Pimp my Ride

As I ride my bus home late one night, as most nights in fact at present, I'm feeling rather aware that I'm being watched. Observed maybe, but watched for sure. That uncomfortable feeling where you pretend not to feel uncomfortable. I glance over at the party of three girls and one lad. A tender smile manages to fake its way onto my lips. (Thank god I think). The girls look back, a mocking coyness to their returned smile. A giggle from one of them. All of them are chattering away to themselves in  foreign language to the soundtrack of Madonna in my ears - my N95 provides the entertainment, not my imagination.

They're speaking portuguese but with the laziness and speed that comes with a Brazilian influence - I presume. I place my music on mute so that I can listen to tone, gaps, possible words that my self-taught Spanish lets me understand. Not a clue.

Oh dear, one them, the male, stands up. I have to announce that the bus is still hurtling down the streets of London as this goes on. A simultaneous act of different directional movements. If only I was doing those very movements off the bus, but unfortunately my stop is way off. The lad makes his way towards me and introduces himself to me. I pretend to not hear and remove my headphones. His name is Cesar and he sports a backwards cap. I hadn't realised the bus had transported us to nineties America. He snaps me out of my mild digression of Vanilla Ice (ice baby) and asks me where I'm from. One never to shy away from strangers I tell him England as if stating the obvious, but obviously my dark features propel me to foreign status... one can only hope.

Cesar advises me with broken English which appears to have been learned in the ghetto that a girl is interested in me. "See dis girl?" he says, "she want, you know, maybe Jiggy jiggy tonight". Wow. Is it just the English who are too polite to be so direct with their words? I'm not sure what my face conveyed. I hoped it showed 'thanks but I'm Gay and it just wouldn't work out, but thanks for the compliment' or if it really displayed the 'good god, the possessed girl in The Exorcist portrayed more beauty and resounding femininity than this monstrosity who was my alleged admirer, do I look that desperate?' face. I hope it was the former.

I also was unsure whether to laugh in his face that, if I was to be straight and tasteless, the word 'jiggy jiggy' hasn't been used in a serious question. Ever.

Recognising my deliberation - but perhaps of the wrong kind - he interrupted with "do you have place for lady to go in?". Lady? Where? He was surely not referring to the same girl who looks like she stopped the bus with her face, was he? A girl who was attempt to send a flirtatious smile with less teeth than a newborn. And if it was, why me? Did I carry that look of desperation? Instead of my maroon cardigan, was I carrying off a knitted sweater with target? I politely advised him that I was gay and I was not interested but thanked him for the kind offer (whilst holding back vomit in my mouth).

This lad, persistant isn't the word, then asked me why? "Why?" he said. "Why gay?".

And that, my dear friends, was when I smiled back it him, let out a rather inappropriate laugh, replaced the headphones back into my ears and carried on reading Dirty White Boy. "Ping", went the bell.