Forum buddies take care of my needs

I'm a member of a huge Dutch bulletin board where a group of oldbies come together and discuss, well basically everything, even though the topic is supposed to be politics.

Over the years, a lot of us have become good mates, but others have descended into feuds. I belch my right-wing propaganda, and try to position myself to the right of everybody else (impossible), but mainly we post off-topic stuff, as Dutch politics is about as eventful as watching paint dry.

Which means a lot of nude pictures see the light of day.

Usually, this means a lot of Monica Belluci, Laetitia Casta or some random porn star.

Today, they thought of me. The topic: Moroccans are hot and sexy!

So just to please me, this was posted:


Thanks, guys! Really appreciate it.

Fucking Fridays

Encouraged by my horoscope, as well as a concentrated bombardment of text messages, I was a little drunk by about 8:30. This is what a full working day, lack of sleep and an empty stomach do to a man.

Appreciating the joy of inebriated cooking, I did just that: iPod in my pocket, earphones plugged in, the Shapeshifters album on, volume: high. Pre-partying music at it's best, with me dancing behind the stove. I was feeling tired, but good. My flatmates, usually absent on Friday nights, had never seen me like this, and were probably a little shocked. That night, Lola's Theme was my theme.

I had my dinner, polished off a bottle and a half and walked into town. I had a destination: Text Guy would be waiting for me. I found him at the bar, sitting next to his best friend, who I find, you guessed it, quite attractive.

Progressively, the three of us got hammered. At a certain stage, when none of us was capable of intelligent speech any more, it was decided all three of us should go to Text Guy's place nearby to sleep.

On the way, we talked to two more guys, probably unaware of what was going on but none of us could remember what we talked about. Text Guy and Best Mate were discussing the best way to arrange the sleeping; I got a bit annoyed and told them the bed was large enough for the three of us.

We all undressed, Text Guy went out like a light and Best Mate and I made love. I can't remember the details, but he had a real nice body.

I woke up hoping it was all a bad dream, but Best Mate had wisely disappeared early in the morning.

I feel quite good about it now, after apologizing to everyone around (even though nobody seems to care much). It was honestly just hot, and why feel bad about that?

Nice!

Meet Jesse Huta Galung, the current number 353 of the world. Jesse and Peter Wessels today won the men's doubles to beat the Davis Cup challenge by... Portugal.

He looks even better in orange...

Two Months Off

you bring light in...

cool wind following
following after you
rising for you
your skin beautiful
everything comes natural
fantastic fan
rocking rocking floating

Underworld - Two Months Off.

Hunter and prey

I snogged the hottest guy in the club last night. Twice.

The evening started off real slow. I went to pay off my tab, but that place was a little quiet. It was more of a bar setting: just talk. I wanted to dance, so I left after a while, went to the place that's slowly becoming my base.

That was pretty quiet too, but the people were different. It was, well, to put it succinctly, apparently the night of the limp wrists. But to be honest, I can live with that, because I know how to handle those guys.

The place filled up slowly, and more normal looking people started coming in. I hit the beer, can't remember why. Somehow I ended up on the dance floor.

Suddenly our bodies are grinding together to Kylie Minogue's Slow. I had seen him before, one of four very hot, young friends, but now he was alone. Very lean, tight body; diamond studs, my weakness; short brown hair; leather bracelet. I've hit the jackpot. I wasn't real good, because I was in shock he was doing this to me, of al people. But I grabbed him and held him real close. So nice to hold by the hips.

The song ends and I'm turbocharged. He moves off to dance with some girl, but the next song isn't very erotic anyway and I decide to get more beer.

Later, at the edge of the dance floor, I see him again. We must have talked for a bit, but I can't remember a word of it. He gives me the look that melts all ice. I've seen the look before, all the fems seem to master it. So, on cue, I move in and we kiss. I'm willing to bet it was the first make-out in the club that night.

It was controlled, a little chaste, but there were hints of more to follow. A little tongue, but not all out. Real good: the suggestion is often more exciting than the open, all-out grappling.

He moves off to the bathroom and immediately an even younger kid moves in. We get to talk, he's nice-looking with an eyebrow piercing (not my favourite) and a fag hag in tow which is slightly disconcerting. If he wants to make out with her smiling at us, he chose the wrong person.

He tells me he just came out of a relationship of two and half years (internal groan, another rebounder) and is clearly waiting for me to move in. The girl, who's huge by the way, just stands there and smiles like a goof.

But my mind is on Hottie, who could return from the bathroom at any moment. There really was nothing wrong physically with Eyebrow Piercing, but Hottie was my prey and I wasn't looking for a replacement.

I find Hottie at the bar, which is two steps away anyway. This time, we really talk. He's 22 (yeah!), from the next sizeable town due South (Yes! From my province!) and we exchange names, but honestly I forgot his. I move in and we kiss again, again very tender but with a little more tongue. He asks me if I live nearby (hell yes!) and suddenly the logistics of what could happen all race through my mind: cabs, lack of condoms, single bed.

Then his friends return and it is all over. He rejoins them, then ends up dancing very sensually on the stage, facing me. I suspect Hottie has a boyfriend, LOL. But Eyebrow Piercing and Fag Hag are back with a vengeance.

I can't remember the conversation that follows because my eyes and mind are all focused on the stage. To boot, an older Belgian guy decides this is the time to move in and tell me I'm "real good looking" (I'm not, good-looking is mind fucking me on the stage). He's nervous and not doing a good job, and the timing honestly stinks.

Seeing Hottie and friends preparing to leave, I decide to call it a night too and head home at around four. Even the bitch at the counter smiles at me when I leave.

I'm pretty sure he only kissed me last night. This little fact excites me no end.

I think Gay Banker is right about the confidence mirror.

Catch You

Come on baby, when will you see
That you and I were meant to be
And now I got my target on track
Baby you should know that I'm so good at that

Run to where you want, run to where you want
I am gonna find you
There aint no distance far enough
My love's gonna find you
Run to where you want, run to where you want
But may I remind you
There aint no engine fast enough
My love's gonna catch you
- Sophie Ellis Bextor, Catch You


These lyrics describe me when I want something quite adequately. There's just no stopping me.

I have been sorting out my feelings about Saturday's activities over the last couple of days. And it's quite simple really: I want this guy, and I want him pronto.

So we've been texting a little. I sense he feels bad or embarrassed about the sex. Well, I don't care, I'm new to this, I have to learn, I'm up to trying again. Sure, I wasn't good, but I never expected to be. But I will never judge someone purely on the basis of a bad lay. I'm trying to reassure him without being a total sop or freak.

Truth is, I'm really into this guy. The way he treated me on the night, the perfect gentleman. The way he wanted to show me how it's done even though he's clearly no top. I like the way he looks, the way he's a normal small-town Southern kid who just happens to be into men. I liked kissing, holding him. I want more of him. I want to meet up and do whatever gay lovers are supposed to do.

We exchanged numbers on his initiative but I sense no urgency on his part to meet up again. Maybe I'm a little forceful, intimidating even. I can be, because there's no stopping me when I want something and I need little time to figure out if I do. But I want him real bad. My bisexuality might have freaked him out a little; he has no experience with women. He just came out of a relationship and might prefer to take it slow. There's quite a big education gap, but he doesn't know my record of blue-collar jobs.

I would have been perfectly fine with a one-night stand and purposely did not take the initiative to exchange numbers. Platonic friends, fine too. But I can't handle a charade.

I want to meet up with him again, preferably this weekend. I want to give him the shag he deserves and probably craves. I think I can handle topping, I'd have to try it out sometime, don't I?

So how do I handle this? I have to learn the rules of the gay game.

By the way, thanx and a shout-out to V.Jay of Paint The Blog Orange who was willing to listen to me whine about this tonight.

At his place

So he wanted to go to his place. I was enjoying myself, but I was fine with that.

He was there with his ex and his new boyfriend, so we went to find them. They were all typical boys from the small-town South, and I would never have thought they were gay. But they were, and their normal behaviour was reassuring.

We left the club, walked South to the residential area where they had parked their car. Ex and bf got in front, we took the backseat. He wanted to lie on top of me and cuddle, and I was absolutely up for that. We took a long, dark drive through the rural areas surrounding my town.

Turns out he and the ex are still sharing their house because the ex can't get the credit together to buy him out. The ex and his bf quickly went upstairs, we had a drink first, then went up to his room. I could hear the other couple going at it.

In no time he had everything off and was into his large water bed. I was still fooling around with my contacts, got undressed and just jumped on top.

We kissed for a while, and it was great. Then he went down on me, and let me tell you, it wasn't the best bj ever. He used his teeth a lot, which was not stimulating at all. In fact, I lost my hard-on, so I just decided to go for it myself.

Polishing his knob I could hear him moan. Good, because he didn't get me to that stage. I started getting hard again. Then he told me he wanted to screw me.

I hesitated a little, didn't want to be too eager. But I definitely wanted him to. So he got out condoms and lube and told me to turn over (duh!).

So he pushes it in, and of course my arse is still pretty tight, so it doesn't go in very far. He starts thrusting, but is apparently unaware his dick's not in. So when he asks me how I'm feeling, I tell him. He tries again but the situation repeats itself. Then he says he's a bottom (well, that was obvious!), that he's no good at topping so we lie down and jerk each other off. We were both sloshed and that affected the sex.

Then we cuddle some more and fall asleep in each other's arms.

Klaas-Jan, super striker

The Hunter keeps on huntin'. First game of the season, four goals, one assist, 8-1 result. Now I know De Graafschap ain't much, but still a pretty good start of the season. Top of the league, of course, hope it lasts.

Rambling

Great start to what looks like another horrible football season. Selling Wesley Sneijder to Real Madrid for €27 mil was a clever deal, but the team's all broken up now. Just typical, been through this before.

So we lost 0-1 in a home match against lowly Slavia Prague for the Champions League qualifier. It can be fixed in Prague, but it looks bad. And we would be in pot 2 for the draw in the real thing, a virtual guarantee of reaching the second round and lots of lovely €s, prestige and a good chance of joining the elite eight or four of European football. Oh yeah, hottie Huntelaar missed a penalty kick at 0-0. *Sigh* He always does that when it's vital. Just great... League starts this weekend, prospects not good.

On the personal development front, my starvation diet seems to be working. The idea is simple: replace two-thirds of your daily food intake with scotch. Vodka is even better, but I don't dig that. Designated drivers are allowed to replace one scotch with a strong double espresso or two Senseos. The flab on your body will quickly be replaced with a banging head or the biggest caffeine rush of your life.

Had to drive my mom to hospital for minor surgery in Drab Town today. I work near Drab Town, so I know the place, but I still can't get to terms with it. It's poor, ugly, there's nothing to see or do, definitely no classy shopping and so little night life the place is deserted after 10. Yet I love the people there and tend to get on with them really well.

I have lots of friends in and around Drab Town. I once spent a wonderful evening there drinking scotch with a friend and his crazy gang in the worst street of the entire place, and it was great fun. It ended up with me inspecting a kilo of cocaine a drunk tried to sell to me, in the end (being equally drunk) telling him I'd need a sizable sample to peddle it successfully, something I would never really attempt. Somebody then went on to freak me out about alcohol checks so after sobering up a little I took a really twisted route home.

On the other side of the province lies Snob Town, which has everything Drab Town misses. I've lived in Snob Town and never got to enjoy it. It has cool bars, the best stores in the country, Perfection and a nice-looking, lively center. And of course, a crazy carnival. But I can't stand the people, who tend to excel at backstabbing and are fairly cold to outsiders. Also on the downside, the local accent is awful and the place lacks good clubbing.

As I have done my duty as a son and corporate zombie for this week, I am planning to travel back to my place in College Town for a nice ambiguous weekend.

I need to slip out of the closet for a bit. So I just got to get the courage together to do it. Yes, I am intending to visit a gay club this weekend. I think I will need plenty of booze to pull it off, but I need a breakthrough like this. It's kind of risky, downtown is crawling with friends, acquaintances and maybe even coworkers, but that's not a good enough reason to chicken out. I got to start somewhere, and abstention is no longer an option.

For the rest of the weekend I plan to revert to good old Party Boy me, attending a dance parade and probably boozing up at one of my standard joints.

Brera me!

€50K, for the underpowered four-cylinder model. Gulp. At least these things depreciate like shares in subprime mortgaging, so I might be able to get one some day. But then I want the V6, and the full Alfa deal: beige leather seats, and that wonderful exhaust roar, and a suit to match. I would let it rip on the Autobahn, compete with the Porsches and M6s.


True to form, I like its rear end best. When I first passed one in real life, I almost drove into a wall.

I like the Spider too, but it's pretty pointless in my country. It would just be sitting in a garage, and Alfas fall to bits when they don't get to move.



This superficial guy needs to get a proper job.

Wicked Ways

I can't resist going to the Department Store for Those Who Spend Too Much on Preppy Clothes. I'm sort of, kinda part of their clientèle: I come in regularly and spend too much. On the other hand, I'm single, not a yuppie and don't come in my work suit. I would dearly love to upgrade to the Store For Those Who Care Too Much About Brands, but sanity still has a tenuous grip on me, I'd like to think. So after surpassing one of those typical minor hurdles in life I tend to treat myself, even though I get the impression their staff doesn't much like the look of me. Way too wannabe metro, but too lazy to pull it off. Or something.

So I pick up my pair of overpriced, ridiculously expensive and plain waste-of-money-at-19%-VAT Diesel jeans after much deliberation ("you know you will!"). And then, just as I want to pay and leave this wallet-sucking nirvana, I see him. Perfection.

And boy do I hate him. I don't fall in love here, I just meet the Unobtainable One, the yardstick by which I know I will measure others. Timing could not be worse.

His face is flawless, perfect. No room for criticism, which I will always find, believe me. Blond hair, perfectly cut, semi-short and gelled so that everything lines up exactly. Modelish, really. A tan, fake as a three-dollar bill but subtle. Not cheap, not overbearing, the way I would like to come back from a holiday in the sun but rarely do. Just adding the finishing touches to a perfect face. Emerald eyes, twinkling, stronger, more beautiful than mine, even though I consider them my main selling point. A ridiculous piercing, with a large diamond stud pinned to the flap of the ear that reaches to the ear canal, just shouting out: "don't doubt". And I don't. I see him mingle with his incredibly drab female colleague, and boy is he out.

As I'm sizing him up mentally (about 1.70, smaller than me, bloody store uniform not tight enough to check out the bod), I feel hugely inadequate. I was wearing the worst, floppy, ugly cheap football shirt ("Italia") I have because I was running late. The dentist I had been to had left horrid pinkish goo on my teeth. I was sweaty and wearing cheap-o ersatz deodorant, discounter fragrance as I had run out of my usual stuff. No cologne, because I did not want to get too flirty with the dentist's pretty assistant.

As I wait for Perfection and Drab Colleague to decide who will login to the till, paranoia hits. Hard, like watching Requiem to a Dream on hashish.

I must smell like a grizzly, look like Hannibal after having an old friend for dinner.

He's just a cashier, and you've got two degrees!

It just doesn't count in this arena.

Perfection gets to login to the till, they decide. At the other side of the double till, a quality yuppie had lined up to pay for his Ralph. Perfection has to choose: the freak with the blinding shirt or Fitted Suit. After a second of deliberation, he sashays, he defines the word really, over to me and starts logging in. Perfection is a wee bit effeminate, I suppose.

A choice I would never have made. I wonder what vibe I was giving off. I sense he can read my inner thoughts, understands what's going on. Members of the tribe first? Some sort of homo solidarity?

I don't want to be a pushover in the face of such beauty. So I give him my hard schoolyard stare. I'm good at that one. He folds my purchase over, wraps it in a plastic bag. Movements that are so gay, yet so attractive on him. With a decidedly neutral face (another classic of mine), I pay, thank him and leave.

I'm still wondering: what if I meet this kid in a club, armed with clean teeth, liquid strength, Hugo Boss and a shield of indifference?

As Heaven is Wide

There is a God.

And He probably favours AZ, the Chelski of the low countries, a fake... I don't want to get sued by owner Scheringa, so I'll just shut up about his toy.

Anyway, clever manager Brands and brilliant coach Louis van Gaal have just managed to sign Graziano Pelle from Italian club Lecce for way too much money for an untested striker. This means I will have something to look at during their games next season.



Still favour Klaas-Jan Huntelaar though. Beats Pelle on character, though maybe not on body. And he plays for a real team, of course. ;-)