Sick in Soho

*BLECCCHHH*

Fuck. It was soooo damn embarrassing. It was my nth time to wreak havoc by regurgitating all that I’ve eaten on Bus N155 en route to Morden.

I know that I’ve been experiencing a lot of not so good things lately but I can’t imagine I let it get the best of me, by ignoring my friend’s remarks and insisting him to buy one more bottle of rose.

Migration. Job prospect. Homesickness. Art’s evasiveness. All of these meshed together and propelled me to do what God has told me, to venture into the gay bars of Soho.

Yes, you heard it right. Gay bars of Soho. It was in Village Bar in fact, nestled on the corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street, London’s LGBT hub. 

Never would I imagine that I would enter this place unprepared as I haven’t even stepped foot on the cheeky streets of Malate ever before. I was told that compared to the other bars on the street, Village is more friendly to first time goers like me.

Good thing I was with a Filipino I met in PR, so that gave me that extra mile to push that door that has the rainbow-coloured flag plastered on it.

-----

About 4 hours before

“Why the hell are they eyeing us?” I asked nervously.

“It’s because we are an item in this part of the world,” the one who was accompanying me said.

Adam’s right. As soon as the bouncer let us in (damn I already look 21, since they can question you and ask for a proof of age if you look under 21), most eyes were on us. It was as if the bar held its breath as we made our way to find some seats.

“This is nothing,” Mike said as we finally found a seat and drank our Coke whisky. “Go to Kudos and we’ll see. Orientals normally don’t get out of there without getting laid." I looked really shocked but thank God he retracted the joke.

My heart and testosterone levels were fluttering as gays ranging from very cute to very hot pass by our table. Also noticeable were how some of the blokes were glancing ‘secretly’ on the both of us, to which I caught them in flagrante delicto. It was great, because finally, for the first time, I can be myself by saying “Oh that guy’s hot” without society controlling me like a puppet.

We talked about the not-so-clear future regarding our status in the UK, got to know a bit more about each other, and how the hell this gay thing works. Mike tried to teach me some tips regarding flirting, but I decided to try it at a later date. For now, observing from afar is enough.

As the night passed, more glasses were being emptied by my throat, and sure enough, the effects had started to kick in. My vision’s a bit blurred, but not enough to shy away from the very attractive guys I was seeing.

Mike then nudged me to talk to this very cute 20-ish White Briton on my right, since we noticed that he was alone drinking his glass of beer for the past hour. Well, I thought he was waiting for his boyfriend or something.

“Come on! He’s not my type, but it’s definitely yours!” He continued to nudge me.

“E, I can’t. I don’t have enough self-confidence.” Well, thanks for that good-for-nothing Sam.

Well, Fate finally unfolded itself as the cute Caucasian guy turned to us, and asked, “What time is it?”

With the effects of alcohol totally eliminating my inhibitions, I decided to give in and start an friendly conversation with him. And here’s what I got.

Damn, he has a boyfriend (as expected of a guy in this calibre). He’s a solicitor working at the Bank area, London’s financial district. He also has a flat in Holborn, which I know is God-knows-what because rents around the Central are exorbitantly priced. And, not to mention, he has another house with garden in Buckinghamshire, a county just 30 minutes away from the City.

Then, my memory has been tainted with the 20% alcohol content I just drank as I didn’t remember anything else apart from the fact that he left the bar afterwards, and we left the bar as well, with Mike helping me while I was limping, and puking around Old Compton Street.

I realised then that I wasn’t 100% drunk since I vividly remembered that one very cute Spanish guy walked towards us to ask if I was ok. And then, I puked some more around the corner.

I also remembered that Mike asked me to enter Caffé Nero since nearby Costa Coffee was already closed. And then, it all went black again except for the fact that the barista needed to usher us out as I regurgitated the hot chocolate I was drinking.

And then, we had to wait outside the bus stop near Trafalgar Square. Technically, the weather wasn’t that cold, but I was shivering. Seems the after-effects of alcohol are starting to circulate into my bloodstream.

Finally, it arrived, and after puking one more time inside Bus N155, Mike and I alighted at Elephant and Castle.

Damn it was so embarrassing indeed. I kept on apologising about how I made a fool of myself and most especially to him. After insisting nonstop that I can be ok from here, and he doesn’t need me to really accompany me to the door to my house, he finally gave in. First impressions are said to be the most important in ensuring a great friendship, and I just messed it all up.

I was about to alight the bus that would really take me home, when I was rummaging my pockets for something.

My phone.

I asked Mike to open my bag up for me to ransack its contents. No phone, nothing. Just some bottles of water and a couple of chocolate cookies.

Damn. After a few minutes, I decided to give up as we were both running late. It was five past three AM.

I literally slipped inside the bus (as I didn’t hold on to the railings properly), I finally sat down, half –conscious. Wow, for once, that constant puking really helped me by being sober. Now, I will just have to await the dreaded hangover that will greet me the next day.

It seemed to take forever, but finally, I managed to get off the bus properly, open the door, and tiptoed quietly to my room. I don’t want to wake my roomies up with that horrible stench of vomit. I didn’t even bother to change my clothes as I snuggled beneath my duvet.

Inebriation. What a vile thing. Now, I have to face the repercussions to my carelessness and imbecility.

I didn’t get to hit some more guys up. Kidding aside, I just became 170 quid poorer, humiliated myself and a friend, and I left a not-so-good memory of my first ever trip to a gay bar.

Good thing Art didn’t see me at that state, but then again, it can be great thing if he would to take good care of me while I was knocked out.

After all this, I just have one thing in mind… up my alcohol tolerance by a notch.

And with the ultimatum that Britain has placed on students like me, it’s time to frequent Soho and Vauxhall.