Archive for May, 2012
The Easter holiday of my first year at uni I went back to my town for a while and went to a party at a friend of mine’s house. I left school a year early so a lot of our friends were still in town and, so, a lot of them came to the party. After I left school (being one of only about four queer people I knew there), just about everyone came out as LGB or T. That’s an exaggeration, but there was a decent handful of people at least. Two of them, boys whose names were confusingly both R, happened to be at this party, where the alcopops were flowing (even though I was at uni we were all underage) and being the inexperienced drinkers we were at 17, everyone got drunk. The two Rs hadn’t been seen in a while, so I went off to look for them.
I found them in our host’s bedroom, on her bed, the blond on top of the brunette, still fully clothed but making out, and I sort of froze in the doorway. After a second one of them realised I was there, looked up and said “Either come in or go, but either way close the door”. So in I went.
To be honest, it was more a session between the two of them with me being the third wheel, rather than a full-on threesome. That said, only one of them came, but I did as well, so it was quite successful in that respect. Three boys on a single bed takes a lot of creativity to work but somehow we managed – we’re all quite skinny.
One of those boys now lives in the same city as me and we run into each other if we’re out on the scene sometimes, usually at really inconvenient moments. The other one I don’t think I’ve seen since that day, but as far as I know he lives somewhere fairly rural now with his boyfriend. I didn’t expect him to be the one to settle down but there you go.
Not quite as funny a story as the show Threesome but still…
This one comes from Ange, who has been reading this blog since the early days. By which I mean about January. Anyway. Enjoy!!
Ok, so I love reading about Dex’s casual sex meets because it takes me back to a time when casual sex was my favourite hobby. I’m not too old, but old enough to remember chatlines – before the introduction of a well-known website where you want people to paw your profile and a lazer-buzz could herald your next fuck. Those were trying times and I had to invoke the Trades Description Act on a number of occasions, but I digress. So, sex-meets revolutionized by t’internet, I started making my way through the huddled masses and experimenting with some different stuff to find out what I liked. Sometimes pleasantly surprised, sometimes repulsed and (on at least one occasion) quite alarmed – but that’s another post.
One evening after a few lazer-buzz messages I agreed for a reasonably good-looking guy to come over to mine. “One thing. I have a bit of a denim fetish.” says he while I’m giving him directions. Ok, fair enough, after the incident with the belt I think I can handle denim. “Do you have any tight jeans?” was the next question. I did indeed. I had a pair of Levi 501s that I’d had since I was 15 and, yes, I was prepared to squeeze myself into them for his arrival. Good.
He arrived about 20 minutes later and I was thinking “great, I’ll be able to get these jeans off before they permanently mark me” (I was a VERY skinny teenager). Bingo! He liked the jeans, they really turned him on and we started rolling around in my livingroom. It was actually very exciting… he was touching me up through the jeans, feeling every inch of my lower body right down to my ankles and back up again. Then, just as I thought I was going to be released from my denim prison, he tells me that he has brought a pair of jeans with him that he would like me to wear. Erm… ok then. He nips out to the car and comes back with a pair of denims that I can only guess were purchased from GapBaby. I had two options for getting into them – A) I could cut off my feet or B) I could get greased up and jump in from the top of the wardrobe.
Ok, ok, it’s just jeans I thought. So there I was in my livingroom squeezing into these ridiculously small jeans will he sits on the sofa watching and moaning (not touching himself or anything). Then, as I held my breath and did up the last button, he shot his load. Right there and then. No wanking, no touching, no nothing. I didn’t know whether I was more impressed or angry, given the fact that I had yet to be satisfied. He seemed quite embarrassed, crow-barred the jeans off me and left. I have never just came by looking at something, no matter how erotic (which obviously, I am). I wonder if any of you have?
So there we have it!! If you’ve got a story or rant of your own and feel like helping a blogger out, drop me a line at firstname.lastname@example.org and you may well see yourself here in a couple of weeks’ time!
Following my last post about running into Talkative Boy and having an ill-advised conversation with him, KittyMama commented that “we say it a lot, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” But when you’re drunk and the player is right infront of you, it’s hard to hate the game.”
I used to quite like the phrase “don’t hate the player, hate the game,” it has a purpose; a bit like religion, it lets you shift the blame for someone’s shittyness (totally a word) away from them and onto this mysterious outside force, over which they have no control.
I choose to hate both the player and the game. Because you have a choice, you always have a choice. You choose whether or not to pick up the gun, take that pill, pour that next drink, to eat that chocolate, or to play the game. Not that I’m saying game-playing is on a par with manslaughter and LSD, but you know what I’m getting at. No-one forces you to obey the three-day rule, or to “not seem to keen,” or any of the other weird rituals we have around copulation. I’m not saying that some of these things don’t have their place, but the majority of what goes on in these situations is unnecessary, frustrating and a waste of time.
I’m no saint, and I have been guilty of doing the odd bit of game-playing at various points in the past, but I really do try to avoid it as much as possible. It’s really very simple; be honest, be direct, be upfront, don’t be mean. You’ve got a much better chance of getting what you want, of being happy with the outcome, and it’ll help you avoid making enemies. If everyone hates the game as much as they claim to then why are so many people still playing it?
Brown Eyes’ last night out in the city last night before she goes back to her home country for her sister’s wedding and then to continue her studies. Where did we go? You guessed it. We went pre-drinking at someone’s flat first and I had amazing drunken chat with someone I’d never met before which is always nice.
When we got there I saw Talkative Boy at the bar, and decided that was grounds for more drink. When I was stood at the back waiting for some other friends to get served, he saw me, smiled and waved; I stuck the finger up at him and turned away.
Then I drank even more. I sometimes wonder whether I’m in the early stages of some sort of alcohol dependency – not seriously, but I’m drinking way more than I should just now. Anyway. So I did that awful awful thing where I went to him on the dancefloor and asked if I could talk to him. I don’t remember the entire conversation but the scraps I can piece together go something like this:
-So what’s the fucking script?
-Since the time I saw you in your town. Actually no, let’s go right back to the start. Let’s play a game called “true or not true?”. Your name is D
-You’re from [this town]
-You haven’t, in fact, lived with a succession of relatives who kept on papping you out when they found out you were bi.
-… not true.
-Less than half the things you told me that night were true.
-Have you never lied to anyone just for the fun of it?
-No, and do you know why? ‘Cause I’m not a fucking sociopath. Why the fuck did you at no point just say, look, I can’t do this? You kept on fucking texting. You came to see me when I was working in your town! Why the fuck would you do that?
-Well should I not have?
– Of course not. It’s misleading. You just wanted to play with me – that’s not fair. You can’t do that to people.
Here things go a bit blurry because I was nearing the bottom of a pint (I remember him saying at one point that he respected me to which I replied that he didn’t, and he didn’t try to contradict me) but I more or less ended the conversation and sent him on his way. I think he won the conversation though, which doesn’t seem right to me. Still, it was his birthday night out and while I’m not generally vengeful or vindictive, I honestly hope I put a bit of a dent in it. It’s a rare occasion these days that someone has the power to bring me right down and feel like shit – I spent enough time feeling like that a few years go and I don’t want to ever end up like that again – but somehow he manages it. What a dick.
Still, kinda my own fault too. I let it turn into more than it was meant to be. It should have been a one night stand (and I told him that! “You were meant to be a one night stand and yet here we are two months later still talking about it. Because I actually fucking liked you, I thought this could have gone somewhere, and you just lead me on”) and I let get the better of me. Rules of Casual Sex… I really should get better acquainted with them again!
Anyway, Photographer and Presidentka helped me drink a lot more and we all left together when the club closed and got a taxi back to Presidentka’s where she stole a litre of vodka from her flatmates and then on the way back to mine we ran into Hitraya, who joined us back at mine for yet more vodka (WHY OH WHY DID WE THINK THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA? I HAVE WORK TODAY), drunken chat about religion amongst other things, and rice with cashews, ’cause apparently that’s a thing and I have ten kilos of cashews to get through before I move out.
I arrived at University in the September, and moved into student dorms/halls of residence (depending on where you live) which were at the edge of the city. The halls I was in were quite small, there were only maybe 250 students there, spread out into blocks. I got there on the Friday, and on the Saturday my best friend from school came to spend the night at mine for some fun. We were hanging out before we had dinner at the reception area where some people were still arriving and getting their keys, and a girl I later learned was called M arrived with her suitcase and parents in toe. It turned out (I learned by eavesdropping on her conversation with the receptionist) that she was from central Europe, sparking off what I’ve called my central European fetish and lending itself well to my friends’ calling her The Slov, which somehow sounds insulting even though it’s not really a word.
A few weeks later – it must only have been the beginning of November, if that, that by some string of events I’d found myself in her room one Friday night with a bottle of Bacardi (it was a present from my grandmother, of all people. She gave me it before I left, along with a hardback black notebook, “for your special addresses”. She clearly saw the writing on the wall). I knew she had a boyfriend, back in her home country, and I’d even seen him once when he’d come over to visit her, but clearly my 17-year-old brain didn’t care. We talked ourselves in circles for hours culminating in me eventually asking outright whether I could kiss her. “You can try,” she said. I did.
We ended up on her bed, not naked but topless at first, and I was confronted with boobs for the first time in a sexual context which baffled me. What the fuck do I do with these? I thought. It turns out they’re actually quite good fun when you get the hang of them though. That night we only had oral (which I was later told on no uncertain terms that I was abysmal at, it being the first time I’d gone down on a girl), but we were up for hours having fun in just about every other way we could think of too. I think in the end I was awake for a day and a half and then had to go and sleep until Monday.
That lead into what can only reasonably be described as a tempestuous relationship for the rest of that academic year, the following summer, and a full semester-and-a-half of the academic year which followed it. For most of that time we were actually a couple, which looking back on it is weird because she was insufferable a lot of the time as was I, and we weren’t very compatible personalities either. Still, it was what it was; she was the first person I ever said “I love you” to in a romantic way, and at the time I meant it. The first time we had sex in the traditional understanding of the word must have been in either the January or February following that first encounter, after she’d definitively split up with her ex and we’d become a couple. I think the only thing that was normal and healthy about our relationship long-term might actually have been the sex, come to think of it.
Three years after the first night we spent together I was at a party not far from where I live now, and who should turn out to be there by sheer coincidence but a girl that M went to school with in her home country and her boyfriend, who was – you’ve guessed it – M’s ex from that same time. After we worked that out we had quite a good laugh for the first while until either he worked out which of M’s exes I was or got drunk enough to do what he’d wanted to do in the beginning, and he jumped me from behind and punched me in the face a few times. It was a bit scary at the time but looking back on it now just seems a bit ridiculous; firstly, that he was even there in the first place, and secondly, that three years on he still cared enough about it. Masculine pride, eh?
Remember the hickey I mentioned last week that I had no recollection of getting? Between us, Tigger, Brown Eyes and I have managed to piece together enough of the night to more or less explain its presence. (According to various accounts, I kissed Tigger, who in turn kissed Brown Eyes, which was an unpredicted turn of events)
The club we were at has three rooms and an outdoor smoking area on the first floor. We were in the main room of the second floor for most of the night but for some reason we’ve yet to uncover – presumably a shorter queue at the bar – I disappeared into the other room. I remember seeing a guy at the bar and eyeing him up in my oh-so-subtle way (subtle as a ton of bricks…) though I don’t remember what he looked like. I then remember him talking to me at the bar to which my response was “I drink vodka. I’ll be at that table” (WHEN did I get so presumptuous and demanding? If you’d met me 18 months ago you would never believe it), and in due course he did apparently turn up with vodka. This is where my memories disappear again for a while, but Tigger informs me this is where she found me, at that table with him, now empty vodka glass in hand. “Just give me five minutes, then come back”, I stage-whispered. She did as was told and it was in this interval that I acquired the hickey.
Apparently this boy was less than keen to go home with me because somehow he knew that I’d be moving 750 km south soon (the good news I mentioned which we were out celebrating) and he apparently doesn’t do one-nighters. He gave Tigger his number to pass on with me in the event that for whatever reason I don’t move (this reason doesn’t exist – I’m definitely going) but I shouted at her to delete it while we were out smoking with her friend from work (he was smoking, we weren’t. Brown Eyes had already gone home at this point).
So there we go then – mystery solved!!