Appearances can be deceptive…
So it was a usual night at the Duke of Wellington.
I’m waiting in the ‘rest room’ for a toilet cubicle to free up when suddenly in walks this MAJOR man mountain. Angels we’re talking SERIOUS scale. This queen took muscle bear to a whole genus. And then some.
But before I could even think of descending into a spin, he had me in his meaty arms, was staring into my eyes and whispering: ‘KISS ME!’
GURL PLEASE! I don’t do a tongue tango with just anyone!
…But it would be rude to say no (obvs).
Afterwards I was trying to make a bit of conversation, but this divine creature had definitely won the beauty genes, not brains. Nevertheless, in between deep diving into the back of his tonsils I did ascertain that she wasn’t British and was on a visit to London. The whirlpool eyes full of Eastern promise, the thick mat of ebony hair poking over the polo top, and the olive skin did suggest something other than Anglo Saxon. ‘So you came for “the” wedding? Where are you visiting from,’ I asked, getting lost in that sea storm going on under the eyebrows. While his lips began bearing the moment of speech conception my mind wondered to the shores of Muscat, the sandy plains of Lebanon and the Byzantine ruins of Istanbul. From where did this divine vision herald?
He looked at me and whispered the immortal words: ‘Lincoln’.
