Italian Stallion

Like a recovering drug-addict taking a surreptitious line of coke, I found myself once again logging onto Gaydar. I consoled myself with the usual platitudes: "Just one more hit...after this, I'll quit...this is the last time, honest..." On some level, I almost believed it.

When I logged onto the site, I was alerted that I had received a message. I cringed inwardly, imagining a sordid picture of a spunk-soaked willy or some married man with a dildo up his butt. I almost hit the 'delete' button but, like Alice in Wonderland, curiosity got the better of me and I found myself spiralling down into the rabbit-hole.

I clicked on the message and braced myself, clamping my eyes shut with dread.

When I eventually summoned the strength to open my curious peepers, I was treated to the digital image of a tanned, rippling stomach and muscular pecs. The owner of this divine body (devoid of a head) was 'Italian Stallion.'

Below the picture, he had written:

"Hey, love your profile. You got any face pics?"

I found his username slightly cheesy, but his defined, toned body had provoked a forgiving nature in me that I didn't know existed. If his face was anything as promising as that caramel-coloured, slightly sweaty six-pack then I was in luck.

A cynical part of me wondered if that was really his body or whether he had just uploaded the image to deceive superficial people like myself. Another part of me wanted to know why he was too scared to show his face in the picture. Was he hideous? Or bald?

I was tempted to reply straight away, but the microwave pinged abruptly and I realised that I was starving. Maybe I should wait a while before replying.

Fuck it, I thought. I hit the reply button and channelled my inner sleaze-bag:

"Sexy body," I found myself typing, even though I was turning myself sick. "You're hot! Yeah I've got pics. You got any?'

Before I had time to change my mind, I hastily browsed my recent holiday photos on my digital folder and attached my favourite one. I was standing on a beach in Greece clutching a cocktail while the shimmering sun disappeared behind the sea in the distance. My tan was healthy and glowing (albeit out of a bottle), my eyes were shining (from the cocktail, no doubt) and my smile was relaxed and sexy, if I do say so myself.

Seconds after the picture was taken, the cocktails took their toll and I was sick all over a German tourist who promptly started shrieking in horror and calling me a "Facking twot" repeatedly, but you'd never guess from looking at the photo.

I quickly mailed my sleazy message to Italian Stallion, then went to get my M&S pasta meal out of the microwave.

I always did love a good Italian.