We’ve already met once this week and tonight was the planned version. A private view of an artist I don’t know but a gallery I do. I know he loves art because I’ve stalked his Instagram.
I arrive first and grab a beer. The work is beautiful: stark and unsettling, full of emotion. The gallery is quiet, unusual and plenty of opportunity to watch the behind the scenes film. He messages me to say he’s on his way.
I try to work out the best place to be – not in the first area, nervously looking for him. Not in the darkened area where he might miss me. And then I notice one of the guys who works there – he’s had all his hair cut off from Kurt Cobain length to well, a crew cut. We chat for a bit about the show. And then he arrives.
I introduce them, knowing he’ll like him. All the guys that work here are hot in a grunge style. It’s amazing I’ve never hit on any of them but my friend owns the place.
I know upstairs they have more artworks from other artists who aren’t on show. I ask if we can see and he leads us up there. As we pace around looking at the pieces I watch him. He knows his stuff, he’s enjoying this exclusive sneak peek behind the scenes. We joke and banter about buying two of everything. One of the other assistants bring us more beer.
It is the perfect date. And later in the pub he squeezes my thighs and tells me he kept watching me and then he asks me to his.
It is the first time I have been to a guy’s house in years. And it feels like achievement unlocked.
But first pizza: neither of us have eaten. And when we get off the train I grab his hand. And he doesn’t pull it away.