Hot Stoma Guy

You know when you promise yourself you’re just popping out for “a quick one”? Well, this wasn’t one of those nights.

It started, as these things often do, with bubbles. Champagne. Two bottles, to be precise. It was one of my mate’s birthdays, Clapham was our playground. The pub? Glorious. Spirits? High. Eyeliner? Still intact. And somewhere between glass number four, we decided we needed a dance floor. We found a place near the station. One of those charmingly grotty venues where the lights are low and the standards are even lower. By this point, I was very drunk, "flirt with everyone who has a jawline" drunk.

Now, I won’t lie — the rest of the night is patchy. Like, "lost a few frames of footage" patchy. But somehow, in a haze of gin and questionable decision-making, I ended up with a man. And not just a man — a tall, ridiculously good-looking, 30-year-old man. The kind of man you’d expect to see holding a puppy on Hinge.

Flash-forward and we’re getting frisky in the back of an Uber. (Sorry, Uber driver. Hope therapy’s going well.) Somewhere between Clapham and my flat, he casually dropped the bombshell: he’d had bowel cancer, recently had surgery, and now had a stoma bag. “Is that okay?” he asked, mid-snog.

Now, any sober version of me might’ve paused, maybe asked a follow-up question, maybe taken a moment. But this was not Sober Me. This was Tipsy Horny Me. So I nodded like it was the most normal mid-Uber conversation ever and carried on as if he’d just told me he was a Virgo.

The Uber driver was not amused. We got a solid telling off upon arrival. I think I muttered an apology before drunkenly stumbling into my flat with Hot Stoma Guy in tow.

The next morning? Grim. I woke up in a hangover cocoon, desperately trying to fake sleep. But he started... prodding. Literally. Like a child poking a jellyfish on the beach.

I gave up the charade, and things escalated quickly — kissing, touching, and full-blown morning sex. It was surreal. I’d never been with someone who had a stoma bag before. It was... actually fine? He had a strap around it, everything stayed in place, and bloody hell, he was good.

Then he started talking about his family. His mum, dad, aunt — all had cancer. He was about to start chemo. It was heavy. Like, "first date turns into a hospital drama" heavy.

But there we were, half-naked, post-shag, chatting about my broken door handle. He said he’d come round with some tools and fix it. Honestly, it sounded like the beginning of a very specific kind of adult film: ‘DIY & D’.

We messaged a bit after that, but the whole thing fizzled. Or maybe I let it fizzle. The truth is — he was lovely. Gorgeous. Kind. Sexy. Handy with a screwdriver. But the cancer thing? It threw me. I get attached quickly. Like, "already-imagining-our-kids-names" quickly. And I didn’t know if I could handle the emotional rollercoaster of someone going through chemo, even if they did look like they’d walked off a Hugo Boss billboard.

I still think about him sometimes. Not in a “what if?” way. More like a “blimey, that was a night” kind of way. Champagne, sex, emotional whiplash — Clapham really delivered.

And yes, my door handle is still broken. But now, it’s more than just a DIY job. It’s a reminder that sometimes, life throws you a hot stranger with a stoma bag — and all you can do is go with it.

Cheers to chaos, cancer confessions, and questionable life choices. See you in the next post, where I’ll probably fall for a bartender with commitment issues. Or a DJ. Same thing, really.