If I am the Clark Kent of the Student Newspaper, then Julie Bellman is my pair of spectacles. I’m not sure the analogy is correct though, because in this situation, Superman’s only power is being a gay slut, and while he does wear a rather risqué Lycra jumpsuit, his infatuation with Lois Lane and the ability to fly suggest that there are other things going on in his life. Julie is El Presidente for the Swing Dance Society and it’s she, and she alone, who interrupts my glaring at Evan Llewellyn. For the last hour or so, to the utter discombobulation of my whole body, he’s been glaring back. My heart swells with pride as he chucks out comments to his pimply, anorexic side-kick look-alike, intentionally loud enough for me to hear. Comments such as,

“D’you think he’s trying to burn the Devil out of us with his eyes?” as his stare lingers longer, looking ever more malicious and oh-so-very edible.

And, “This is boring. Is it wrong that I want him to come over here and punch me, just for the entertainment value? Maybe I’m a masochist, hmm Ben?”

The smirk is one he pretends to aim at his side-kick, but I know different and it makes my pulse speed up even as I darken my glare. He’s talking loud enough for me to hear – I know as well as he does that this is teetering on the edge of playground crushes. If he had crayons, I’d steal them, but any he has, he’s got hidden. Instead, I’m rolling out the homophobic act, because then in theory he’ll leave me alone and I half think he expects that of me anyway, but his secret smile has me worried. I’m beginning to think he’s not beyond calling my bluff.

Just as I can feel the small threads of panic creeping up on me, Julie Bellman begs a plug socket from the event organiser and duct tapes the trailing cable of the society’s portable stereo to the floor to avoid tripping the crowds. She ups the volume and inserts a CD, pressing play before she walks towards me, hands held out at zombie height as she wiggles her fingers, eyes wide and sparkling, tilting her head to the side in a silent invitation onto the floor. She’s a very reliable disguise, even if by taking this option I am effectively running back inside the closet and slamming the door closed in Evan Llewellyn’s smug face with the plan of climbing out the back window. What can I say? Addicts are sneaky when they need a fix.

Now, depending on the music I would have declined Julie’s offer to dance and taken a more subtle tack, but as it is, she’s psychologically fucking with me. I have never been known to turn down a dance to a Bond theme in my life. Shirley Bassey sends shivers down my spine that make the soles of my feet come alive and my body whisper out a tight little fuck, yes. I’m ashamed to say that History Repeating ranks quite highly in a list of tracks I like to dance to. Add in the fact that the Historical Re-enactment society on the table next to ours had been regaling some loser about techniques for constructing your own chain mail and there was no decision to be made; because our table was so, so desolately empty and free from interested little Freshers eager to take over the running of the Student Paper, I’m now fully informed about a range of topics on medieval warfare. I want to cudgel the whole table of sad-case geeks to death with their historically accurate weapons of choice and I have no desire to throw off her invitation.

It starts off with a few deep notes on an electric guitar that undeniably make me sit up and pay attention. By the time the percussion comes in, I’m standing in the wide aisle between the rows of the tables, opposite Julie, foot tapping and when the voice hits, I make a grab for her, pull her up close to my body. And that’s when my malicious side kicks in, despite everything I just talked myself into. I shoot Evan a slow look as I slide my thigh between Julie’s and lead her on a body roll. Julie body rolls like dancing is pure physical pleasure. Orgasm face, and I dance with my lips parted in a slight pant as if she’s turning me on. She acts just as much as I do, which is why I love dancing with her. She makes it fun. I finish the body roll and lead her down, throbbing the beat with our bodies before picking up and opening out. I can’t resist the grin on my face as we kick out, swing it into faster rhythm, moving apart and I lead her on a fast spun double turn, back to face and out again, circle so fast she doesn’t know which way’s up. Smiles glint.

We split apart, steps with a twist and kick matching the beat and she shimmies at me. If I was straight, I’d probably be turned on. Grab for her hand and she steals the lead, arm strong as she lowers herself down, hips twisting, eyes with a devil-glint and slow back up, while I stand firm, watching her with a satisfied smirk, clicking out the beat with lazy fingers, because, honey, this is jazz, if you can’t be cool then learn to fake it.

Hep cat goes slow – half time with clicks. Swing time speeds it up. Blues slows down, drags out notes, pulls out the sex. Dirty Dancing - Patrick Swayze – that’s blues. Lessons in finding your mojo. Lean into the growl in Shirley’s voice, and I slide my hand onto Julie’s hip, side by side and thigh to thigh, breathing heavier now, count it out and go. Back step, triple and go – nudge her up, she gasps, legs in my arm – bridal style, her arms around my neck, and the thrill move, change direction and circle her round my waist and back again before setting her down like rock ‘n roll Elvis.

Play with the music – fast steps, slow, shoulders, hips.

Side step the little bits of history repeating.

The pause, the build up, the head flick and lazy kick that it needs.

Apart – steps like a tap-dancer, arms just perfect, smile genuine and fuck it – I’m an attention whore. I grab her close for the finish – blues it out – make her writhe and gyrate because she loves it when I do. End on a dip, with her body over mine, head thrown back exposing the curve of her neck, panting. Perfect dance partner, if she has to be a girl.

I’m perfectly capable of dancing like I’m straight. I’m not the guy in the group who everyone suspects bats for the other team. That honour falls on Dave, because he has an exceptionally nice arse, wears trousers that show it off unashamedly and colour coordinates his woollen jumper vests with his socks, but he’s been in a relationship with Christine for the last two years, so they’re barking up the wrong tree there. It amuses me no end when I get a little following of love-sick nineteen year old girls begging me to dance with them.

I set Julie upright carefully with a tip of the hat I’d grabbed off the swing table for the dance, separating easily and glance over to the BLOGs stall. Evan’s slumped down in his chair, arms folded across his chest, that delicious pout on his face.

“They’re actually quite good,” he mumbles grudgingly to his clone, looking decidedly unhappy about the fact, because I know with the way that I’ve worked it, he doesn’t like me. I grin. His superpowers have hit a block; I feel invincible.

Ok, so maybe I never stopped using people, but I’ve never led a girl on in my life – they just make assumptions and the attention is flattering if nothing else.

The track changes to something more traditionally swing and Julie grabs my hand again. I don’t know when I volunteered to be her exhibition dancer, but it seems I’m stuck with the job for now.

When a Charleston track comes on we gather into a circle – all of us dance geeks blocking the passage of the crowding Freshers and the manic side takes over. Julie starts it off – rubber legs that we all copy until she does a double-hand point that lands on the person next to her and they pick a move. It’s how it goes – a circle of stupid, because if anyone told you swing was serious they had something shoved too far up their arse for it to be pleasant. It gets to me eventually, as things do if you maintain a position in a circle with the ‘it’ tag moving closer.

I can see Evan and his posse looking on in confusion and more than anything I want to make him laugh. I have no idea where the desire comes from, because a couple of hours ago all I just wanted sex, but suddenly I’m acting the clown. I exaggerate the step back, before stepping forwards into upright and proper – from manic, jazz-handed clown to ‘20s stiff in not so many steps at all, and back again, spirit fingers and chicken elbows.

His face cracks a smile and he shakes his head, ducking down to his bag, pulling out a paper back and burying his head in it. It’s only Freshers’ Week – he can’t have work. I only had that essay because I decided last minute that actually tutoring little Fresher brats to pay for my PHD was probably a good idea after all and they wanted some kind of written work as an application. Fuckers. You’d have thought accepting me to do the bloody PHD would have been enough. Apparently not.

Somehow, with Evan not watching I lose interest in dancing. I’m tired, hungry and no amount of pretending to be happy is going to help with the way I’m feeling. Crotch bumping with Julie really does nothing for me.

A year or so ago I could count the number of friends I had on one balled fist, but things have changes since then. When I beg off the dancing and stumble back to the Student Paper stand, George Roper is leaned up against it smirking. We do a hand-grab, back-slap man hug and he shoves a sandwich packet into my chest and demands a fiver.

If how I used to operate could be called a crack addiction, then George is my methadone. I’m not quite as cold turkey as I want to be, but I tried that way once before and the only outcome was a change in status to ‘homeless’ because my flatmate walked in on me bumming his boyfriend of six months instead of making him a cup of tea like I was supposed to. When I came down from the orgasm glow, jeans pooled around my ankles, shivering out on the street with a shining example of a black-eye obliterating half my face, watching him chuck my CDs one by one out of the third floor window without a word, I realised what an absolute shit I’d become. George – approximately the only friend I had left back then – gave me a good bollocking, and we came to a mutual arrangement once he realised I’m as much of a hormone controlled dog as he is.

The sex is pretty damn good, actually; for someone who’s had the time to get to know my body almost as well as his own, there’s none of that threatened boredom. Though, I think that’s because we’ve both kept our heads screwed on right. There are no sappy looks – it’s just Bed, with no obtrusive love bites and nothing as tangled as a relationship or consideration. He brought me a sandwich because I asked him to – no other reason. He didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. That said, when I want him, George is thankfully, completely and utterly mine. I chose him because I thought he’d be safe and he was so easy to reel in. He’s nicely vanilla, but experienced enough to see a manipulation when it wraps itself around him and strokes his muscled stomach, which the vain bastard works on relentlessly with no detrimental effects to his body. George is what I need to get me through every now and then, because cold turkey is an absolute hell bitch unless it’s a sandwich filling and I lack willpower. He’s a very reliable sex partner who isn’t about to fall head over heels in love or lust. George is too jaded for that. I know he thinks I’m his, just as much as I claim he’s mine. Nobody’s bitch, is George and it works out nicely, because I don’t use him - not really. Not anymore than he uses me. It’s symbiotic really.

But Evan Llewellyn doesn’t need to know about my sordid sex life. Homophobic and straight, rather than gay and capable of rape is the image I want to project – it feels like the lesser of two evils at the moment. Given that, I’m glad that George would never kiss me outside of the bedroom. I’m deeply relieved that he has never looked at me like a love-sick puppy and I am positively ecstatic that George appears about as stereotypically gay as Daniel Craig playing James Bond (i.e. not at all), but that is decidedly the only reason I am happy. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I have no desire to make Evan Llewellyn think that I’m ‘taken’. Absolutely nothing at all.