Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after 'Cottaging' in Dorset

Many readers of my blog have been writing to me over the past 2 weeks to enquire what came of my trip to Dorset, and my plans to go cottaging.

I can disclose to you now that I have been knocked up in bed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as a direct result of that ill-fated trip; a disorder that I hitherto knew nothing about, but which I understand is best treated with copious amounts of gin and vodka.

You will recall that I had planned a week long trip to Bournemouth, via several Dorset country towns, with the sole purpose of going cottaging, as I had heard that it's all the rage at the moment - George Michael has been at it, as have several MPs.

I had expected to see this type of thing, when I went cottaging:

Bournemouth Tourist Information were very surprised to hear that I wanted to go cottaging in their town, and they refused to return my calls.  At the time, I wondered why.   

It was my Transvestite Friend, Glora Girdle, who convinced me to go cottaging, and it is her I blame for luring me into it, without knowing myself exactly what it was.

As it was, she accompanied me on the journey down and decided to blind-fold me and lead me by the hand to the first Dorset cottage.  Imagine my shock-horror, when I pulled off the blind-fold and saw not a Thomas Hardy thatched cottage, but this:-

That's right, readers, Fanny had not fallen down a rabbit-hole and ended up in some strange world of singing animals, nor had she taken the wrong turning.    She had instead been tricked by her lack of knowledge of British customs.   'Cottaging' has nothing to do with bucolic, thatched 18th century houses, covered in roses and honeysuckle, set in quiet lanes filled only with the hum of bees.

Cottaging is a little-known British gay slang term referring to anonymous sex between elderly men in a public lavatory; the term has its roots in that many self-contained toilet blocks resemble cottages in their appearance, rather than the more commonly-used meaning elsewhere in the world of a small, cosy countryside home.

As I stood in this particular Victorian toilet (located half-way between Dorchester and Bournemouth), amidst the stench of poppers and urine-rusted urinals, I heard the lewd whisperings of a dirty old man beckoning me through a gloryhole that had been carved through a cubicle wall.  All I could see was a learing mouth, clearly an elderly man's, framed by the gloryhole, and nothing more.  'It' had on jewel-glitter lipstick.  For a moment, it pouted at me, and then spoke: "I like to have sex in coffins" it whispered.

As a sophisticated young socialite, I can now see that I was simple and naive to have trusted this trashy queen, Gloria Girdle, and her proposed 'classical Dorset cottaging' tour.  From now on, I shall be a prodigy of information on British slang, and what it means exactly, rather than relying on what it should mean.  Thank you, Gloria, for your treacherous, premeditated cunning, in luring Fanny into such a terrible experience.  

Gloria Girdle, you are nothing but a failed, delusional lounge singer, who was boo'ed off stage and now works for the minimum wage in Hannibal's Bookshop (a London establishment itself that should have been burnt down years ago).