Gay as in happy…

He’s exactly every.single.thing I find attractive in a man. Which, should be illegal really, that much awesomeness.

We met a year ago and we’ve been doing some work together since then. In the early days, when I knew I was going to see him, I’d go to great lengths to prettify myself.

His huge manly hugs are second to none. I admit I may have looked forward to them more than is probably healthy.

And then, like real-life, reality comes and has a poop on your head. “Oh him! Yes he’s so great. You know he’s gay though, right?” says a guy friend over coffee when I bring up my crush on Mr Hug.

BOOOOOO HOOOO.

Tears before bedtime. There goes dreams of us picnicking and him serenading me with a guitar melody.

I stopped putting on my best clothes when I knew I was going to see him, even stopped with my Letterbox Red lipstick.

I didn’t stop with the hugs though… a girl has needs. And depriving myself of his hugs would mean that I really hate myself.

So months have passed since getting those heart-flutters whenever I saw Mr Hug. I hadn’t seen him for a while. I even started to forget his awesomeness.

And then we bumped into each other outside of the realm of work. On the dancefloor, to be exact. Oh HI FLUTTERS! I get my hug quota for the year. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you and your red lipstick!” Damn, for a gay boy he’s really making me nervous.

And then we dance… his arms are around me and the guitar serenaded picnic video starts playing in my head again. Dear God make it stop. He says… “Wow you’re looking great babe, you really are.” Since we’re on the dancefloor, and for me that means I have had something(s) to drink, I stammer… “Stop flirting with me… you’re gay.”

Cue the world ceasing to rotate on its axis and all time (and my legs) standing still.

“What?”

“Uh, gay. You’re gay. You like boys. Romantically. G-A-Y.”

“I know what gay means you idiot. I’m not gay.”

Since it was a dancefloor, and I had had one (or 5) drinks, I proceeded to do a giant air-punch, happy jig, and The Notebook-esque hug all over him. Why keep the joy locked inside, I reckon.

So much joy. So much lipstick, hugs and flutters.

 

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