YSM

A few days ago, I spent half an hour in a private room with an attractive young man, for a mere £8,000.

I’ve been looking for wedding loans, but like most Englishmen, I hate talking about money, and can only approach the subject after an hour of small talk and 40 cups of tea. This is difficult for me as I hate small talk and am a strict coffee drinker.

In England, if you wish to express your level of wealth you complain about how much everything costs; burglars frequently canvas potential targets by sitting in pubs and seeing who complains the loudest. You do not however, sit down with a complete stranger and discuss it in an open and frank conversation. But having as much financial knowledge as George Bush, I was forced to go ask advice from my bank's loan advisor.

And the thing that scared me most can be summed up in three letters - YSM.

Perhaps I better explain.

My loan advisor is a good looking twenty something male, about 6’, slim build, blue eyes and blond hair. Talking to him petrified me.

It wasn’t his looks that were the problem, In fact, being largely self-absorbed, it wasn’t until I’d left the bank I even realised he was relatively good looking.

The problem was that he belonged to that group of homosapiens of straight men under 30. For ease I’ll call them Young Straight Male’s or YSM for short.

Now most YSM’s are wonderful people, and have given me hours of 'entertainment', often unconsciously. And I’m sure that if you engage them for long enough they enjoy witty conversation about the later works of Mozart. But it can't be avoided that when you first meet them, their talk is limited to roughly four things - sport, cars, woman, and any mixture of the above.

The only thing I know about sport is that I don’t watch it. The only thing I know about cars is that I don’t drive one. And as most straight men don’t keep up with the gossip in Heat, I’m at a loss when talking about women. And so conversation is a dangerous game as they gradually discover my sexual preference and I struggle to appear as manly as possible.

The conversation with my ‘financial advisor’ went like this. The italics represent what I wish I’d said, the roman the wuss answer I actually gave.

‘So getting married huh?’
(Yes! To a lovely, sexy, gorgeous man.) ‘Haha! Yes!’
‘My lady keeps trying to pressure me into that too.’
(Afraid of commitment are you? Typical straight man!) ‘Ah!’
‘I swear she’s planned the whole thing out in vivid detail already.’
(Well you weren't going to actually put any effort in to it were you?) ‘Sound’s familiar.’
‘So, how much was you thinking off.’
(How much you got Punk?) ‘Um, About £8,000,’
‘Expensive Bride huh?’
‘Sound’s about right.’ (Sound’s about right.)
‘Well let’s have a look, but it shouldn’t be a problem. You see the game last night?’
(Unfortunately, I had better things to do, like cleaning out my ears and examining the cotton buds for anomalies.) ‘Um, Nah’ I was out.’
‘You support Arsenal?’
(Well I don’t know about the ‘nal’ part) ‘I’ve watched them a bit this season. Don’t normally though.’
‘Oh? What kind of repayments you thinking about?’
(I have no idea! I’m useless when it comes to this kind of thing. Perhaps you could be a big strong man and help me decide.) ‘Uh…’
‘About £300 a month?’
(Did I ask for your help big mouth? Go back to your TV and watch your brain dead football playing idols chase after a ball like the dogs they are!) ‘Sounds Great.’
‘I suppose you’re paying for it all then are you…?’

It goes on like this. Sometimes I wish I was as camp as a Baz Lurhman movie, at least that way I wouldn't need to get into these kind of conversations. Straight men would avoid me like the plague...

He gave me his card. It had his personal number on it. In a few months time I’ll ring him up an meet up to arrange the loan. Maybe this time, before I meet him, I’ll watch the game, pick up a copy of Auto Trader, and practice fluttering my eyelids.

After all, he is kind of hot.

And I can always do with more 'entertainment.'

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