Katy Perry's 'Firework' had sent the gay dancefloor throng's arms skyward as usual. My nonchalant pillar-lean had been disturbed by the Brummie Armani Model. After a respectable amount of flirty chatter he gently placed his hands on my waist, peered into my eyes, and offered: “Oy'd kwoiyt loiyk you to come back to moiiy plaiyyce if you fancoy it?”
Brummie undoubtedly, but his claim of being an Armani underwear model seemed less reliable. BHS own-brand, I could believe, but not Armani. Nevertheless, he was fit: two or three years younger than me, nice fluffy black hair, a cute face with dark eyes and some designer stubble, a subtle tan, and one of those chests that achieves some visible definition through the cling of a t-shirt, which is always novel. With no major diary commitments the following day, I took up Brummie Armani Model's kind offer of accommodation and made a mental note to check which brand of underwear he was wearing later on.
At the end of a chatty stroll back to his building – a block of expensive yuppy apartments with an impressive glass atrium and a talking lift – we reached the door of Brummie Armani Model's apartment and he knocked on the door. “Have you forgotten your keys?”, I queried. To my surprise, the door opened and we were greeted by a rudely-awoken camp bloke in a dressing gown. Camp Gown Man looked at with me with some distaste and barked “what the fuck do you think you're doing?” at the Brummie Armani Model, “if you think you're bringing a guy in here you can fuck off you wanker.” I didn't know where to look. It quickly became apparent that I'd been misled: Brummie Armani Model still lived in Birmingham, was just visiting pals in Manchester for the weekend, and his grand plan was for us to get steamy on a ropey Z-bed in Camp Gown Man's living room. “It's half three in the morning and there's no way you're both staying on the Z-bed”, Camp Gown Man continued. This was a sentiment I very quickly agreed with, but my reasonableness wasn't enough to stop Camp Gown Man turning his ire on me with a snarling, withering “haven't you got your own home to go to?” The door slammed. Camp Gown Man was such a bitch.
At this point I wanted out of this entire venture but found myself stuck in the hallway with Brummie Armani Model, now homeless for the night. I didn't want him at mine, and considered just leaving him with only the talking lift for company. I'd come this far, though, and resolved I'd might as well have a look at the rest of his body and also get to the bottom of the crucial Armani vs BHS question. To this end, Brummie Armani Model gestured towards a plain door in the hallway of the apartment block, opened it, and led me in to the darkness. I admit this was exciting. He flicked a switch, and it soon became clear what this room was thanks to the gradual flickering of some harsh strip lighting (the type ubiquitous in school classrooms designed in the 1960s). In the small, square room with grey concrete floor and stark whitewash walls, we were faced with three large Biffa bins on wheels, one black (general waste), one brown (mixed glass and plastic), and one blue (paper and cardboard). “Is this really going to happen?” I asked my inebriated self, who replied “I'm not sure, I'm worried it might be a bit much... there have been TV documentaries about people who do this sort of thing.” Following a quick check to ensure there was no CCTV, we exchanged blowjobs between the Biffas.
Despite his own advanced state of inebriation, Brummie Armani Model proved quite resourceful when rolling the brown Biffa (mixed glass and plastic) across the door as a makeshift modesty board. This was a masterstroke, but still not enough to completely allay the worst fears playing on my mind. What if an insomniac resident decides to do a 4am recycling run? Would they do the right thing and turn a blind eye upon seeing our Biffa barrier? Or, if they carried on regardless, would we have to help them out by reaching across to put things in the blue (paper and cardboard) and black (general waste) Biffas respectively? “What's that mate, Capri Sun? No you can't put that in with plastic, it's general waste, pass it here.” This was not a comfortable situation of any description, but I ploughed on regardless.
Brummie Armani Model slipped off his underwear ('Next', the sod!) altogether and lay invitingly on the stone cold concrete floor. He may have been a lying tosser with a very grating accent, but he was hot, so you had to give it to him. I caressed his toned and tanned body while sucking him off a bit more, and he was absolutely loving it. Continuing the good work, his gentle groans of satisfaction gave way to a kind of silent serenity, his face completely stilled with sensual abandon. Then the moment of realisation: Brummie Armani Model had nodded off. The little shit.
I gently slapped the side of Brummie Armani Model's face to rouse him from his slumber and told him I was off home. Having helped him back into his Next boxers and his jeans, I left him wandering topless in the glass atrium. I've often wondered whether Camp Gown Man had the heart to let him back in his flat at 4.30am or whether he had to make do with a mattress of Sunday supplements and flattened cereal boxes in the blue Biffa (paper and cardboard). Probably more comfortable than Gown Man's Z-bed anyway, to be fair.
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