I achieved another first this morning in my quest for a cock and, possibly, more. It was pissing it down and, not wishing to get my new suite wet (which I had put on in order to look sharp for a meeting today) I took the bus to work. I have to admit to not being a fan of travelling shoulder-to-shoulder with the great unwashed British public, all silently, depressingly staring blankly at the world going by on their way to wherever. This is, unfortunately, the only way to get around in Brighton, as ‘car parking space’ is not a phrase in the local vernacular. Things, however, were looking up this morning. After navigating past all the dripping umbrellas, push chairs, shopping bags and old people, I was faced with the choice of half a seat next to the large, coughing woman or a seat next to the good looking, fair haired guy; it was an easy decision. As I sat down the nice man smiled at me, so I smiled back; that never happens.

So things were indeed looking up. In the twenty or so minutes it takes to get to work we had a bit of polite banter about the weather, parking in Brighton, a mutual dislike of buses and, uh-huh, how handy it is where he lives for the clubs (and he mentioned the gay ones), although I had figured that out about him as soon as he spoke with a slight gay lisp in his Australian accent. There was something instantly likeable about him, whether it was his confidence, friendliness, interest in me, or apparent easy-going and to-the-point nature. I was really drawn to this guy and started to panic that I would never see him again; shit! My stop was getting near, and inspiration, and butterflies, struck. We had stopped talking and I pulled my diary from my bag, placed the bus ticket from my pocket inside on one of the pages and removed a pen from my suit. I then, discretely, wrote my mobile number in large digits on the ticket, replaced the diary and pen, kept held of the ticket, which I folded in half, and waited for my stop. When my stop became the next one, I rang the bell, waited for the bus to start slowing, got up (leaving the ticket on my seat), smiled back at the guy and then moved my eyes from his to the ticket and back again; then I turned and got off the bus. At this point the waiting and wondering began – would he text? Did he feel the same? Had he even found the number? Three hours have past, and still not a whiff of a text, but I hope he does.