Pie

There's an hilarious rush round the hour of four on a Friday and Saturday night, when everybody's suddenly online throwing 'hey mister's every which way in anxious states of drunken arousal, lest they miss out on a fuck. These are the dregs of the night who haven't managed to nab that right guy to cap an otherwise middling evening of debauch. So, it was with this rabble I joined rank on the Saturday just been. 

I ended up at a similarly desperate guys place nearer to five, more drunk than I can remember being since, well, last summer. I was holding a bacon and egg pie which (in my inebriation) I'd figured a suitable token at that hour. The guy in question was lovely. I stumbled into his room, we stripped and chatted cosily like only conspirators can (strangers for the cause), and within ten minutes or less I was comatose (maybe even mid-sentence). He didn't seem to mind. 

We eventually consummated our rushed agreement when I woke up, and then he hustled me out of his Sunday morning, where he undoubtedly wanted isolation in which to nurse a hangover with base notes of regret. 

Living the dream.