The lost bet — Part 2: "What? Is George Michael really gay?"



Have you ever had a "friend" claiming that you are jealous because somebody is prettier than you? I have, but her problem, apart from being brain dead, was that she thought that I was jealous on the wrong guys. Read on to get the real beginning of "The Lost Bet".

When I was young it seemed that life was so wonderful. A miracle … OK, OK, OK – you probably guessed it by now, unless you are as slow and boring as the band behind the highlighted text were, that this is some words from “The logical song”, by Supertramp. We’ll come back to more logics later in this text, but let’s just get this right: I fucking hate Supertramp – they’re boring. Quite ironic that their last album, they probably didn't see the irony though, was named "Slow motion". 

Anyway; another British band which is boring, or here I have to say “were” since they finished their career last century, was “WHAM”. For many of you, who have read my bad writing (look at part 1) and seen my ugly picture, it may come to a surprise that when I was a teenager, at secondary school, I was part of quite a cool gang. Not as cool as the one that Kool had, but still quite well. We were good friends, had parties every weekend (without alcohol, which seems ridiculous now …), and were dancing (yeah, I know is gayish, but there were women in the gang too …) and enjoyed life (OK, I know it sound a little to mindfulness-like, but just give a fuck, could you please …?). The important thing is that I can still remember what was the turning point of the feelgood-mood in our gang; the first album by WHAM.

If you have never seen the album cover, and feel you’re not getting the correct picture from my description, please do yourself a favor and Google it. Jasmine, one of the girls in our gang, had bought the album without having listened to one of their song, just “because they are so sexy” — she cried out loud with her crow-screaming-voice that I still have nightmares about, and with eyes so widened open that you could suspect that someone had used her as a “test bench” to check if their truck battery was flat or not (but I guess the hair style of the eighties also helped me getting that impression). Anyway — and here I could say “fuck Jasmine”, since you won’t be hearing more about her later in the story, but she became lesbian so I never got the chance to shag her and I wouldn’t take the F-word in my mouth at the same time as her name (if you know some lesbians you probably understand what I mean)…are you still hanging in there??? OK … – let’s move on; the WHAM album cover was a disaster. It was a picture showing two “pretty-boys”, shirtless, wearing leather jackets and looking cute into the camera. They looked as if they were working as submissive dance partners at the Blue Oyster Bar, specialized in “El Limbo”. It was pure homo-eroticism, and for a bunch of teenagers that cover was a life changer.

"Crap music, most likely…", said most men, myself included, and guessed they were the kind of guys that Angus Young and his friends were peeing on, when going home from school.

"Oh so incredible cute and delicious", meant all the girls and couldn’t stop staring.

"Typical faggots ", I added, and this comment was not supported by any of the other guys. Maybe they were just afraid of being homophobic, which in the eighties, with stars like Elton John (crap music too), Prince (crap music too), Boy George (crap music too) and Freddie Mercury (mostly crap music too) was as dangerous as saying today that you are skeptical to climate change or lesbian feminists (which in fact is as butter on bacon, since all feminists are lesbians and all lesbians are feminists).

One of the girls, Helena, was bolder than the others, and started arguing with me about my categorization of George Michael and that-other-guy-which-nobody-remember-the name’s sexual orientation.

"This is something you say because you are jealous, since they are pretty and not you”, she claimed. I didn’t protest since she was fifty percent right; I wasn’t, and have never been, pretty (and this was the fifty percent she was right about), and I had to admit (though never saying it) that George Michael and that-other-guy-which-nobody-remember-the name of, looked better than me —  but it had nothing to do with envy or jealousy. I had at this time an insanely bad luck with the girls, similar to what Hank Chinaski had in “Ham on Rye”, that’s true. But my true hero as being the "ladies’ man", and the man I would love to be like was Mick Jagger. It was him I envied, and not because he was pretty, as you could agree upon if you've seen him, right??? He maybe look even worse than Willem Dafoe, and probably uglier than me and Hank together. In a twisted way you could say that Mick Jagger is as pretty as George Michael is drug free, and if you have been awake the last decade, than you’ll know how ugly Micky-boy was (I thought this was a good comparison, until I now Googled “George Michael” and “Drugs” and found out that he had been away on a twelve year rehab program… But I leave it there in the text anyway, just as a cool description, and hope you don't mind).

Now, let's go back to Helena and her argument, but first I have to explain about Helena: She was gorgeous (by appearance), for example her tits had never heard of the gravitation theory, but apart from that I have to describe her as one of the few living brain donors (if you know what I mean …). Pretty, but brain dead.

But when you are fifteen, like I was at the time, you don’t care that much about other things than the superficial, and Helena had been on my mind several times when I was alone and “playing” with myself. She was the true reincarnation of all my wet dreams (but I had absolutely no chance), and that’s why I did not argue against her, even though she had thrown the most ridiculous argument ever. The sad thing for her was that her best friends later said that this was the best argument she had ever come up with. For those of you who wander, and I know there is a bunch of you, here comes the answer; NO, oddly enough, she wasn’t blond...

Some years later, when we had finished high school, I met Helena in a bar and she was still gorgeous and had changed her views on me – she liked me and we hung up. For some months she terrorized me with all her stupid ideas, thoughts and arguments, until she told me that I had to change dramatically if I wanted to stay together with her. I looked at her puppy eyes for some seconds, and told her that I preferred to join the Navy, so I turned around and did not look back.

Years went by, WHAM disappeared as a group (the one proof that there is a God after all), and Georgie-boy went on with his solo career. What happened to that-other-guy-which-nobody-remember-the name of is uncertain, but I guess everybody else, like me, doesn’t give a damn. Helena met a mother-in-law-dream, with nice teeth, pretty smile and the right appearance, but who showed his real son-of-a-bitch-personality, which was actually what she deserved, the night after they had eaten up the wedding cake. More years went by, and a short version of the former love story was that Helena was terrorized by her in-law-dream-boy, and I spilled my money on booze and women. My interest for music continued, and while Mick Jagger still was a favorite, I was happy to see that Georgie-boy still made crap music, that he grew a mustache and that he looked if he was auditioning for a role in the revitalization of Village People. You know; even though this was the end of the century I guess it was still fun, if you are a predator gay, to stay in the YMCA …

A few months ago I was invited to a high school reunion. I decided to go, even though I don’t like reunion parties where everybody reminds me of how uncool I was as teenager. I guess the curiosity for seeing how fat and ugly some of the girls from high school had turned out to be convinced me. After all; schadenfreude is the only true joy.

At the party I met Helena, and I guess the years with the in-law-dream had not been as glamorous as they appeared to “will-be” twenty years ago. She had changed, and ended up quite far from gorgeous, and since she had spent her only good argument in life to win a discussion twenty-five years ago on the reason for me disliking WHAM, she was definitely not a good wank-memory anymore. Luckily for her, she was divorced, but unluckily for the party, she had turned up to be a feminist. As you all know, feminists can be divided into two groups; the one that has a pragmatically view on it, and who shows every day that they are equal to men. Or the other group; consisting of ugly, angry lesbianic women, who blame everything on patriarchy, view all women as victims, and opens their mouth only to eat, shout and complain. Helena belonged of course to the last group, since she did not have the sufficient brain capacity to be in the first.

When Helena saw me, she ran through the room and gave me a hug. She clung so tight, I thought I had to use adhesive remover to get rid of her. Finally she let go of me, and stood in front of me, contemplating.

“God, you look good. I must admit that you have grown pretty”, she told me, and I smiled – happy for the acknowledgment. Obviously, she had forgotten that she almost twenty-five years ago had thrown a lot of shit to me, but why bother with the past?

"I was right", I stated, saying only those three words, and nodding me head slowly with a confident smile in my face, similar to what I guess Bill Clinton must have had when he realized that the world really believed that he never had a sexual relationship with “that woman”. She looked at me and her face told me she was not coping.

"What do you mean", she asked smiling, but I saw there were some kind of insecurity in her face.

"You said it was just envy, but I was right: George Michael is gay", I told her and tried to smile my most convincing smile. Insecurity was replaced with a combination of  surprise and shock, and I saw her shaking her head.

"Is this the first thing you think about after you have not seen me in so many years? How sick is it possible to be? ", she asked. This was two questions, and the bright ones of you realize it requires two answers: That she failed to trigger any other emotion in me after so long time than a George-Michael-revenge, she have to blame herself (a look in a mirror and a conversation with a shrink would of course have helped her, but my good upbringing avoided me saying it loud). Instead I answered the last question.

"Sure, baby — I'm sick. I actually have papers confirming it too”, I said smiling, hoping I could put up some kind of Jack-Nicholson-like grin when I was thinking of the psychologist who came down in the warehouse to interview me.

“But you're probably not interested to find out, I guess” I continued, before I realized I was thirsty and in need of a beer. Before she could reply, I was on my way to the bar.

Somehow, I guess the asshole she had been married to for so long had also been sick too, Helena stuck close to me all evening trying to get closer to me. Late in the evening, she sat beside me in the sofa, and all the time she tried to grab my hand. I was not interested in having an affair with a fat and old woman (at my own age), so refused to acknowledge her presence.  The discussion turned, and suddenly we were discussing feminism. Now, many of you would think “Equal right for both sexes, equal payment for the same job, etc”, but I have to correct you. These matters have nothing to do with modern feminism, which I will come back to in later chapters. Anyway; suddenly Helena was more focused on the discussions than my hands, so I was happy for the topic even though I hated it. Until I heard her claim that also men could be feminists.

“What a fucking bullshit”, I spitted out loud, not as much because I disagreed (which I did, of course), but much more because I wouldn’t give her any encouragement that may lead her to believe she would be getting down on my later that night.

"Why not," she asked, seemingly surprised. I saw that everybody were looking at me, and I realized I had the same feeling inside me (you remember this from part 1, don’t you?) as I had when the psychologist said "Take it all from the beginning, please”. I wanted to really fuck with them, and I wanted to do it the way Wham named their second album; “Make it big”. So I stood up, opened up my belt, undid the button of my pants, unzipped and pulled my pants down to my ankles. My underwear followed the same route shortly after. I grabbed my gear. My scrotum, balls and dick were piled up like a moon jellyfish in the palm of my hand, and I showed it around the table so that everyone could see.

“That’s why!” I said and let them inspect my jewels a second or so, before I put it back where it belonged. My underwear and pants moved in opposite direction as some seconds ago, and soon also my zipper, button and belt were back to normal.  As I was standing, I saw it as a good opportunity to go to the bar and grab a beer. I don't know if Helena got a taste of how sick I could be, but she didn’t grab my hand more after this. 

This was the beginning of the beginning, and as you know from part 1 – It is important to take it from the beginning.

And now I know that some of you are thinking "What?" — And I will tell you; I have never heard anything from Helena after that party, but another woman who was present around the table and had seen my jellyfish, I met on a party the other day ...


To be continued …

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