Archive for April, 2012

Last Barman Update, a Minor Rant, and an Apology.

You remember Barman, right? Last night I was in that club (again) and saw him; pointed him out to some friends who knew the story and one who didn’t, who laughed and said “He’s straight. He’s seeing my friend M”. So that explains the lack of contact but God, it pissed me off. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t particularly care what the sexuality of the person giving me vodka is, and I don’t believe that gay bars should only employ gays etc. That’s a load of bullshit. What I do care about is that he didn’t just say that in the first place. “Can I have your phone number?” – “Sorry, I’m straight,” or “No, I’m not single” are both good responses. Playing the game and pretending to flirt just because I’m a customer is crap. Sonic’s flatmate suggested that maybe he didn’t want to offend; saying “no” is a lot less offensive than fake-flirting with someone and then blanking them the next day. Why oh why do people feel the need to play these stupid games?!

Anyway. I’ve been reading over your entries for the wee competition I wrote about in my previous post, and have yet to pick the winners. Some are really frank, some are funny, and they’re all very different. Because I’ve not picked yet I’m pushing the deadline to this Saturday, so if you want to enter before then send me your story to before then. See you tomorrow for Flashback Friday!!

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Like a Virgin

This is quite a long post, but it spans what would be several smaller posts had I been writing this blog at the time. Stories from the past are going to be a regular feature, starting at the end of this week with my first Flashback Friday. There’s a competition at the bottom too. Enjoy!

Since I couldn’t in all honesty call this blog a full account of my sex life – and also because I’ve not actually had sex in about a month, as some of you may have noticed – I’ve decided to go back to the top of my list (I’ve kept a list for years) and tell you some, actually almost all, the tales from my past, in chronological order. So where better to start than the very beginning?

I had just begun what would turn out to be my final year at high school, though I didn’t know that at the time, and although I ostensibly had a heavy academic workload with which to contend, that was also the year I began to really have a decent social life. One of my many cousins (Catholic family, lots of relatives) was playing in a band who had a “gig” one Sunday evening in the church hall of the town next to the village I’m from. Being the good and loyal relative I was before I realised that I have little in common with these people and don’t even like most of them, I went along to watch some of our local talent embarrass themselves on stage. While there I ran into some people from the year above me at school, who were there with friends from other towns and villages in the area.

One of these people, a pretty boy called KD, I recognised from MySpace (remember the days before facebook?) and I was utterly fascinated by him. For one thing, everyone knew him as Gay K – he was out to everyone, including his family, which to me at the time was unthinkable. Anyway, some of that group were sat outside on the church steps, drinking cider. At one point one of the girls from school, A, came over to where I was sitting and I could already tell from the look in her eye exactly what she was about to ask. “Dexxx,” she began, “would you ever pull a boy?” (I was barely out to anyone at that point), swiftly followed by “Would you pull K?”

Despite being fucking terrified as well as completely baffled (this was well before I ever had any sort of self-confidence) I agreed, and off the three off us fucked, around the back of the church. Here I would write “don’t judge me” but then if you’re the sort of person who is overly concerned with the sanctity of religious buildings you’re probably judging me anyway based on the rest of the blog, so whatever. K and I were sat on some other steps talking to A, and someone else who I have a feeling I knew at the time but now can’t remember. Anyway, my heart was beating so, so fast and I was so nervous, but A pushed on, kissing whoever the fourth person was before declaring, “Right, your turn!” So K and I turned towards each other and, well, it happened. I was still really nervous and I’m sure I was a terrible kisser because of that as well as a severe lack of experience.

I got really into it though, and A and whoever her mysterious fourth person was had long since vanished, so as hands began to wander K came up for air and grabbed my hand, leading me yet further round the back before pushing me up against a wall. Breathlessly he asked, “Can I give you head?” and I don’t think I could even answer verbally by that point, but my belt came off and he was on his knees going for it. I had no idea what to expect and don’t know how long he was down there for before I dragged him up and told him it was my turn. Once again I didn’t have a clue what I was doing but it seemed to be going alright until we heard footsteps on the gravel behind us and had to cover ourselves up pretty sharpish. I assume I got his number because we were texting later on, but at any rate I went back home.

At school the next morning everyone in A’s year, some of whom were in the same history class as me, already knew all about it (I have a feeling my teacher even knew) and by the end of second period the story had grown and changed in that way that rumours will, to the point where it was widely believed that rather than blowjobs in a church we’d fucked in a graveyard. I was the talk of the school, all of a sudden. It was like being in Easy A, except that wasn’t out yet and while Olive totally hadn’t, I kind of had.

The next weekend K and I met up and took a train from his town to the capital, which I suppose in retrospect was a date; on the way were talking mostly about our hopes and plans for the future, which when you’re 16 and from a mining village in northern Europe is probably all you really have to talk about. (He wanted to study either music or psychology (remember that, it’s important), I wanted to become an interpreter. I still do). Once in the city we found a quiet spot off the path on a hill and went to finish what we had started the weekend before – imagine waiting a week to cum – and I somehow managed to get cum, presumably his, all over my shirt and had to buy a new one to wear before I went home. He came buckets, come to think of it. Anyway.

After that I chickened out – I stopped replying to his texts and though I only saw him in public a couple of times after that, I ignored him both times. I’m not particularly proud of it but I don’t beat myself up over it any more either. Shortly before I moved to the city I now live in I sent him a message apologising for it (this was still MySpace), and were briefly in touch with each other for a while. I never really expected to see him again, but that was really naive of me given how small this country is.

Almost exactly five years later, last Autumn, Bruga and I had gone to the capital to take part in a psychology experiment not many people were qualified to do, so found ourselves then in the foyer of the University’s psychology department waiting for a researcher to show up when who should walk in and stop dead in front of us ut K. As he stood there I started gabbering away to Bruga in a language I knew K didn’t understand; “you remember that hill I showed you on the way here and the story about the guy I was with up there? That’s him! That’s the guy!!” I don’t know why I was so surprised; like I say it’s a small country and weird shit like this happens to me constantly. He was much shorter than I remembered but actually still cute, I still would. Or rather, I would again. After a few seconds he recognised me, looked baffled (what was I doing in his department, speaking a foreign language, when I don’t have anything to do with psychology and live at the other side of the country?), blanked me and walked off. I’m going to be in the capital again tomorrow afternoon, visiting schoolfriends. I wonder if I can manage to run into him again?

Anyway, now it’s competition time!! If you feel so inclined I’d love to get some of your feedback and your own stories; email me at telling me about your first time in 500 words or less, and I’ll post the top three stories next Thursday (12/04/2012), either anonymously or with a link to your blog, just let me know how you prefer it!

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Barman Update

So the barman hasn’t texted (yet) but because this city is actually a village, I ran into him today. In my department building at Uni. What are the odds?

I don’t even know why it surprises me that shit like this happens any more to be honest.

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Pretending I’m in Sex and the City

Bruga has a friend from home visiting over the weekend and wanted to show her some of our night life in the city, so last night the three of us, along with Pan, went out dancing. It was a really fun night, though God only knows where Pan ended up. (He has a habit of vanishing in the middle of a night out, or deciding to stay when everyone else is leaving).

He and I were stood at the bar and after Pan had ordered I commented that the barman was cute. “Talk to him,” said Pan, handing me a fiver. So when said barman came back with Pan’s pint, I paid, and immediately realised that made it look as if Pan and I were a couple. Oops. There’s always a way out though, so when the barman came back with the change and handed it to me I asked his name, which he gave as M; “Hi M, I’m Dexxx, and you’ll be my barman this evening.” M blushed and we went off to dance. (Special thanks to KittyMama for the opening line).

Even though the place was busy – not packed like it is on a Wednesday – I did get served by him for the rest of the night, and barely even had to queue. Not my first drink after that encounter but the one after that, I asked “Could I have a vodka lemonade and your phone number please?”  (I seem to have this idea in my head that I live in New York and people actually say this stuff to bar staff. As far as I know they really don’t but whatever, it worked) and he sort of started for a second and then went, “Not while I’m working…” and turned away to get my change, having an animated conversation with one of his colleagues at the till. Then as he gave me my change his hand lingered on mine for a second and he continued, “… but you can give me yours!”

Now, I don’t know how many of you have tried to find a pen in a night club, but for me it was certainly a first and it’s really not easy. I had a bit of an aha-moment when I realised the toilet attendants have to fill in time sheets, so I got a pen off one of the friendly ones of them I’d been talking to earlier in the evening. It always pays to be nice to almost everyone. I put my number down on the back of a receipt, making sure it was the right number this time and that my writing was actually legible and went back to the bar.

At this point Pan and I ran into a very friendly girl who was in the club for the first time, and befriended her. She offered to buy us both drinks and I said “Well I’m actually flirting with one of the bar staff…” so she just handed me a twenty and told me what to order. Once I did, and this woman (I think her name was L?) had added three shots onto the order for us, I slipped the receipt with the phone number on top of the twenty and handed both over. I thought L’s eyes were going to fall out of her head at the temerity of it but I explained the rest of the story later. Anyway, barman put our order through the till (giving us the shots for free, cheers pal) and my number in his back pocket.

Boom. That’s how it’s done.

I suppose that technically we can’t term that successful until I get a text from him, so we’ll see whether or not that happens. But the free shots and the fact that he took my number are small victories in themselves, and at any rate it’s a more successful night than Pan’s since he ended up sucking off a 39-year-old tourist in the toilets…

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