Scottie follows his crush, or is pushed that way by his friends, whichever way you chose to look at it ….

Most of my friends would know better than to ever set me up with anyone. I’m far too fussy, despite the fact that I usually sum up my type with a simple line: if he’s a bit of a bloke, he’s good. Still, when I recently bumped into a guy who makes me weak at the knees (minds out of the gutter, gentlemen) my friends couldn’t resist pushing me into him. Actually, I think that may have literally happened…

He came over to where we were standing in the bar, and proceeded to give me (or at least what my friends were convinced was) an invitation to meet him later that evening in another club. I wondered if it was in fact an invitation, or if I was reading too much into it. If it wasn’t, and if he was just casually chit-chatting about his plans for the night, my friends picked up on it wrong too.

Either way, he left me with bright red cheeks (from embarrassment… seriously!) and my heart racing (no comment). My friends, quick to ensure that my awkward suffering wouldn’t stop there, convinced me to go to the nightclub that he said he’d be in. I should’ve decided not to, but I’ve never been good at playing it cool. If I really like someone, chances are that I’ll make a complete fool of myself.

We intentionally left the other bar before him, to give the impression that our migration wasn’t affected by him. Of course, it completely was; I wouldn’t have been caught dead in that nightclub on that night. The main clientele was young and twinkish; I stopped being the latter once I graduated from university, and had little interest in revisiting those days. The club had clearly only opened, as there really weren’t many people when we got there. Cliques of teenagers who still got excited for being (barely) old enough to get past the bouncers. Desperate middle-aged men who had a clear desperation for alcohol and younger men. Brazilians (gay Dublin’s biggest ethnic group) looking for a boyfriend. Drag queens who had just started their shift. Honestly, the club was far from jumpin’ – Destiny’s Child would not have been impressed, and neither were we.

We waited in the beer garden for a chance to bump into my dreamboat, accidentally on purpose. Instead, we were subjected to an army of young drag queens fighting for the most attention. One of my friends – who is probably the most internally-homophobic gay guy I’ve ever met – was ready to grab the pitchforks and kill them all, while my other friend tried to figure out if they were artistic or just awful.

Somehow, we managed to have fun in the crèche – sorry – club, but it wasn’t in the company of Mister Dreamboat. Why? Because he never turned up. Maybe he lost track of time, or maybe his friends decided to go somewhere else instead. Either way, we soon gave up on the idea that we were going to bump into him again that night. No phone number, no flirting, no kiss. Instead, what I got was my coat from the cloak room, and went straight to the local kebab shop for a felafel meal. There was certainly no romance to it, but all hope was truly lost for my love life … and my waist.

I’ve no doubt that I’ll bump into Dreamboat again – Dublin’s too small for our ships to pass in the night. But will I ever chase after him again? Not a chance.

[To read the previous instalment of Scott’s column, click here.]

‘Scottie’ Illustrations by Stephen Charlick