I'm a fag hag, so what?

I fell in love with a gay guy on the weekend. His name is Garry, with two r. Which is a bit weird, but it's ok because he is pretty cool. No, I'm not talking about the "I love you so much I want to marry you and have kids with you" kind of love. More the way you fall in love with a pair of shoes or a new car. Which works out much better for me, because he has a boyfriend. And he's gay.

I was out at a night club with a group of friends and I started talking to Garry and his friends outside when I was having a cigarette. He told me that I was gorgeous and added straight away: "Don't worry, darling, I'm gay!" Yep, I already had a sneaking suspicion. He and his friends ended up spending the rest of the night with us and we had the best time. I felt really comfortable around him and he made me laugh so much. We exchanged numbers and he invited me and Michelle to come for a barbeque sometime at their house. He sent me a text message the next morning and I sent him one back. I think we are just meant to be.

Me and gay guys just got it going on. I love hanging out with them because most of them are hilarious and a bit eccentric and they love shopping and talking about love and checking out men and they are great cooks and groovy dancers. They are men, yet I don't have to think about whether they might just want to get into my pants. Gay gays are cool. I’ve got loads of gay friends in Switzerland, including my best male friend Mikey, and a few over here too.

Yep, I'm a fag hag. And proudly so. Now would you excuse me, we've got some Cosmopolitans to sip and some excessive dancing and bitching to do, darling.

Meant to be: Yours truly with Garry on the left and Campbell on the right