I kind of discovered gaydar girls by accident. I was in an open relationship with a woman I was hopelessly in love with (yes it was as tragic as it sounds). She went on there and chatted up other women and I went on there and stalked her.

One day I was anxiously waiting for a message from my lover. We had been going through a rocky patch and she was deciding whether or not she wanted to keep seeing me, so I was feeling quite on edge.

Instead of a message from her I received a message from a woman with no profile picture. She was being quite flirtatious and because I was restless and needed a distraction I messaged her back.

I asked her why she didn’t have a profile picture and she said it was because she is a celebrity and nobody knew she was bisexual. “Yeah right” I thought. I asked her what she did and she told me. ‘Yeah whatever” I thought to myself.

I told her my name and said to look me up on Facebook.

The next day, when I checked my Facebook, I had a friend request… it was her and She was actually famous! My jaw dropped. I can’t identify her for obvious reasons, but let’s just say I was very flattered.

I would like to say I acted extremely cool, and did not consider her celebrity status and treated her the the same as any other person, but I am afraid that is not true. I immediately Googled her and discovered many things including that unless she had made her career debut aged ten she had knocked ten years off her gaydar profile age and she was in fact 20 years my senior. Perfect! I do love an older woman.

She invited me to the Embassy club in Mayfair the following evening. Nervously I put on my best frock and fretted over my makeup, considering not turning up. Two large glasses of Pinot Grigio later and I hotfooted from my Noho digs to Mayfair, collecting a friend from Oxford Street for moral support.

Posh nightclubs are not my usual haunts. There was one night, I was walking home alone up Argyll Street about 2am on a Saturday, and a fight broke out outside Movida. The bouncers rushed to break it up and I saw the empty entrance as an invitation for some opportunistic gatecrashing. I had a great night! Kimberley Walsh was in there, I danced with some footballers and was given lots of vodka by some rich bankers. Everyone was too drunk to wonder why I was on my own.

In my opinion, posh nightclubs in London are not much different from chavvy ones. Packs of men in loud shirts and shiny shoes, smelling of testosterone, try to impress groups of woman with shiny handbags, poker straight hair and high heels. The men often fight each other, the women sometimes do too. The music is commercial RnB. The men and the women always kiss each other, sometimes the women kiss each other to get free drinks off the men. The men never kiss each other, ever.

The posh and chavvy toilets are very similar too. There is always a big, fierce toilet attendant with an array of perfumes, deoderants and chupa chups who forces you to dry your hands with the towel she passes you and then scowls if you don’t tip her. There is always at least one girl crying, at least one who has a broken shoe and at least one who is vomiting.

The only thing that separates posh nightclubs like Embassy and Movida from the local meat market are the door price and drinks prices. Considering that most of the celebrities get free entrance and free drinks just to be “seen” there, the mere mortals that go are subsidising their night out just for the privilege of breathing the same air as them.

Anyway, Embassy, it’s very plush. Low lighting, soft furnishings. My friend and I got a cocktail and tried to look cool. All of a sudden my lady was upon us, introducing us to her friends, most of whom had been on the previous years Big Brother. Her skin was flawless and her face barely moved when she spoke, her lips were full and pouty, her silicone cleavage large and she smelled delicious. After a few drinks she held my hand under the table and I was smitten. My friend was kissing an old a Big Brother contestant and I went to powder my nose… as I came out the cubicle, there she was! Standing facing me with her hands on her hips and a big smile on her flawless face. She pushed me inside the cubicle, locked the door, and that was the beginning of a beautiful affair.

I solemnly swore that I wouldn’t tell a soul about our liaisions. Of course that was a big, fat lie and I told lots of people. Apparently nobody knew she was bisexual and so I tried to be discreet when we were together. Looking back, something didn’t sit quite right. She told me she was very paranoid about being outed but, on her choosing, our dates would be in a bar right next door to News International.

Surely if one wants to keep a low profile they don’t have a lesbian date in a straight bar crawling with journalists? She also told me about an affair she had had with a high profile television presenter (male) which I later read about in the papers. So perhaps I was, in fact, one big publicity stunt?

That sounds unkind as she was lovely to me and I enjoyed her company. During one of our dates she looked me right in the eye and said ‘I really like you baby’. I practically swooned.

In other ways we weren’t compatible. Forgive me if this is too much information but there are some situations where ‘there’s a good girl’ is not an appropriate thing to say.

I was keen to keep on seeing her but it wasn’t long before she called it all off. I texted her about ten times a day, maybe that was a little too keen?

She is now with another celebrity (male) and I see them every now and again in OK magazine and on reality television shows.

Compared with my first online dating experience on mysinglefriend.com it was bloody fantastic.

 

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