And boy, was Ballack useless... :-P
Tomorrow, Holland vs France!
Thursday, 12 June 2008
Friday, 6 June 2008
Orange Madness
Since my mate K, in an uncharacteristic expression of EXTREMELY BAD TASTE, decided to praise the German national squad, I feel forced to retaliate.
OK, what's wrong with Germany?
The country itself, nothing much. They're a bit keen on authority and uniforms and fat female customs officials... but I digress. They're a comical bunch abroad, hesitant to speak a foreign language and dead insecure. On the upside, a lot of them mistook me for a native New Yorker even though I did not have a clue where "ze muzeum of ze modern arts" was. God bless them.
There is another battlefield though. And that means it's war! World war 32 or something by now, but anyway, we don't care. As long as they lose.
The dispiriting thing is, they don't really do that. They have no style, hardly any qualities, maybe only one or two star players and a truly frightening goal keeper who recently decided to retire, but they more than make up for that in fighting spirit.
And Germany losing bravely in a squeaker is not really satisfying either. We want to see total humiliation. The Dutch and our friends from across the channel are in total agreement on this. But the facts are horrid: the Germans qualified easily, whereas the four UK nations are sadly missing...
So I'll put this in terms K will understand and dread: the Germans are the Hillary Clintons of international football. Totally dedicated, and they'll never give up. And it usually works, though at Euro 2000 and 2004 they didn't make it past the group phase, partly because no-one can stand losing to them even if winning doesn't really matter.
Problem is, I see no Obama among the other 15 squads. But the Italians, with an average age of about 250, are credible candidates to do a John McCain and take the trophy home. ;-)
I need to finish this in style, so I think I'll need some non-German Euro 2008 eye candy. Shouldn't be too difficult. ;-)
My darling Klaas Jan Huntelaar, who'll probably be spending a lot of time on the bench... :-( Move over, Van Nistelrooy!
An acquired taste, Liverpool's Fernando Torres... but he might become Spain's much-needed powerhouse.
Switzerland's Degen brothers, David and Philipp.
Oranje boven!
OK, what's wrong with Germany?
The country itself, nothing much. They're a bit keen on authority and uniforms and fat female customs officials... but I digress. They're a comical bunch abroad, hesitant to speak a foreign language and dead insecure. On the upside, a lot of them mistook me for a native New Yorker even though I did not have a clue where "ze muzeum of ze modern arts" was. God bless them.
There is another battlefield though. And that means it's war! World war 32 or something by now, but anyway, we don't care. As long as they lose.
The dispiriting thing is, they don't really do that. They have no style, hardly any qualities, maybe only one or two star players and a truly frightening goal keeper who recently decided to retire, but they more than make up for that in fighting spirit.
And Germany losing bravely in a squeaker is not really satisfying either. We want to see total humiliation. The Dutch and our friends from across the channel are in total agreement on this. But the facts are horrid: the Germans qualified easily, whereas the four UK nations are sadly missing...
So I'll put this in terms K will understand and dread: the Germans are the Hillary Clintons of international football. Totally dedicated, and they'll never give up. And it usually works, though at Euro 2000 and 2004 they didn't make it past the group phase, partly because no-one can stand losing to them even if winning doesn't really matter.
Problem is, I see no Obama among the other 15 squads. But the Italians, with an average age of about 250, are credible candidates to do a John McCain and take the trophy home. ;-)
I need to finish this in style, so I think I'll need some non-German Euro 2008 eye candy. Shouldn't be too difficult. ;-)
My darling Klaas Jan Huntelaar, who'll probably be spending a lot of time on the bench... :-( Move over, Van Nistelrooy!
An acquired taste, Liverpool's Fernando Torres... but he might become Spain's much-needed powerhouse.
Switzerland's Degen brothers, David and Philipp.
Oranje boven!
Saturday, 26 April 2008
Pollution of the Mind
Sorry for the hiatus, guys.
Here's what I've been up to lately.
Change in style, change in attitude, less random sluttiness, more focus on personality.
1. Maastricht Boy
Love or hate this town, best known as the site where the 1992 EU treaty was drawn up, I do both. It's the capital of camp and OTT, but somehow me and it's inhabitants don't get along. I'm not one of them, but from a village nearby; I don't belong, and never will. It's a weird enclave of fierce self-centeredness that is somehow isolated from the rest of the world. Anyway, I got the place out of my system, moved North to play on bigger fields ;-) and Maastricht remained, well, it's crazy ol' self. And me? I've been known to shout: "No-one from Maastricht! Never."
So when, during a night on the town, a hot young boy approached me and asked my opinion on a relationship, alarm bells should have gone off but he was trying to hide his distinctive accent. Eventually the truth came out, but I was already smitten. Silly old me.
We met up the next night, and things were good. Conversation turned more and more to the list of things he demanded from a boyfriend, but he was good company and we went out for a drink at the local gay hangout. This, like most things Maastricht, was an anachronism: an old, tiny little bar, with pink triangles and rainbow flags, an empty dancefloor and a stereotypical patron, who was actually born in my village (yikes!). The boy too, made me feel strangely young and modern: he was into VW Beetles, and had no computer.
Heads turned as I walked in: I felt like fresh meat. This was the entire local scene. I felt a bout of claustrophobia coming on, but after all, the boy was hot, the town is weird and an occasional change of scenery is cool.
At one stage he asked me if I liked going out in drag - he did.
After the second date, we had sex at his place. He expressed his desire for a relationship. A few days later, he came up with a weird story about having to go to Belgium, and eventually declined to pick up the phone. Oh well, such is life.
But Maastricht? No thanks.
2. Male nurse jinx
Two weird weeks followed - I was wondering where to take things from here. I was introduced to a male nurse, had an online chat with another male nurse and ended up one Friday night kissing and fondling yet another male nurse on the Strip. That was just a bit of fun, but I was left wondering out of which woodwork these nurses had suddenly crawled.
3. Suburb boy
For want of a better word - he lives in a village nearby. He ended the male nurse jinx, even though I somehow expected him to be one too - it's the queer way he dresses.
We met last Saturday, spent all our spare time chatting and texting, and we had an OK date last night. OK, because there was nothing much to do in town, even though it's usually packed on a Thursday night, with all the students out. But conversation flowed easily and we had a nice, grown-up sort of date.
He's a bit young for my taste (19) but looks significantly older. We're probably meeting up tomorrow night for what promises to be a boozy night out. He seems to have some acceptance issues but in public looks and behaves like the gay he really is. He appears to be a pretty direct sort of guy so we'll see where this goes. My level of comfort talking about everything in the straight pub we eventually ended up in was amazing. I'm focusing on the person, not the body, even though there's nothing wrong with the way he looks, it's not the primary cause of my interest in him.
Now I've written off part of my smallish country, I should make the most out of the parts I have left...
Here's what I've been up to lately.
Change in style, change in attitude, less random sluttiness, more focus on personality.
1. Maastricht Boy
Love or hate this town, best known as the site where the 1992 EU treaty was drawn up, I do both. It's the capital of camp and OTT, but somehow me and it's inhabitants don't get along. I'm not one of them, but from a village nearby; I don't belong, and never will. It's a weird enclave of fierce self-centeredness that is somehow isolated from the rest of the world. Anyway, I got the place out of my system, moved North to play on bigger fields ;-) and Maastricht remained, well, it's crazy ol' self. And me? I've been known to shout: "No-one from Maastricht! Never."
So when, during a night on the town, a hot young boy approached me and asked my opinion on a relationship, alarm bells should have gone off but he was trying to hide his distinctive accent. Eventually the truth came out, but I was already smitten. Silly old me.
We met up the next night, and things were good. Conversation turned more and more to the list of things he demanded from a boyfriend, but he was good company and we went out for a drink at the local gay hangout. This, like most things Maastricht, was an anachronism: an old, tiny little bar, with pink triangles and rainbow flags, an empty dancefloor and a stereotypical patron, who was actually born in my village (yikes!). The boy too, made me feel strangely young and modern: he was into VW Beetles, and had no computer.
Heads turned as I walked in: I felt like fresh meat. This was the entire local scene. I felt a bout of claustrophobia coming on, but after all, the boy was hot, the town is weird and an occasional change of scenery is cool.
At one stage he asked me if I liked going out in drag - he did.
After the second date, we had sex at his place. He expressed his desire for a relationship. A few days later, he came up with a weird story about having to go to Belgium, and eventually declined to pick up the phone. Oh well, such is life.
But Maastricht? No thanks.
2. Male nurse jinx
Two weird weeks followed - I was wondering where to take things from here. I was introduced to a male nurse, had an online chat with another male nurse and ended up one Friday night kissing and fondling yet another male nurse on the Strip. That was just a bit of fun, but I was left wondering out of which woodwork these nurses had suddenly crawled.
3. Suburb boy
For want of a better word - he lives in a village nearby. He ended the male nurse jinx, even though I somehow expected him to be one too - it's the queer way he dresses.
We met last Saturday, spent all our spare time chatting and texting, and we had an OK date last night. OK, because there was nothing much to do in town, even though it's usually packed on a Thursday night, with all the students out. But conversation flowed easily and we had a nice, grown-up sort of date.
He's a bit young for my taste (19) but looks significantly older. We're probably meeting up tomorrow night for what promises to be a boozy night out. He seems to have some acceptance issues but in public looks and behaves like the gay he really is. He appears to be a pretty direct sort of guy so we'll see where this goes. My level of comfort talking about everything in the straight pub we eventually ended up in was amazing. I'm focusing on the person, not the body, even though there's nothing wrong with the way he looks, it's not the primary cause of my interest in him.
Now I've written off part of my smallish country, I should make the most out of the parts I have left...
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
The butchest Lesbian I ever saw
Well, there's a new addition to the freak show also known as "work". And she's instantly become the talk of the town, well site.
First time I saw her, I just thought: weird guy. Second time: surprisingly little facial hair. Third time: sort-of gay swagger. Fourth time: fat ass.
Then it hit me: the "guy", tattoos, Adidas, G-Star Che-style army cap and voice deeper than Rod Stewart's, is a woman. *Shock* *Awe*
A few days later. I overheard one of the managers gossip from a distance. The only phrase that was sufficiently clearly articulated was "hot new bull dyke". My co-worker and I just couldn't contain our laughter.
A few days later, the following story hits the internal news cycle.
Close to the end of the shift, she apparently placed her butt on a desk, started scratching her privates, and remarked, once she noticed quite a few people were staring:
This simple statement has become the scandal of the year so far, and I guess she's quite capable of improving on it. Yes, there's more than a whiff of trailer park about her.
When told to work harder, she apparently answered:
We're not quite used to this kind of in-your-face female sexuality, I guess.
But the best remark of all was made by closeted freak, when the subject of lesbians came up:
This weekend: Dr Lektroluv!
First time I saw her, I just thought: weird guy. Second time: surprisingly little facial hair. Third time: sort-of gay swagger. Fourth time: fat ass.
Then it hit me: the "guy", tattoos, Adidas, G-Star Che-style army cap and voice deeper than Rod Stewart's, is a woman. *Shock* *Awe*
A few days later. I overheard one of the managers gossip from a distance. The only phrase that was sufficiently clearly articulated was "hot new bull dyke". My co-worker and I just couldn't contain our laughter.
A few days later, the following story hits the internal news cycle.
Close to the end of the shift, she apparently placed her butt on a desk, started scratching her privates, and remarked, once she noticed quite a few people were staring:
My pussy's itching!
This simple statement has become the scandal of the year so far, and I guess she's quite capable of improving on it. Yes, there's more than a whiff of trailer park about her.
When told to work harder, she apparently answered:
Hey, I still need to have energy to finger tonight!
We're not quite used to this kind of in-your-face female sexuality, I guess.
But the best remark of all was made by closeted freak, when the subject of lesbians came up:
[Bull dyke co-worker] is also a lesbian, and she has no problem admitting it!
This weekend: Dr Lektroluv!
Sunday, 16 March 2008
You know what to expect...
While I'm suffering through a boring phase in my life, and a terrible writer's block to boot, I just have to share the tune that I have been obsessing about since the album was released in, well October:
It's kind of cheesy, very Eighties somehow, but I love it, and I can't wait for the mixes. The video is kind of disappointing and schizophrenic, but I can live with that.
Next weekend will be mega party time...
It's kind of cheesy, very Eighties somehow, but I love it, and I can't wait for the mixes. The video is kind of disappointing and schizophrenic, but I can live with that.
Next weekend will be mega party time...
Friday, 22 February 2008
Do you think you're immune to cheating girlfriends?
She walked up to me and asked me this question. I pondered this for a while, and a multitude of answers went through my head, from truthful to non-committal to downright rude. I looked up, noticed the stiff, wooden swaying on the dancefloor again and decided to go for non-committal.
It turned out to be an informal survey, with almost 100% of respondents going for "no". I had probably appeared arrogant, aloof and overdressed.
All this highlighted the fact that this night was the end of student life as I knew it, and that I wasn't going to be missing out on anything much.
First of all, only beer was served. The clothing was cheap, generic straight-boy-without-style stuff. The hair was often longish and unwashed, no bonus points in my book. Once in a while, an attempt at fashion sense would be spotted, in the form of outdated pink shirts and Chasin' longsleeves. The DJ was awful, working without order or flow and being aided by a yuppie type who would emit saxophone frenzies whenever he felt like it, completely spoiling the tunes he was attempting to improve. I stood out and knew it, wishing I was somewhere else.
Rewind to the morning. The day had started out better, but not much. I had arrived early, as the conference location was close to my house, picked up all the necessary materials and attended the first lecture, by a Dutch bank. Friends who had promised to go, failed to show up. I moved on to the next lecture, which, thankfully, was a lot more interesting.
I somehow knew I was going to bump into someone I knew from the "scene", which happened during the cocktail hour. The waiters for the dinner party walked in, the way an army platoon captures a bridge. Queens galore, and of course I knew one of them... boy was I enjoying this... not.
Just after the cocktail hour, a lecturer from the London School of Economics would talk about "the history of economics in the workplace". This turned out not to be the case. It was much better, a half-hour diatribe combining jabs at the Dutch railways ("NS stands for No Service"), the French, the Germans, Charlemagne (don't ask) and women ("I prefer my pc to my girlfriend: I can add more memory and take the sound card out"). It was hilarious, just what everyone needed after drinks and he got a standing ovation. The Germans in the audience were, of course, miffed.
So, after the politically incorrect Brit, dinner, as a guest of the Dutch central bank. I was hoping to be served by the guy I knew, but he had been allotted the next table.
Dinner was cool: the food was wonderful, wine flowed copiously and conversation was cool, considering none of us knew each other. It consisted mostly of the Southerners in the group, being me, the kid next to me and the recruiter of the bank convincing the Northerners at the table of the merits of carnival. This was followed by a hilarious anecdote about a sober, early twenties first-timer being propositioned by a woman in her fifties during the first five minutes. This story matches some of my own experiences. ;-)
Anyway, as I went back home to change for the party I bumped into the serving queen. I said hi, but if looks could kill, I wouldn't be sitting here typing this...
No, why are you asking?
It turned out to be an informal survey, with almost 100% of respondents going for "no". I had probably appeared arrogant, aloof and overdressed.
All this highlighted the fact that this night was the end of student life as I knew it, and that I wasn't going to be missing out on anything much.
First of all, only beer was served. The clothing was cheap, generic straight-boy-without-style stuff. The hair was often longish and unwashed, no bonus points in my book. Once in a while, an attempt at fashion sense would be spotted, in the form of outdated pink shirts and Chasin' longsleeves. The DJ was awful, working without order or flow and being aided by a yuppie type who would emit saxophone frenzies whenever he felt like it, completely spoiling the tunes he was attempting to improve. I stood out and knew it, wishing I was somewhere else.
Rewind to the morning. The day had started out better, but not much. I had arrived early, as the conference location was close to my house, picked up all the necessary materials and attended the first lecture, by a Dutch bank. Friends who had promised to go, failed to show up. I moved on to the next lecture, which, thankfully, was a lot more interesting.
I somehow knew I was going to bump into someone I knew from the "scene", which happened during the cocktail hour. The waiters for the dinner party walked in, the way an army platoon captures a bridge. Queens galore, and of course I knew one of them... boy was I enjoying this... not.
Just after the cocktail hour, a lecturer from the London School of Economics would talk about "the history of economics in the workplace". This turned out not to be the case. It was much better, a half-hour diatribe combining jabs at the Dutch railways ("NS stands for No Service"), the French, the Germans, Charlemagne (don't ask) and women ("I prefer my pc to my girlfriend: I can add more memory and take the sound card out"). It was hilarious, just what everyone needed after drinks and he got a standing ovation. The Germans in the audience were, of course, miffed.
So, after the politically incorrect Brit, dinner, as a guest of the Dutch central bank. I was hoping to be served by the guy I knew, but he had been allotted the next table.
Dinner was cool: the food was wonderful, wine flowed copiously and conversation was cool, considering none of us knew each other. It consisted mostly of the Southerners in the group, being me, the kid next to me and the recruiter of the bank convincing the Northerners at the table of the merits of carnival. This was followed by a hilarious anecdote about a sober, early twenties first-timer being propositioned by a woman in her fifties during the first five minutes. This story matches some of my own experiences. ;-)
Anyway, as I went back home to change for the party I bumped into the serving queen. I said hi, but if looks could kill, I wouldn't be sitting here typing this...
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Don't blog from the bog!
A Flushed Tory Candidate is Incommunicado
Iain Dale 2:16 PM
Blogging Tory candidate Tracey Crouch has been "off line" for the last 18 hours having dropped her Blackberry down the lavatory. What is worse - she heard the "splash" but unaware what caused the noise (stop it!), she then flushed the loo, only realising far too late as her precious Blackberry disappeared around the u-bend. She is now back on-line having spent £250 on new machine. Lesson to us all: don't blog from the bog!
LOL. I guess it's a little too addictive.
Hat tip: Iain Dale.
Back with an update later.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Five days, five nights
Five days of everything in excess... yes, it's carnival again. The south closes down for two days, spends Ash Wednesday hungover and depressed, and work only really takes off again next week. I wasn't planning to this, but circumstances changed and I let fate walk me though this. The first four days were a doddle, but I'm only now recovering from the fifth night. I'm on a self-prescribed detox adventure now, and I really need it.
So here goes.
Day 1: Friday [cue 24-style clock ticking]
I leave work at four, and pick up a mate who's gone to a job interview in the area. Turns out the place has been entirely broken up and I can't seem to get where I need to be. I arrive horrendously late, we drive back to mine where I discover the magnetic strip of my debit card's had it. Unpleasant surprise #1.
We leg into town, and drink a lot of Hoegaarden at an Australian pub full of undies, lingerie and condoms filled with an unknown white substance hanging from the ceiling. My friend's never seen anything like it before, and I'm left thinking: this is the nation that produced Aussiebum and Speedo.
After that, he decides to head home, and I grab Burger King (I never do that) and hit home.
There, get bored and decide to dip my toe into the gay side of carnival. Not impressive at all. Everyone's in drag, everyone looks awful and I get bored.
To boot, a snowstorm passes (unpleasant surprise #2) and it's incredibly cold, wet and windy out. On my way home, I find a bike with a flat (I really needed a bike and didn't feel like paying for one) and I decide to shorten the suffering by cycling my way home in it.
Day 2: Saturday [more 24-style clock ticking]
Having no debit card means walking to the central station miles away to buy a ticket so my original plan to escape carnival and go to Amsterdam, in the carnival-free north, has to be abandoned. Besides, the schedule back is lousy.
I spend the day fixing the bike and am really pleased with it.
Instead, I decide to wear something outrageous and go for it. I haven't done this in years, and remembering the last night not something I expected much of.
Instead, it was a blast.
One thing I'd forgotten about carnival is how sex-driven it all is. In the gay scene, this is obviously... worse. And it involves dressing up, with fairies and angels being obvious favourites this year.
In the end, I must have shopped around a little inspecting around five guys, made my choice and taken him home. My memory is a little hazy, but fun times.
Day 3: Sunday [tick-tock]
Saturday Night Boy decides to leave early, so I change the sheets and head back to bed. Decide this would be the obligatory carnival sex, but determined to check out the Sunday night action for once.
I did not expect the hormone level to have risen further. I don't think I have been chatted up or fondled so much in one evening, ever. A bar tender tries to have a go and this means free beer. I spot a friend from long ago at another place, and let my inner smile go. Another one. He didn't recognise me, and I didn't feel like talking to him.
Somewhere during the night, I fall off the stage and hurt my knee. The music was pretty good though, not the standard carnival fodder. At closing time, I head back on my newly fixed pride and joy.
The bar tender slips me his number on a beer mat. I toss it.
Day 4: Monday [no commercial break yet]
I first watch the Natalee Holloway breakthrough on TV before bravely venturing into the world of wine.
By now I'm really into it. Monday night is a sort of turbo-charged copy of Sunday night, but even better. And yes, I guess there must have been some desperation popping up in some guys because the horny and hotness meter was off the scales.
I've lost count of the number of attractive guys I kissed that night, but in each and every case the other guy took the initiative. I wasn't planning on anything, and enjoying myself thoroughly this way.
I try to cut down on the drinking by limiting myself to beer but fail miserably.
One more incident stands out: on my way to the bathroom, a cute young guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask decides he needs to kiss and grope me. So we do this, against the bathroom door which sweeps backwards, with people wanting to leave the bathroom as well. LOL. He is out there with a bunch of female friends, some of which find it amazing to watch and others who don't want to see it. So they all leave pretty quickly, which was a bit of a disappointment.
I sorta get kicked out at closing time and discover my coordination is shot. I feel stupid, because I think I've only had four beers. I fall off my bike at one point, slowly sliding into a lamp post and hurt my knee some more (injury #2). At home I forget my flat mate's home, somehow stumble in and throw up loudly into the bog before passing out.
Those four beers turned out to be twelve, and a bottle of wine.
Day 5: Monday [tick-tock tick-tock boom!]
On Monday I feel like shit, clean house and bog, do a lot of laundry and generally do everything to avoid my flat mate.
But I was determined to take this thing to the end, but forgot Ash Wednesday is not a public holiday in Holland. Everything closes early, so I went a little earlier, and found the music was shit, and everyone was basically exhausted. I felt fine, danced a bit, drank a little, but a lot less then the previous night, before leaving at closing time.
An attractive boy looks at me on the way out, but I had decided to lay off on that sort of thing.
I talk to some people, as closing time is the only moment without loud music, and then step outside, on my way to my new best friend.
I hear a voice behind me.
"You got any plans for the rest of the night?"
It's him. Yikes! This is gutsy, and way past direct.
"I guess I don't" [Translation: I guess I do now]
"We're heading to a friend's place. Wanna join up?"
I sure do. Most of us know each other vaguely, from around, and this was the kind of ad hoc party I always liked. After getting the entire group together, which takes ages, we drive a silly four blocks to find the friend's place.
We talk, laugh, even do some of the most disgusting shots with the boy on my lap, almost the entire night. At about five-thirty, most of the group decides to leave and he presses me: "stay behind". I just nod.
"Do you have to work tomorrow?" he asks, when everyone's left.
I don't... I am such a slut.
Before the door slams shut our mouths meet.
So here goes.
Day 1: Friday [cue 24-style clock ticking]
I leave work at four, and pick up a mate who's gone to a job interview in the area. Turns out the place has been entirely broken up and I can't seem to get where I need to be. I arrive horrendously late, we drive back to mine where I discover the magnetic strip of my debit card's had it. Unpleasant surprise #1.
We leg into town, and drink a lot of Hoegaarden at an Australian pub full of undies, lingerie and condoms filled with an unknown white substance hanging from the ceiling. My friend's never seen anything like it before, and I'm left thinking: this is the nation that produced Aussiebum and Speedo.
After that, he decides to head home, and I grab Burger King (I never do that) and hit home.
There, get bored and decide to dip my toe into the gay side of carnival. Not impressive at all. Everyone's in drag, everyone looks awful and I get bored.
To boot, a snowstorm passes (unpleasant surprise #2) and it's incredibly cold, wet and windy out. On my way home, I find a bike with a flat (I really needed a bike and didn't feel like paying for one) and I decide to shorten the suffering by cycling my way home in it.
Day 2: Saturday [more 24-style clock ticking]
Having no debit card means walking to the central station miles away to buy a ticket so my original plan to escape carnival and go to Amsterdam, in the carnival-free north, has to be abandoned. Besides, the schedule back is lousy.
I spend the day fixing the bike and am really pleased with it.
Instead, I decide to wear something outrageous and go for it. I haven't done this in years, and remembering the last night not something I expected much of.
Instead, it was a blast.
One thing I'd forgotten about carnival is how sex-driven it all is. In the gay scene, this is obviously... worse. And it involves dressing up, with fairies and angels being obvious favourites this year.
In the end, I must have shopped around a little inspecting around five guys, made my choice and taken him home. My memory is a little hazy, but fun times.
Day 3: Sunday [tick-tock]
Saturday Night Boy decides to leave early, so I change the sheets and head back to bed. Decide this would be the obligatory carnival sex, but determined to check out the Sunday night action for once.
I did not expect the hormone level to have risen further. I don't think I have been chatted up or fondled so much in one evening, ever. A bar tender tries to have a go and this means free beer. I spot a friend from long ago at another place, and let my inner smile go. Another one. He didn't recognise me, and I didn't feel like talking to him.
Somewhere during the night, I fall off the stage and hurt my knee. The music was pretty good though, not the standard carnival fodder. At closing time, I head back on my newly fixed pride and joy.
The bar tender slips me his number on a beer mat. I toss it.
Day 4: Monday [no commercial break yet]
I first watch the Natalee Holloway breakthrough on TV before bravely venturing into the world of wine.
By now I'm really into it. Monday night is a sort of turbo-charged copy of Sunday night, but even better. And yes, I guess there must have been some desperation popping up in some guys because the horny and hotness meter was off the scales.
I've lost count of the number of attractive guys I kissed that night, but in each and every case the other guy took the initiative. I wasn't planning on anything, and enjoying myself thoroughly this way.
I try to cut down on the drinking by limiting myself to beer but fail miserably.
One more incident stands out: on my way to the bathroom, a cute young guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask decides he needs to kiss and grope me. So we do this, against the bathroom door which sweeps backwards, with people wanting to leave the bathroom as well. LOL. He is out there with a bunch of female friends, some of which find it amazing to watch and others who don't want to see it. So they all leave pretty quickly, which was a bit of a disappointment.
I sorta get kicked out at closing time and discover my coordination is shot. I feel stupid, because I think I've only had four beers. I fall off my bike at one point, slowly sliding into a lamp post and hurt my knee some more (injury #2). At home I forget my flat mate's home, somehow stumble in and throw up loudly into the bog before passing out.
Those four beers turned out to be twelve, and a bottle of wine.
Day 5: Monday [tick-tock tick-tock boom!]
On Monday I feel like shit, clean house and bog, do a lot of laundry and generally do everything to avoid my flat mate.
But I was determined to take this thing to the end, but forgot Ash Wednesday is not a public holiday in Holland. Everything closes early, so I went a little earlier, and found the music was shit, and everyone was basically exhausted. I felt fine, danced a bit, drank a little, but a lot less then the previous night, before leaving at closing time.
An attractive boy looks at me on the way out, but I had decided to lay off on that sort of thing.
I talk to some people, as closing time is the only moment without loud music, and then step outside, on my way to my new best friend.
I hear a voice behind me.
"You got any plans for the rest of the night?"
It's him. Yikes! This is gutsy, and way past direct.
"I guess I don't" [Translation: I guess I do now]
"We're heading to a friend's place. Wanna join up?"
I sure do. Most of us know each other vaguely, from around, and this was the kind of ad hoc party I always liked. After getting the entire group together, which takes ages, we drive a silly four blocks to find the friend's place.
We talk, laugh, even do some of the most disgusting shots with the boy on my lap, almost the entire night. At about five-thirty, most of the group decides to leave and he presses me: "stay behind". I just nod.
"Do you have to work tomorrow?" he asks, when everyone's left.
I don't... I am such a slut.
Before the door slams shut our mouths meet.
Monday, 4 February 2008
This is what anyone would do, right?
Imagine living in a Caribbean backwater of the great (ahum) Dutch nation. Imagine being comfortably well-off, young, bored with school and a developing addiction to blackjack or something. Imagine boatloads of rich, blonde and generally OK-looking American tourists reaching the shores of your Happy Island every day.
Imagine those tourists emerging themselves in the laid-back attitude to drugs, drink and sex that prevails in such a place. You would take advantage of that, wouldn't you?
So you pick up one of those tourists girls, do shots with her and get her wasted. Tell her where she can obtain cocaine. Then take her out to the waterfront to have the full sex on the beach experience (imagine sand in places where you didn't know you had places). You find out her family's loaded but unfortunately you don't discover her family has a hotline to the Bush White House.
You have some vaguely defined form of sex with the girl, and she ends up convulsing in spasms during the experience. She passes out and becomes non-responsive, or, in your own words, she suddenly didn't work any more, like an ancient television set.
So you hide the body in the bushes, run to a pay phone and call a "buddy" with a boat. He takes the body, says he'll dump it somewhere in the sea and tells you to go home.
Once home, you establish your alibi on the internet and go to sleep.
This is normal behaviour, right? Anybody would do this. I always end up having to dispose of bodies after sex, and let me tell you, it's a damn sight harder out here, with no ocean nearby.
So tell us the full story, Joran. You ghb'd her, and some coke dealers on the island made sure she sleeps with the fishes, right?
Seven million people - that's almost half the country - watched this "confession" on TV last night.
Imagine those tourists emerging themselves in the laid-back attitude to drugs, drink and sex that prevails in such a place. You would take advantage of that, wouldn't you?
So you pick up one of those tourists girls, do shots with her and get her wasted. Tell her where she can obtain cocaine. Then take her out to the waterfront to have the full sex on the beach experience (imagine sand in places where you didn't know you had places). You find out her family's loaded but unfortunately you don't discover her family has a hotline to the Bush White House.
You have some vaguely defined form of sex with the girl, and she ends up convulsing in spasms during the experience. She passes out and becomes non-responsive, or, in your own words, she suddenly didn't work any more, like an ancient television set.
So you hide the body in the bushes, run to a pay phone and call a "buddy" with a boat. He takes the body, says he'll dump it somewhere in the sea and tells you to go home.
Once home, you establish your alibi on the internet and go to sleep.
This is normal behaviour, right? Anybody would do this. I always end up having to dispose of bodies after sex, and let me tell you, it's a damn sight harder out here, with no ocean nearby.
So tell us the full story, Joran. You ghb'd her, and some coke dealers on the island made sure she sleeps with the fishes, right?
Seven million people - that's almost half the country - watched this "confession" on TV last night.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Why would...
...a guy grab you by the waist, drag you off the dancefloor, walk over to the bar, grab two Tequila shots, do the shots with you, and then ignore you altogether?
What's the fucking point of that?
I've been wondering for two days now and I still don't get it. Any ideas?
And why would said guy bite into the lemon before taking the shot?
What's the fucking point of that?
I've been wondering for two days now and I still don't get it. Any ideas?
And why would said guy bite into the lemon before taking the shot?
Monday, 28 January 2008
Saturday, 26 January 2008
Come on baby, so we can dance this groove...
Even a socialist backwater can produce sexy lounge tunes. Here are Sweden's Plej, with "You".
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Four Hookups and a Funeral
Just joking. Relax, I'm not that bad. Just couldn't resist this title. But what a crazy day it was.
My mom had decided to go to the funeral after all, and so we decided to travel together.
Waking up early, getting into my formal dress, I discovered it was pouring outside. This always seems to happen at funerals: curtains of rain, and shivering under an umbrella as the casket is lowered into its final resting place. I was thinking of Guns 'n Roses' November Rain, without Slash, that is.
And the rain kept on coming: driving towards Amsterdam, it got so bad I had to slow down sometimes as vision declined. Then, finally, we got lost in the posh suburb that surrounds the cemetery as the roads were broken up and cars were directed onto bike paths. We arrived a few minutes late, but it turned out my cousin and his new Russian girlfriend had run out of petrol, much to his father's anger. LOL. He then got lost as well, and in the end couldn't find a place to park.
And it kept on pouring. We were shepherded into the chamber for the ceremony, where eulogies were held that made me reach for the sick bag. I mean, the deceased wasn't a saint, so why do we posthumously have to pretend it was the case? I know a funeral is no place to be truthful or critical, but in these speeches an unrealistic fantasy creature was sketched that in no way resembled reality.
So after the ceremony, the casket was carried outside, into the pouring rain and dropped into the family slot beneath the beautiful pines. It really is an amazing spot.
Afterwards, we all met up for drinks at a quaint old restaurant near a dune, a place I have fond memories of. My sleazy Swiss relatives, friends of my grandma and a nasty old queen who used to go to school with my uncle were all there. The old homo was definitely checking me out. Gross.
We left rather early, pleading distance. My mom dropped me of at my place, and I went back to casual clothing. Then prepared myself for a night on the town. I was in predator mode, which usually means I'll do something stupid.
Getting tanked on wine, cocktails and the occasional brewski, bored by the club, the music and all those guys I have seen too many times before, even though there was some cool eye contact with the boy I have been eyeing for weeks, I moved in on a cute Indian exchange student, and we spent the night together.
No, he wasn't as good as Barbie.
PS. I have decided not to get my tongue pierced. For now. Reason? Too scary.
My mom had decided to go to the funeral after all, and so we decided to travel together.
Waking up early, getting into my formal dress, I discovered it was pouring outside. This always seems to happen at funerals: curtains of rain, and shivering under an umbrella as the casket is lowered into its final resting place. I was thinking of Guns 'n Roses' November Rain, without Slash, that is.
And the rain kept on coming: driving towards Amsterdam, it got so bad I had to slow down sometimes as vision declined. Then, finally, we got lost in the posh suburb that surrounds the cemetery as the roads were broken up and cars were directed onto bike paths. We arrived a few minutes late, but it turned out my cousin and his new Russian girlfriend had run out of petrol, much to his father's anger. LOL. He then got lost as well, and in the end couldn't find a place to park.
And it kept on pouring. We were shepherded into the chamber for the ceremony, where eulogies were held that made me reach for the sick bag. I mean, the deceased wasn't a saint, so why do we posthumously have to pretend it was the case? I know a funeral is no place to be truthful or critical, but in these speeches an unrealistic fantasy creature was sketched that in no way resembled reality.
So after the ceremony, the casket was carried outside, into the pouring rain and dropped into the family slot beneath the beautiful pines. It really is an amazing spot.
Afterwards, we all met up for drinks at a quaint old restaurant near a dune, a place I have fond memories of. My sleazy Swiss relatives, friends of my grandma and a nasty old queen who used to go to school with my uncle were all there. The old homo was definitely checking me out. Gross.
We left rather early, pleading distance. My mom dropped me of at my place, and I went back to casual clothing. Then prepared myself for a night on the town. I was in predator mode, which usually means I'll do something stupid.
Getting tanked on wine, cocktails and the occasional brewski, bored by the club, the music and all those guys I have seen too many times before, even though there was some cool eye contact with the boy I have been eyeing for weeks, I moved in on a cute Indian exchange student, and we spent the night together.
No, he wasn't as good as Barbie.
PS. I have decided not to get my tongue pierced. For now. Reason? Too scary.
Primary Colours, a European view
Barack Obama's the greatest political talent in the USA today.
Now watch them nominate Hillary.
Come on, you old soldier. You can win this thing.
I don't like plastic, not even in flip-flops.
Now watch them nominate Hillary.
Come on, you old soldier. You can win this thing.
I don't like plastic, not even in flip-flops.
Friday, 18 January 2008
Confessions on a Cell Phone
A little episode from last weekend.
Quick snog on dance floor.
Longer snog in street.
"I want your number," he says.
Hesitantly, I give it to him.
Walk home. Mobile beeps.
My reply:
This is what I get back:
But the next day I do decide to text, just for the heck of it (OK, I was bored):
Well, fuck you too. Learn to trust your instinct...
Quick snog on dance floor.
Longer snog in street.
"I want your number," he says.
Hesitantly, I give it to him.
Walk home. Mobile beeps.
Am in the car on the way home, really want to meet you again soon XXX
My reply:
Fine, tell me when it suits you[I must say I hid my enthusiasm well... NOT. LOL]
This is what I get back:
OK have a headache going to sleep please text tomorrow XXX[Complaining about headaches? Diva alert...]
But the next day I do decide to text, just for the heck of it (OK, I was bored):
Headache gone? ;-)
Yeah, yeah, was up at three splitting headache and still had to see my bf
Well, fuck you too. Learn to trust your instinct...
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
RIP My Grandma
Just heard my grandmother passed away last Monday night, a few day short of her 97th birthday. We weren't really close, since my mother and her haven't been on speaking terms since about 1991. In the Eighties she was a great grandmother to me though.
I have mixed feelings about it, she was old, couldn't walk, deaf, and could hardly speak any more. She passed away peacefully in her sleep, so in a sense it must be a blessing: I wouldn't have wanted to continue living much longer in that state.
She was the last true protestant in my family: she had grown up in a cold, hard-hearted Calvinist environment, with a family who wouldn't accept my grandfather, who was an atheist of Jewish descent from the slums of pre-war Amsterdam. She always stayed devoutly religious, even though she changed over to the more relaxed Dutch Reformed Church, in a way I, with my southern Catholic ways could never really understand.
The funeral is on Saturday, there will be family bickering (probably about inheritances) and it won't be pretty. My family is absolutely dysfunctional, and my mom refuses to go: "they'll all just have a go at me".
So I'll be representing my side of the family, even though it's a long drive. It's the least I can do.
I'll be wearing my ring on the other hand that day. My one concession to protestantism.
I have mixed feelings about it, she was old, couldn't walk, deaf, and could hardly speak any more. She passed away peacefully in her sleep, so in a sense it must be a blessing: I wouldn't have wanted to continue living much longer in that state.
She was the last true protestant in my family: she had grown up in a cold, hard-hearted Calvinist environment, with a family who wouldn't accept my grandfather, who was an atheist of Jewish descent from the slums of pre-war Amsterdam. She always stayed devoutly religious, even though she changed over to the more relaxed Dutch Reformed Church, in a way I, with my southern Catholic ways could never really understand.
The funeral is on Saturday, there will be family bickering (probably about inheritances) and it won't be pretty. My family is absolutely dysfunctional, and my mom refuses to go: "they'll all just have a go at me".
So I'll be representing my side of the family, even though it's a long drive. It's the least I can do.
I'll be wearing my ring on the other hand that day. My one concession to protestantism.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Return of The Diva!
She's back! The woman everyone's copying, the epitome of cool. Alison Goldfrapp returns with a quiet, introspective album, totally unlike her two previous efforts. But the new single, A&E, is so nice... even though it is a bit of a grower. Stuck on repeat all day.
Even the forest leaves are going down on their knees for her...
Even the forest leaves are going down on their knees for her...
Thinking out loud...
I think piercings are hot. In the right places, I mean.
Diamond studs look great on a young guy. It is the ultimate expression of polished metrosexuality at the moment, and I kind of like that. This is not, however, something that looks good on older guys. I have plenty of older co-workers who wear this sort of thing, hopefully remainders of an earlier age, and it just looks a little pathetic, desperate.
The Prince Albert is the most disgusting thing on this planet I can think of at the moment. I'm wincing as I write this. Apparently it is quite safe, as urine seems to disinfect it, and it has to be produced in such a way that it is condom-safe. That is the legal theory, at least, in hyper-regulated Europe. I'm not convinced; the logistics of wrapping that up in a condom look dodgy to me. And I have actually seen one in real life: not appealing.
Pierced bellybuttons. Come on. Even on girls this type looks trashy. They tend to be much too young, slightly overweight and wear tops that are way to small to cover what needs to be covered. On men, it is not only the gayest thing around, but it screams STD. I can't rationalise that last statement, but it probably has to do with the fact that I associate this piercing with rent boys. To make things worse, Bobby (love the blog by the way, you wild Sefrican!) has seen an even more camp version out in the wild. Excruciating.
The tongue piercing... now that one I like. It adds a dimension to kissing and BJs that you would otherwise lack. It adds a focal point to Frenching, that is just very hot.
In fact, I like it so much I have been thinking of getting one myself. There's a tattoo studio around the corner from my house that has them on special offer this month. Tempting. They're fully licensed and appear to be professional, so I'm not really worried about the quality of the work done.
Pros?
1. It's hot
2. It's hot
3. Nobody would expect me to have one
4. It's hot
5. You can hide it quite easily
6. You can pull it out and the tongue will heal fully, quickly.
7. It's hot
Cons?
1. Am I just being ridiculous?
2. Is this the famous quarter-life crisis grad students are always talking about?
3. If they hit a muscle... ouch
4. The vision of a skewer going through my tongue is not very pretty
5. I'd have to rinse after every meal for weeks... I don't think I can handle it. And I haven't even asked about alcohol yet.
6. I might have to visit some companies for my thesis soon and it might be wise to appear conservatively dressed and accessorized.
7. I have a habit of passing out at the dentist's
8. I don't want to slur for the next week or so
I just have to consider this carefully for the next week or so... It would fit in very well with the new me, who does whatever the fuck he wants.
Diamond studs look great on a young guy. It is the ultimate expression of polished metrosexuality at the moment, and I kind of like that. This is not, however, something that looks good on older guys. I have plenty of older co-workers who wear this sort of thing, hopefully remainders of an earlier age, and it just looks a little pathetic, desperate.
The Prince Albert is the most disgusting thing on this planet I can think of at the moment. I'm wincing as I write this. Apparently it is quite safe, as urine seems to disinfect it, and it has to be produced in such a way that it is condom-safe. That is the legal theory, at least, in hyper-regulated Europe. I'm not convinced; the logistics of wrapping that up in a condom look dodgy to me. And I have actually seen one in real life: not appealing.
Pierced bellybuttons. Come on. Even on girls this type looks trashy. They tend to be much too young, slightly overweight and wear tops that are way to small to cover what needs to be covered. On men, it is not only the gayest thing around, but it screams STD. I can't rationalise that last statement, but it probably has to do with the fact that I associate this piercing with rent boys. To make things worse, Bobby (love the blog by the way, you wild Sefrican!) has seen an even more camp version out in the wild. Excruciating.
The tongue piercing... now that one I like. It adds a dimension to kissing and BJs that you would otherwise lack. It adds a focal point to Frenching, that is just very hot.
In fact, I like it so much I have been thinking of getting one myself. There's a tattoo studio around the corner from my house that has them on special offer this month. Tempting. They're fully licensed and appear to be professional, so I'm not really worried about the quality of the work done.
Pros?
1. It's hot
2. It's hot
3. Nobody would expect me to have one
4. It's hot
5. You can hide it quite easily
6. You can pull it out and the tongue will heal fully, quickly.
7. It's hot
Cons?
1. Am I just being ridiculous?
2. Is this the famous quarter-life crisis grad students are always talking about?
3. If they hit a muscle... ouch
4. The vision of a skewer going through my tongue is not very pretty
5. I'd have to rinse after every meal for weeks... I don't think I can handle it. And I haven't even asked about alcohol yet.
6. I might have to visit some companies for my thesis soon and it might be wise to appear conservatively dressed and accessorized.
7. I have a habit of passing out at the dentist's
8. I don't want to slur for the next week or so
I just have to consider this carefully for the next week or so... It would fit in very well with the new me, who does whatever the fuck he wants.
Saturday, 12 January 2008
I know how you'll feel...
They say there's no proper American dance scene... well, there is, and BT is at the centre of it.
Jan Johnston is a truly great singer. A little-known solo artist in the eighties, BT pulled one of her CDs out of a bargain bin somewhere in Maryland and went on to sample one of her tracks for "Calling your Name", well-known as it featured in the first American Pie movie (yes, the stripper scene). They later met up in real life and recorded a number of tracks together for BT's second album, ESCM. "Remember" is one of the stand out tracks. Enjoy.
Saturday, 5 January 2008
Braindump
Well, 2007 was an interesting year, to say the least. I went in sorta straight and came out as a player on the gay strip. Food for Freud.
What's been going through my mind over the last couple of days was the question: how do you improve on this experience? I am honestly clueless. We're still in contact, which is quite a good thing I guess. And I think I really do like him as a person. But he's very young and lives miles away. So not much is going to happen, realistically. Still, it's hard to accept this fact and move on, because any experience after this is likely to be disappointing.
So for the moment I'm chatting and texting away without really chasing and that's it. Not even going out this week.
A really sick thought entered my mind the other day about my local scene. It's the sort of deep insight that hits you at that lucid stage of tipsiness that preludes a good night out. It's a wonderfully insightful feeling, but impossible to maintain for long. Well, this is it:
This could have come directly from QaF's Stuart's mouth.
This thought occurred to me earlier on New Year's Eve, before meeting Barbie, as a boy I had been eyeing for weeks suddenly decided to stick his tongue in my mouth. I was halfway through swallowing the last of my beer so a little advance warning would have been nice. Still, I got the oral logistics right and remained cool and collected, which I somehow managed to remain the entire night. But my overall feeling was: this is inevitable, right? I think it's time to broaden my horizon a little.
The idea of a good hotel, champagne and a hot boy have impacted on a different front as well. I should do this more often; the additional glam provides a hell of a kick. Splurge out, enjoy yourself by adding some chic once in a while. It's worth it.
RE: my appearance. This is sort of grating. I have been noticing that I get more attention when I dress less conscientiously. Maybe I'm trying too hard, or maybe it intimidates people. It's a credible expression of high maintenance, which I might well be but don't want to convey. My messed-up hair, old shoes, H&M belt (yes, white, I wanted to be a little camp) and fairly standard discounted Diesel longsleeve work much better than Armani and friends.
Well, the comments to my last post were revealing: there's a future for my highly successful ex-gay programme, with five out of six "cured", including Charlton Heston. ;-) As for my one failure... well, DJ’s spinning up my favorite song, hurry up and get a grove on.
As for Abba - you got me there, Steve. Grumble!
What's been going through my mind over the last couple of days was the question: how do you improve on this experience? I am honestly clueless. We're still in contact, which is quite a good thing I guess. And I think I really do like him as a person. But he's very young and lives miles away. So not much is going to happen, realistically. Still, it's hard to accept this fact and move on, because any experience after this is likely to be disappointing.
So for the moment I'm chatting and texting away without really chasing and that's it. Not even going out this week.
A really sick thought entered my mind the other day about my local scene. It's the sort of deep insight that hits you at that lucid stage of tipsiness that preludes a good night out. It's a wonderfully insightful feeling, but impossible to maintain for long. Well, this is it:
There are three types of men out there: men you've had, men you won't or can't have and men you're gonna have sometime.
This could have come directly from QaF's Stuart's mouth.
This thought occurred to me earlier on New Year's Eve, before meeting Barbie, as a boy I had been eyeing for weeks suddenly decided to stick his tongue in my mouth. I was halfway through swallowing the last of my beer so a little advance warning would have been nice. Still, I got the oral logistics right and remained cool and collected, which I somehow managed to remain the entire night. But my overall feeling was: this is inevitable, right? I think it's time to broaden my horizon a little.
The idea of a good hotel, champagne and a hot boy have impacted on a different front as well. I should do this more often; the additional glam provides a hell of a kick. Splurge out, enjoy yourself by adding some chic once in a while. It's worth it.
RE: my appearance. This is sort of grating. I have been noticing that I get more attention when I dress less conscientiously. Maybe I'm trying too hard, or maybe it intimidates people. It's a credible expression of high maintenance, which I might well be but don't want to convey. My messed-up hair, old shoes, H&M belt (yes, white, I wanted to be a little camp) and fairly standard discounted Diesel longsleeve work much better than Armani and friends.
Well, the comments to my last post were revealing: there's a future for my highly successful ex-gay programme, with five out of six "cured", including Charlton Heston. ;-) As for my one failure... well, DJ’s spinning up my favorite song, hurry up and get a grove on.
As for Abba - you got me there, Steve. Grumble!
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
Wow, wow, wow,...wow!
A couple of days ago I was contacted by a guy from out of town who was planning to spend New Year's Eve over here. Actually, I was contacted by a number of guys but only this one intrigued me.
We got to chat about partying options over here and I shared my ideas with him. We agreed to share a drink if we bumped into each other, something I was sure would happen.
Yeah, he was a little nelly even for European standards (I know Erik and K will agree) but I have no problem with that.
So he arrived, and I recognized him immediately. In real life, he was stunning. I wasn't: I was wearing old shoes because of the dirt outside and my hair was a mess, as it had been raining. I introduced myself and we got drinks. And we really hit it off. He was smoking my favourite brand of cigarettes, which really made my heart melt.
Now up to this point, I wasn't seriously contemplating sex: we'd have a couple of drinks, I would show him my town's hot spots and that would be it, partly because I felt rather washed out. He, however, quickly made it abundantly clear he was up for it. We drank, made out and we danced a little, and people were staring.
After about an hour, he wanted to go. How could I refuse? Would I contemplate refusing? Of course not. It turned out he had a room in the best hotel in town, complete with champagne (which we drank) in an ice bucket. The young night guard stared at as as we walked in, amused. There was no deniability with this guy.
He had the most wonderful body I've ever had the pleasure of touching, and let's say I got to enjoy every bit of it.
Those who don't know this track will have their homo membership card revoked, subito! ;-)
Read my lips, I'm into you,
I'm into you,
I can't resist,
You're so hot (get me under the shade)
The spotlight's on
You creep into it,
You like it and,
Just the way that you dance,
Just the way that you dance.
We got to chat about partying options over here and I shared my ideas with him. We agreed to share a drink if we bumped into each other, something I was sure would happen.
Yeah, he was a little nelly even for European standards (I know Erik and K will agree) but I have no problem with that.
(Yeah yeah) Is enough to love me baby,
(Yeah yeah yeah) Is enough to send me crazy,
(Yeah yeah) Such angelic motion,
(Yeah yeah yeah) You know you're made in heaven.
So he arrived, and I recognized him immediately. In real life, he was stunning. I wasn't: I was wearing old shoes because of the dirt outside and my hair was a mess, as it had been raining. I introduced myself and we got drinks. And we really hit it off. He was smoking my favourite brand of cigarettes, which really made my heart melt.
The way you walk, the rythmn when you're dancing,
Every inch of you spells out desire,
You're such a rush,(rush)the rush is never ending,
Now,
You got it, you're wow wow wow wow,
You got it, you're wow wow wow wow.
Now up to this point, I wasn't seriously contemplating sex: we'd have a couple of drinks, I would show him my town's hot spots and that would be it, partly because I felt rather washed out. He, however, quickly made it abundantly clear he was up for it. We drank, made out and we danced a little, and people were staring.
The more I try, I try to stop,
The more I can feel my antenna just sensing you up,
and what can I do? I'm into you,
I'm into you,
Love the way that you move,
Just love the way that you move.
After about an hour, he wanted to go. How could I refuse? Would I contemplate refusing? Of course not. It turned out he had a room in the best hotel in town, complete with champagne (which we drank) in an ice bucket. The young night guard stared at as as we walked in, amused. There was no deniability with this guy.
He had the most wonderful body I've ever had the pleasure of touching, and let's say I got to enjoy every bit of it.
(Yeah yeah) Such angelic motion,
(Yeah yaeh yeah) you know you're made in heaven.
The way you walk, the rythmn when you're dancing,
Every inch of you spells out desire,
You're such a rush,(rush) the rush is never ending,
Now,
You got it, you're wow wow wow wow,
You got it, you're wow wow wow wow.
Those who don't know this track will have their homo membership card revoked, subito! ;-)
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