In which Fatboy gives it those ones

Fatboy has a spookishly accurate radar for detecting sexual activity and frequency. He once scampered around our old flat for ten whole minutes, scratching at the door, sniffing the air, ears doing a Spock, till he finally put a finger to his lips, mouthed "follow me" and stealthed his way up the stairs to the roof. I followed him, not entirely thrilled at playing Moneypenny to his Private Dick. But follow him I did and sure enough, in the middle of the terrace stood the unfortunately named Postman Patrick, postman-pants in a puddle around his feet, a hand resting comfortably on the satellite dish, the other gently goading the head of Born Again Mary from flat #10 who was on her knees in front of him offering prayers in distinctively non-Catholic fashion.

When Fatboy came around to watch the game last week, I decided to put him through the paces for old times' sake. I would throw him off the scent, I decided, with some signature Super Sly. He hadn't visited in a while, so I gave the ol' mancave a thorough make-over: binned all my porno, a little air freshener action to clear the masturbatory fug in the living room, not a single paper towel in sight. As customary, I welcomed him  with open arms and an open Kingfisher beer in each hand. "Faaatboy!" I said, genuinely excited, as we hugged. He took a sip of his beer, gave my back a friendly pat and pottered over to the couch. It's like taking candy from a big fat baby, I thought.

"So what's happening, broheim? It's been ages!" I said.
"Yeah, real good, man, you gain a little weight?"
"A touch. Haven't been getting a lot of exercise lately. Well, except in the bedroom, if you know what I mean."
"Dude, I always know what you mean."
"And the couch, too," I said.
"What?"
"I was just saying. It's not just the bedroom, you know, there's the couch, the kitchen, the.."
"Cool. Hey, game's starting."

No high five, no "sweeeeet!", just "cool". Something was wrong. Come to think of it, he hadn't even got his Chelsea jersey on. "Dude," I said, "see that ashtray to your right on the floor? Can you pass that to me, please?" "There's one on your lap," he said, eyes still on the TV. "Just get it, ok? New game ritual," I improvised. I had opened up a tiny window of opportunity. It would take all my investigative mojo, but it was doable. The moment he bent over to pick up the ashtray, I swung into action. With the lithest of wrists, I  lifted his teeshirt, just a pinch, and there it was: proof- the treacherous flash of white around his waist. Fatboy wasn't wearing his lucky boxers for the game. Something was definitely wrong.

By half-time, I was a wreck. I decided I couldn't wait anymore to find out. But Fatboy could be strangely closed up at times. I would have to play this with some degree of subtlety, lull the poor bastard into a false sense of security before I confronted him. He wouldn't even know what hit him.

"Dude," I said, "are you breaking up with me?"
"What?"
"Nothing," I said as I choked back a tear, "that was selfish of me. What is it, bro? Cancer?"
"I think it might be the celibacy," he said, "your celibacy."
"What?"
He leaned forward, sniffed, and breathed in a noseful.
"Two weeks and some," he said expertly, "rough patch?"
"Three," I admitted, "I can't believe you caught that. How did you know?"

"Irrelevant," he said as he stood up, "I'm here to help."
"It's just a phase," I said, "she's been really busy, and I have put on some weight, and.."
"Yeah, loose the promise-paunch," he interrupted.
"The what?"
"The 'promise-paunch'," he repeated, "it's the adult version of the promise-ring. You get one every time you're comfortable in a relationship. Loose it."
"That's not a thing," I said, "and anyway... fuck you, a 'promise-paunch' is not a thing."

He shrugged. "Porno," he looked around, "you told her about your porno, didn't you?"
"How did you know that?"
"Dude, there are some things that are just sacred. One of them is a man's porno. You NEVER tell your girlfriend about your taste in porno. It's not healthy. They figure a man with such specific titilatory needs probably knows how to keep himself happy, even if they don't bother."
"Girls don't care about the quality of their porno?"
"Have you ever heard one admit it?"
"No."
"Exactly."

I began to panic. "What else?" I asked.
"Who tidied up this room?"
"I did."
"Where'd you pick up the cushions and the..." he was clearly struggling with the word, "the soft bedsheet type thing on the couch?"
"It gets cold in here sometimes and we like to cuddle," I said, "and it's a bolster, not a cush...FUCK!"
"Oh, you're in deep, my friend. You've been friendzoned."
"She's my girlfriend!"
"I know. That's the worst kind of friend zone."

"What do I do?"
"Loose all the gay shit. Loose the fucking chocolates in the fridge. What's the straight man's rule of chocolate consumption, bro?"
"Fuck off."
"What.is.the.straight.man's.rule.of.chocolate.consumption, BRO?"
"Only when you get the munchies, and only spontaneously. Never because you've stocked them at home."
"Thank you. We don't have a lot of time. Half-time's almost over. Send Girlfriend a text, tell her you're going out with the boys tonight, don't tell her where and switch off your phone."
"But where are we going?"
He looked away for a second, then turned around.
"Get your tightest leather pants on," he said, "we're going to reclaim your balls."

                                                                   
                                Icy Highs's Music Recco: 'Highwayman' - Johnny Cash