Badminton... I wish it can be 'bed-minton'

It was just after six on the following Wednesday evening and I was lying on the floor of the badminton court at Bangsar Community Centre struggling to breathe and feeling seconds away from passing out with exhaustion.

One and half hour earlier Lawrence had picked me up from the front of my condo and kept me in the dark about what we were going to be doing until we had pulled up at the community centre. I had pictures we possibly hill-walking or even mountaineering: I had been more than a little disappointed when Lawrence’s secret assignation had only involved a couple of games of badminton. I hadn’t played badminton since school and then only under duress because even at the age of forty eight I had been sure that badminton was strictly for the ladies.

‘What do you mean, new-found respect?' Lawrence picked up the shuttlecock lying next to my head.

‘I won every single game and now look at you! I wouldn’t have thought you’d break sweat playing a game that you considered to be ‘strictly for the ladies’!’

‘But that was before, anyway, there were a couple of moments back there when it could have so easily gone my way.’

‘In your dreams. George boy! That was just me going easy on you so you didn’t get dispirited. Even though I say so myself I am ace at badminton.’ He held out his right hand to help me to my feet and my gratefully reached out and grabbed it. It felt soft and slender in my grip and even once I was on my feet I didn’t want to let go.

‘Right then,’ he said, subtly extricating his hand.

‘I am heading off for a shower. I’ll see you at the front when I am done and then I’ll give you a lift back to your place if you like. Given the way you like right now you don’t stand much chance of making it home on foot.’

It was just after seven when we pulled up in front of my condo’s.

‘So this is you.’ He said pulling on the handbrake. He turned to look at me. ‘It was really nice of you to agree to playing with me today. Evan though you were beyond hopeless I had a lot of fun.’

‘So does that mean that I’ll be seeing you again?’

‘I dare say if you’re at a loose end and fancy another thrashing at badminton you will.’

‘And what about non-badminton-related events?’

‘How do you mean exactly?’

‘Let me take you out tonight. And before you say no, hand on heart I promise on pain of death that I won’t try it on or anything. What I am suggesting will be something along the lines of two old school mates who occasionally play the noble game of badminton having a meal together during which nothing other than eating and good conversation will occur. Come on Lawrence, what do you say?’

‘Well because you sent me that Rothko card, were a good spot about losing today and asked so nicely I will agree to meet you this once for dinner tonight. But that’s all. OK?’

‘Great.’ I said. ‘I’ll have a ring round and see where has got a table free and let you know where to meet.’

It was just after eight and I was sipping a glass of bottled water and about to help myself to a bread roll when I looked up to see Lawrence standing right in front of me.

He dressed for the occasion, all in black with tight T’shirt. He looked very handsome but I couldn’t help but smile at the thought that had Lawrence been given a brief to select an outfit that none of my previous conquests would have been seen dead in this was pretty much it.

Standing up to greet him, I shake his hand and giving him a buddy cuddle like those soccer player, in the middle of Alexis Restaurant @ BSC, had let confusion show briefly on his face.

Initially we were talked about badminton again (I had had to lie down for most of the evening because of a shooting pain in my thigh) but after a while the conversation moved on to work. Lawrence had spent the previous week helping the shelter he worked at put together a bid for a funding application to local government that, if successful, would enable them to double the number of people they helped by a third.

I, who had spent most of my week doing very little apart from trying to sort out a new batch of dates with the right-kind-of-boy, felt obliged to embellish my account with tales of high-level meetings, various bits of ’paperwork-chasing’ and a happy hour with clients. I had impressed myself with my action-filled working week.

‘So come on then,’ said Lawrence later as I used up my final current affairs fact that I had cribbed from the Guardian specifically to impress his and the waiter cleared away their plates and handed out dessert menus. ‘What is this really all about’?

‘This,’ he said. ‘You and me sitting here in this nice little restaurant like we’re on some kind of a date: is this a joke or a bet?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘So explain to me why twenty-odd years down the line the best looking boy at school – and before you flatter yourself let’s not forget that there wasn’t a great deal of competition – has been making overtures towards a boy whom you regularly referred as a hopeless Lawrence?’

I considered his question and decided that now was the time to reveal all. ‘It’s like this,’ I confessed.

‘A little while it was pointed out to me by my close friends that it might be time for me to stop dating...’ I paused, wondering how a politically correct paper like the Guardian might describe the kinds of boys that I normally went out with. After a few moments of struggling I found the right phrase: ‘Inappropriate guy.’

‘Inappropriate?’ Lawrence seemed a little shocked. ‘In what way?’

I tutted under my breath. This was the problem with political correction: no one knew what anyone meant. ’What I am trying to say is that I used to go out with ... how shall I put it ... the wrong kind of guy.’

‘As in...’

‘Well you know,’ I shrugged. ‘The wrong kind like...’

‘Like what? Aliens? Farm animals? Boys called Jeff? Be more specific.’

‘OK,’I finally said. ‘I mean... model... actor... and glamour boys... and various former members of the cast of Academic Fantasia ... money boys and... numerous ex-boyfriends of frequent visitor of Frangipani, pretty much any kind of boy who considers underwear as suitable outwear in which to go clubbing.’ I winced as I look in Lawrence horrified face.

‘Did you leave anyone out?’

‘No, that is pretty much everything.’

Lawrence took a long sip from his wine glass. ‘So are you saying that you used to date quite a few boys like that?’

‘No,’ I replied. ’What I am saying is that I only ever dated boys like that.’

‘Am I right in thinking that you’re interested in me because it might be time to stop dating boys like that?’

‘Look,’ I began. ’It’s complicated. All I know is that I am done with that world.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I just know.’ An image of the French boy flashing in my head.

‘Am I supposed to be impressed by this news?’ He said, fluttering his eyes in a comically coquettish fashion. ‘Oh, the gorgeous and mighty George is no longer interested in boys who wear underwear as outwear so now brainy boy with glasses stand a chance!’

‘No,’ I said curtly. ’I am just saying that I am done dating the wrong kind of boys. I am only interested in the right kind.’

‘And they would be what exactly?’

‘Boys you can have a conversations with and who will laugh at my jokes: boys who can walk past a mirror without looking into it and aren’t always worrying about their hairs: boys who your mates like and your mum will think make you a better person: in short the right kind of boy would be a lot like you... but obviously not you because as you’ve been at pains to points out ever since we met. ‘I am not your type.’

And yes, am still not his type of guy...

Till then, Good nite