For some reason, gay men are crazy about me. They’re so much more crazy about me than straight men it’s not even funny. On Saturday night, one of them said to me, in all seriousness: ‘Vicky, I think I’ve become a little bit obsessed with you’. He was gorgeous and American and had electric blue eyes and I wished – just wished – that I got anything like that amount of attention from someone who might be into girls.
But still, attention’s attention and I can’t get enough of it, so imagine my joy when I was invited out on a dinner date with no less than eight men on Friday night. I picked the restaurant, obviously (it was Open, in case you’re interested). They brought me presents of hand-illustrated erotica.
The next day, of course, was Gay Pride here in Amsterdam, which is why they were all over from London in the first place. Having already attended a pre-Pride party with them the night before, they invited me for drinks in the afternoon at their suite in the Negen Straatjes (it rained on our parade), and proceeded to develop a strange fascination with my breasts. (I think I might be over-sharing again.)