Will Harris sweats under interrogation

We are running side by side on the treadmills at Michael’s gym (his is set to level 15, mine to ‘I only tagged along to show off my Lonsdale boots’) when he asks the question no gay man over the age of 25 is ever supposed to ask out loud.

“If you had to pick one of our friends to go out with, who would you choose?”

I slam my hand on the emergency stop button. “What?” I say, shuddering to a halt. “It’s just I was looking around the dinner table the other night, and I realised there isn’t one member of our friendship group that isn’t good boyfriend material. I was literally checking your heads off one by one – smart, successful, handsome, funny – but for some reason nobody can get a man.”

“We are at the gym when Michael asks me the question no gay man over the age of 25 is ever supposed to ask out loud”

“Apart from you,” I say. “And Paul.” This last part, on reflection, is rather a moot point; Paul always has some teenager or other hanging off him like he’s the gay man’s Berlusconi minus the plugs.

“How great would it be,” Michael continues, “if by the age of 35, you all started dating each other.”

Is this it, I wonder? Is this where years of interminable repeats of Friends on E4 has taken us? When all the comedic twists and turns of our dating lives have run their course, is it ordained we reach some pre-destined age where we pair off quietly with our friends, all the loose ends are tied up, and the credits roll? Knowing my luck, I’ll be the one who ends up dispatched to another city only to be cancelled midway through my second season.

On the crash mats by the long mirror, we work on our crunches (Michael focuses on his obliques, I on my reflection at the top of each movement). “Anyway,” I pant, “I suspect the only reason you’ve had this insane idea is because it gets you one step closer to your dream of a couples only Christmas in the Swiss Alps with matching Ralph Lauren ski-suits. And besides, what about love?”
Michael looks at me askance. “At 35?”

“Well, it’s the same as suggesting you and I get together at some point. I mean, I know we have form…”

“BLEUGH!” my friend jumps to his feet and shakes himself like a dog exiting a muddy puddle. “Why do you always have to bring that up? It was like one time, eight years ago, and we did it on a sunbed so it was probably politically incorrect.”

“I just think you reach a point, with friends, where the idea of being intimate with them repulses you. No offence. Romance feeds off mystery, and I’m afraid we all know each other too well to even consider it.”

“Go on,” says Michael. “Just give me a name.”
I tell him.

“Yep, me too,” he nods.