Some British blokes invited Queerty contributor Daniel Villarreal to walk in the London Pride parade over the weekend. He’s going to share part of his adventure with you for the tax write-off.
Even though the ticketing agent couldn’t upgrade my Dallas to London seat from “World Traveller Plus” to “Club World” like I had hoped, the good people of British Airways still provided a choice seat between a blonde DILF and a tattooed man with a package so large that I could see his bulge by just glancing over. I told the DILF that I wanted to avoid jet lag by getting some sleep on the flight; he agreed and told me his preferred method — getting absolutely shitfaced (or “pissed” as the Brits call it). I decided to follow his lead and drank four bottles of rosé and six nips of vodka in about three hours. As Cabaret began playing on my personal TV, I decided to break the seal and bypassed the peach-fuzzed twink waiting for the throne in the plane’s midsection to pee in the tail section. There I caught my flight attendant stocking alcohol into a stowaway bin of the steward’s galley as two of his coworkers sat nearby.
I commended him for taking such good care of us with the copious amounts of alcohol. “Most American flight attendants won’t do that,” I said “because we Americans will just get air rage and end up attacking them once they decide to cut us off.”
“You don’t seem like that sort,” he said.
“There’s still five hours in the flight,” I said.
He smiled and left to go serve some customers and I lingered in the galley. The two other stewards asked about me and I told them I was a gay journalist coming to cover London Pride and “the seedy underbelly” of queer London. They responded favorably and so I felt bold enough to compliment our steward once again and then ask, “Is he gay?”
“Oh yeah,” the cheeky brunette stewardess* said. “Why? Do you want to take him in the loo for a shag? We can guard the door.”
“Haha, no thanks,” I responded. “He’s cute but not my type.”
When my steward came back, I confirmed his gayness, asked his age (44), whether he had a boyfriend (he did, of seven years), and when he came out (age 14).
“14??!” I said. “Bloody ‘ell. I didn’t come out until 21.”
I asked him about his coming out. He said he recognized his homosexuality early on, got a boyfriend in middle school and had very supportive parents.
“That’s great,” I said. Then I told him that I had dated women until my junior year in college in an attempt to make myself straight and pure in the eyes of the Lord. When I finally came out, my mother freaked out and told me I’d become the next Matthew Shepard — she came around to her senses several years later.
Then I kneeled down next to the brunette stewardess who had been politely listening — legs crossed and nibbling on a salad — and asked her when she came out.
“Come out?” she asked incredulously.
“As a heterosexual,” I said. “I don’t mean to offend or label you, I just assumed that you were.”
“Oh,” she laughed. “Yes, I am. All my life.”
“And your husband…?” I asked, pointing to her ring.
“We’ve been married seven months.”
“Newlyweds!” I exclaimed, “Congratubortions! Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Have you ever had a lesbian experience?”