Old Spice Guy is in the middle of recording another special video response when the call comes in. He drops his bottle of Old Spice deodorant and the sack of rattlesnakes and goes to have a look.
He doesn’t run, because running is reserved for rescuing ladies and/or innocent babes from danger (like grizzly bears, sharks with laser beams, unspecified number of natural disasters or psychotic super villains). And even then he obviously only runs towards the danger, then hits the danger square in the face and dignifiedly walks away whilst carrying the lady and/or innocent babe.
So no, he doesn’t run, even though the Old Spice Signal (like bat signal, only better smelling) is beeping at him in a distressed manner. The switchboard is hi-tech, yet old-fashioned-looking with large brass knobs and dials. Old Spice Guy strolls over to it in a leisurely and controlled fashion.
“Hello there,” he says. “What seems to be the matter?”
The machine spits out a slip of paper. It says: ‘Man using lady scented body wash STOP Needs help and guidance STOP Hurry STOP’ followed by an address.
Old Spice Guy straightens his shoulders importantly. The muscles in his chest flex and ripple like a sabre-toothed tiger uncoiling from rest. It’s time for action.
He strides to the nearest window and swan-dives out, briefly wondering whether he’ll be landing on a horse, motorcycle, Aston Martin DB5 or a luxury yacht this time around. He kind of hopes it’s not the latter, because the address given was downtown and navigating the afternoon traffic in a yacht can be such a pain (although obviously not impossible – nothing is when you set your mind to it and use the right grooming products).
Sassy Gay Friend is in the shower, lathering up and enjoying the delicious smell of coconut that surrounds him in a steamy cloud, when the sudden loud noise alerts him to an unexpected visitor.
How crass, he thinks, stepping out from under the spray and tying an Egyptian cotton towel around his waist. Some people just have no manners.
He takes a quick look in the mirror, straightens his shower cap which is the exact same shade of peach as his scarf, and opens the bathroom door.
In the middle of his interior-designed living room there stands a large white stallion. No, it’s not a metaphor. There really is a horse, stomping all over his $500 Indian rug.
Sassy Gay Friend can practically feel his eyes bug out unattractively. He thinks maybe that evil bastard Richard III has sent the horse in some sort of twisted revenge for how he’d convinced Lady Anne – that stupid bitch – not to marry him.
“What are you doing?” he cries, arm extended and forefinger pointing imperiously. “What, what, what are you doing?”
Then he takes a closer look and the protest dies on his lips as ecstatically as poor Cleopatra (the stupid bitch, he didn’t get to her in time).
On top of the stallion there sits the most glorious specimen of manhood Sassy Gay Friend has ever seen and that includes the original model, a.k.a. I’m-just-a-pretty-face-Adam.
“Hello ladies,” the man says and then looks confused when his sweeping gaze finds no ladies, only Sassy Gay Friend in his sassy towel, sassy shower cap, and sassy scarf.
“Oh, you’re fine,” Sassy Gay Friend says. “And what a big beast you have between your legs.” He makes sure to leer and wink in an exaggerated fashion to get his message across. And that’s not the only thing he’d like to get across...
“Thank you,” the man says solemnly and dismounts. He’s wearing designer jeans, artistically ripped in a way that pleases Sassy Gay Friend on several levels. His torso is sculpted and bare and he smells like... Well, disappointingly, he smells a bit like Sassy Gay Friend’s Grumpy Straight Granddad.
Sassy Gay Friend rallies his faculties. “No, seriously,” he says. “What are you doing here, crazycakes? I mean, really? You burst into my apartment on a horse! Look at your life! Look at your choices!”
He’s getting into his stride now and takes a step forward to poke his finger repeatedly against the man’s incredibly firm pectorals. “Who are you, anyway? The Old MacDonald?”
The man grins at him, his teeth white and even like a picket fence in American heartland. “No,” he says. “I’m the Old Spice Guy.”
And then he lifts his arms and for a dizzy moment Sassy Gay Friend thinks Old Spice Guy is reaching for him, but instead he just says “Improbable hand-catch!” as a range of Old Spice products fall from out of nowhere and are deftly captured in his secure grip.
Old Spice Guy brandishes a bottle of Old Spice body wash in one hand and Old Spice body spray in the other. “It has come to my attention that you are using lady-scented products for the purposes of personal hygiene. I have come to show you the error of your ways.”
Instead of the humble and awed gratitude Old Spice Guy has come to expect from his disciples, the man in front of him only crosses his arms and lifts his eyebrows.
“The error of my ways? Listen honey, if I got a nickel every time someone said that to me I’d be able to start my own line of beauty products. Besides,” he adds, “there’s no such thing as lady-scented.”
“Of course there is. You’re wearing lady-scented body wash right now.” Old Spice Guy points at the soap suds that are slowly sliding down the man’s chest. It’s obviously not as muscular as his, but still quite nice.
“Oh really? Tell me then, darling: what do ladies smell like?”
Old Spice Guy opens his mouth to answer... only to close it wordlessly five long seconds later. Huh. Now that he thinks about it that does sound a bit weird. Old Spice Guy has sniffed many a lady in his time, but they have all smelled different to each other. It is rather difficult to generalise like that.
“Exactly!” the man nods. The look on his face says that he quite enjoys being right, which Old Spice Guy can relate to, because he’s right all the time. Normally.
“And I,” the man gestures at himself expansively, “smell a-fucking-mazing. Here, smell for yourself.”
He leans closer and Old Spice Guy does the same, acting purely on the instinct that has never let him back down from a challenge. Their bare chests brush against each other slightly. Old Spice Guy takes a deep breath, filling his lungs to their full and rather impressive capacity.
The man definitely doesn’t smell lady-scented. He smells like coconut and clean skin and traces of some aftershave Old Spice Guy is pretty sure is much more expensive than Old Spice.
“Who are you?” he asks, pulling away.
“I’m the Sassy Gay Friend,” the man answers, adjusting his towel and tilting his jaw defensively.
“Oh.” Well, that would explain the lack of ladies in the apartment. Old Spice Guy had been wondering about that, because apart from the questionable choice in body wash, he couldn’t find any other reason for it. But now...
Old Spice Guy decides to change tactics. After all, Old Spice is an equal opportunity scent. “Does your man look like me?” he asks. “No. Can he smell like me? Yes. Does your man cook you a gourmet dinner in a log cabin he built you with his own hands while on holiday from his job as an adventure guide for disadvantaged kids slash jet plane pilot? Does he treat you like the most precious thing in the world and pamper you daily whilst smelling—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, sweet cheeks,” Sassy Gay Friend interrupts. “Look around you. Do you see a man in here? Well, besides myself and you.”
Old Spice Guy takes another visual sweep of the apartment. The lack of female romantic companionship is now explained, but there is no sign of male companionship either. In fact, everything points to only a single person living here.
For some reason Old Spice Guy finds this annoying. Why is Sassy Gay Friend on his own? Where are all the people he’s supposedly friends with?
Old Spice Guy glances back at Sassy Gay Friend, who is looking less sassy by the minute. He’s shivering a little in his damp towel and his scarf is hanging forlornly around his neck.
“Look,” Sassy Gay Friend says, sighing a little. “Not to diss your sales pitch or whatever, but let me ask you one thing: Does yours?”
Old Spice Guy frowns in confusion. “Does mine what?”
“Does your...” Sassy Gay Friend hesitates but then goes with, “significant other do all those things to you? You know, gourmet dinners, pampering, thoughtful gifts, taking care of you, the works?”
“Well, I...” Old Spice Guy has to think about that. There have been a lot of ladies that he has built a lot of kitchens and baked a lot of cakes for. He has tussled with alligators and rescued kittens from burning buildings and collected snowflakes from the top of the Himalayas as tokens of appreciation. There have been roaring fires on the beach under the stars and rose petals on four-poster beds and serenading in the moonlight. It’s frankly quite exhausting after a while and Old Spice Guy has to admit to himself that occasionally it would be nice if someone would maybe make him a sandwich or give him a foot massage or just sit down in front of the TV with him to watch a movie.
“I take that as a no. She’s such a stupid bitch,” Sassy Gay Friend says, although there’s no venom in it, just sympathy, like he knows exactly what Old Spice Guy is thinking. “She’s a stupid bitch,” he repeats with a shake of his head.
They stand there, smiling awkwardly at each other. Old Spice Guy doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now. Sassy Gay Friend doesn’t seem to need or want rescuing and there are no wild animals in the vicinity to wrestle. Finally, he puts the bottle of Old Spice body wash and Old Spice body spray into the saddlebags, patting the stallion’s neck absentmindedly.
“Right, then. I’ll just be—”
“Do you want to grab a drink?” Sassy Gay Friend asks; a little breathless but with an air of determination. “I have a jug of Margarita in the fridge. Or I could get you a beer?” He looks a bit doubtful about that second option, like the chances of him actually finding one are rather slim.
Old Spice Guy blinks, his hand frozen on the reins. Then to his own surprise, he says: “No, Margarita sounds... fantastic.”
“Fantastic,” Sassy Gay Friend parrots, smiling so widely his dimples deepen like twin valleys of glee.
“Okay gorgeous, you just take a seat on the sofa and put your feet up, don’t be shy – oh my, you do have quite big feet, don’t you? – and I’ll just go throw on something a little more appropriate, although not too appropriate if you catch my drift.” He kind of giggles a little to himself, before disappearing back into the bathroom with a sassy toss of his scarf.
Old Spice Guy leans back on the sofa and laces his fingers over his chiselled abdomen. Idly, he wonders if there’s a movie on later they could watch together. Almost certainly there will be.
After all, experience has taught him that things always work out in the end, no matter how improbable the odds.