senior dancers and serial killers

So you may recall it was recently my Mother’s seventieth birthday for which a big old family party was organised.

I say ‘you may recall’ in the hope that you read and remembered this fact from the farting in John Lewis part of the story.

Anyway, the party was on the Saturday evening and by the time I arrived from Paris all of the family was in chaos busily organising their individual part of the party project. Now, trying to organise my family is a bit like herding cats – nigh on impossible. However, it seems that on this occasion they managed to get their shit together and throw a decent event.

The evening was a lot of fun – despite the location. My brother had chosen a social club on the edge of town which left a lot to be desired. At least they turned most of the lights off so that the ugliness of the room was largely hidden.

With the mood lighting on and the buffet table laid the scene was set for the upcoming and rather surprising spectacle of ‘older’ drunk people.

Now I’m not a teenager myself, but the majority of these folks had a good twenty years on me. And I’m not passing judgement nor am I saying that being oldezr and drunk is wrong. I’m really not. But some of them…..

For example my mom’s ex-colleague. 62 years old, dancing with legs splayed to some awful reggae number (I do believe it was Eddie Grant’s “classic” Electric Avenue) going up and down like a good soul sister. My mother, God bless her, did eventually go over and ask her if she’d like a pole, such was the erotic nature of the dance.

Then there was an old family friend that I haven’t seen for at least fifteen years who refused to believe that I was me. On the basis that the last time she saw me there was no beard. Really? Yes, really.

But the highlight for me was my drunken Aunt. My mom’s sister, seventy three years old and a national treasure.

Halfway through the evening she spotted “Sheila” dancing along to a bit of Kylie wearing (and I kid ye not) gold lamé flares, a red shirt and a black crochet throw/wrap/scarf/debacle.

“What the fuck is Sheila wearing?” said my Aunt, making me choke on my pint of bitter.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” she continued.

“Of course you can” said I, my life being a fairly open book.

She beckoned me to a quiet corner.

“Tell me, do you think that Shrien Dewani is, you know…..a gay?”

“You mean the british bloke who killed his new bride on honeymoon in South Africa?”

“Yes…do you?”

“I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you know,” she slurred “I was wondering if you’d (at this point she winked comically) ‘heard’ anything”.

“Like on the gay network?” I asked.

“Well, yes” said my Aunt. “On your gaydar”.

Do you have this dress in 'raspberry'?

My Mom, having fallen over just before her birthday thus damaging her leg to the point of not being very mobile was now officially in a panic.

Her birthday party was two days away and I'd promised to take her shopping for a new dress. I arrived in town on the friday morning and we'd have all of the afternoon to find something.

But it seems that it wasn't the time constraint that was worrying her - it was more that she didn't know how she'd get along in the fitting rooms. As I'm the only one who can go and help her - yep, just me - and I'm a boy and therefore not allowed in english women's fitting rooms (who makes these rules?) then she'd be on her own to get in and out of frocks. Impossible.

So, being a bright soul as well as a good son I came up with the solution. You knew I would, right?

I booked her an appointment with the personal shopper in the local big department store. This meant that someone else would trawl the rails whilst me and mother could sip champagne in the trying-on 'suite'.

And very fancy it was too. Big comfy sofa's, loads of room to help an old lady in and out of her clothes - and a big rack full of dresses that fitted the description that my Mom had given the personal shopper over the phone that morning.

The personal shopper - called Rosemary - was as you'd imagine. Fortysomething, very glamorous in a high fashion kind of way. Perfectly coiffed, nails a-painted and tip top maquillage to boot.

I did think to myself "maybe she's born with it?" but figured it had to be Maybelline.

Anyway, I drink champagne, Mom tries on dresses, Rosemary prepares the next outfit.

An hour into proceedings and Mother has successfully wriggled her way into a very tight Paul Smith number and is now struggling to get out of it.

In a very inelegant scene, she has the skirt of the dress over her head and I'm pulling to try and release her.

Obviously she starts to giggle.

Giggling becomes laughing and laughing soon turns to exhaustion.

She edges backwards, finds the dressing room stool and sits down, with the dress still over her head.

And as she sits, she farts.

Loud. Long. Farts.

As the tears stream down my cheeks, all I can see of my Mom is a floral mess in the corner shaking uncontrollably.

I can see Rosemary, perfectly fashionable and superbly stylish Rosemary, out of the corner of my eye.

What on earth must she think of us?

"Are you sure that frock's a Paul Smith?" said our personal shopper. "Only, it sounds to me like it could be a Windsmoor"

the bunny that bugs me

Within the space of thirty minutes I'd been asked for a cigarette twice, for a light once, directions three times and one girl asked if she could use my mobile phone. Yep, this is what happens when you're standing on the street corner waiting in Paris.

I don't know what it is with the French but you know what? If you smoke, bring cigarettes. Bring a lighter. Be more organised. Like the scandinavians.

That said, I was waiting and waiting and waiting outside this damn metro station because my very organised and never late scandinavian princess friend - let's call her Miss Norway (everybody does) - was late. LATE! For the first time ever, Miss Norway was late.

She's never late.

But she had an excuse. She'd been performing ritual fellatio on her very lovely husband just before leaving the house and he'd ruined her hair. So a return trip to the bathroom was needed in order to return her do to the seventies disco joy that is her pride and joy.

So she turned up and we headed off to the birthday party of our friend, The Lapin. We call him The Lapin because of his obsession with small cuddly boys (which we call rabbits in French - don't ask me why). So he's obsessed with lapins, so we call him The Lapin. Jeez we're hilarious.

Anyway, the Lapin, despite his preference for the small and cuddly boys, has a thing for me. And it's kind of over the top and a bit embarrassing.

"So, you and your husband?" he asked me at the party. "You know, when it's over with him, me and you - we're let's go ding ding fuck fuck marry".

Yes, this is actually what he said. In a thick thick french accent. ye gods.

But the thing is, The Lapin is a new gay. At the tender age of 35 he's finally come out - to himself, to his family, to his friends, to the world. And now he's like a child in a sweetshop. Wants to touch everything, taste everything. It's exhausting.

I met him in a bar a while back and we've become good friends really. However, I have an issue with him and my friends. Problem is, he sees them as some kind of gay shooting range. Where he can work on his skills before heading out into the real world.

Thing is, he's handsome and he's sexy. And he goes for it. He's very seductive, charming and not afraid of the killer question. My friends love him. A bit too much.

In the last three months, I've introduced him to a dozen or so friends of mine - and he's slept with at least ten of them.

But every time he rings me afterwards and says "but it wasn't you, you know. Me and you - basta!" God help me.

Anyway, last night he left with a German friend of Miss Norway. Neither of them spoke the other one's language but Lapin had been admiring the German's biceps all night (I actually caught him licking the poor Frankfurter's arm at one point) and I think they'd worked out what each was after.

Seeing them leave last night, Miss Norway turned to me.

"Fucking fantastic" she said.

"What's that?"

"He's been through your lot like a dose of salts, now he's starting on my friends!"

There's only one thing for it. We need to find more friends.

As Miss Norway says - "It's like feeding a Rottweiler - you keep them full up so that they don't attack you...."

Barcelona by night

I left my job on the day of my birthday, July 31. It was a big day that came with a big cheque. And quite rightly so too. I spent my birthday with friends in Paris then jumped on a plane to Barcelona. I wanted to blow away some cobwebs, change my surroundings for a while and to get some sunshine.

So, it was with images of Almodovar films in my head that I flew south to catch up with an old friend (an old flame who had since gone straight) in the Catalan capital.

We were to spend just a week enjoying the city, the beach, the tapas y canas. And we did just that. We spent our days admiring our fellow beach-bodies and the evenings drinking and eating and chatting about how we missed our significant others.

Leaving the city, we passed two lovely days sailing a friend's cruiser in and out of the coves between Figuèrès and the French border. We slept on board in a small cabin, like two puppies in a basket. But it was just friendship - old, unchallenged friendship.

On our final night in Barcelona we went out clubbing, and ended up - with it being sunday night and all - in the strangest of clubs, the only place we could find open at five am.

Like many european gay clubs, the place had a dark room. A place where anonymous encounters can be had for the brave, the curious and the foolhardy. Being all three - and not a little bit drunk - I went to have a look. Well you don't look as it's so dark - it's more like going to have a feel.

And feel is what happened.

I stood leaning my drunken body against the wall and felt, as is normal practice, a hand touch my crotch.

I reached out and found a pleasantly shaped body. The hand started to stroke my afore mentioned body area.

Before I knew it, there were zips unzipping and buttons unbuttoning and some serious drunken passion was unfolding. It seemed like an appropriate way to end an otherwise sexless vacation. Anonymous pleasure, finding your way around an unknown body in the dark. It was hot and it was sexy. Things took their natural course and soon passion was replaced by a more relaxed intimacy.

As I stoked the hairy, muscled chest in front of me, the body's head moved in towards my neck. Yes, like in a vampire movie. A gay vampire movie.

"Vous êtes d'ici?" the head asked me, in French - "are you from here?".

"No," I replied in French, "I'm english but visiting from Paris"

"Hmm" the head replied "you have a jolie accent."

A moment's silence.

"Do you know Michel et Carl?" Now, I've changed the names to protect the guilty, but this pairing of names only belongs to one couple - my good old parisian friends, the Fierce People. This person knew the Fiercies. Ye gods.

"Yes……." I said.

"So it IS you!" said the head, excitedly. "Mais, it is ME! Jérémy!!!!!"

And so it was. It was Jérémy. A guy that I knew quite well - and who's boyfriend I knew better. As a couple they were a fixture at the fiercies' parties and soirées. I also knew that they had just split up. Seems Jérémy had headed south to get himself some rebound action.

"So, how are you?" I said. Not sure what else to say.

"I am fine,", Jérémy replied, "I am here to shag that bastard out of my head".

Nice.

"Well you're in the right place to do that" I said. "But maybe you should start by taking your hand off my dick".

Yep, this whole time, he'd still been working the magic, and it had started to get a little bit uncomfortable.

"Oh, you are SO eeenglish!" he said. And, with one final squeeze, he was gone, vanished into the darkness.

The next day, with my friend already well on his way to the airport, I was stood in the hotel room with my bags packed, waiting for a bellboy to come carry them down for me.

I rang husband, le Fabuleux Parisien.

"I don't want to come home just yet. I'm enjoying Barcelona." I said. "The weather is so good, the beach is fabulous, the food……"

"I'll call you back," FP replied, "don't go anywhere".

Ten minutes later, he rang.

"I arrive at ten to nine tonight - can the hotel send someone to the airport to collect me?"

And that's how I ended up spending almost a month in Barcelona. We just kept on postponing our return to Paris. It was the best month, the best summer, the best holiday.

It was a sunny Friday evening when we eventually arrived back in Paris.

We deposited our bags at home and headed off to dinner chez the Fierce People. As we walked into their 'salon', I saw a familiar figure lounging on a sofa.

Jérémy.

He looked at me nervously, surprised to see me.

"I believe you know each other" said the American Fiercy.

"Oh yes", said I. "We came across each other in Barcelona…."

Bambi's best friend

I rang my Mom from Sydney airport - with one flight behind me and two flights yet to go - to just let her know that I'd be out of contact for the next 30 hours.

"Oh don't worry about me" she said "The man next door can always wheel me over to the shops if I need anything".

Did she say 'wheel me'? Really?

Seems that, what with all the snow and ice on the ground, my Mother had fallen over. Inside the house. Well, it was more of a sideways roll as she fell from a kneeling position whilst lacing her snow boots up. Anyway, it was enough to give her some serious deep tissue damage and put her in a wheelchair.

So I land back in Paris, kiss my husband, have a few drinks with friends and then hop on a small (and imperfectly formed) CityJet plane bound for chez ma mère - with a bag full of nursing supplies and a uniform to go with.

It was supposed to be a three day trip.

I ended up postponing my flight twice.

By the time I had delayed my return the second time I was actually getting cabin fever. I don't mind being woken up at 4 am because she's fallen on her way to the bathroom and can't get up again. I don't mind making three meals a day and endless cups of tea. But I just couldn't stand another evening of Bargain Hunt and Cash in the Attic on tv.

I needed me some fun.

So, I did what all thoroughly modern boys do these and cracked open the iphone. Now many of you will be familiar with the concept of Grindr or Scruff. For those who aren't, they're iphone apps that use GPS to it's best advantage - in order to tell you who is looking for a casual hook up and how many kilometres they are from you.

I know, it sounds seedy and often is, but it's a major breakthrough for the travelling gays. It got me some of the best sex I'd ever had last summer in Barcelona when, with husband sleeping off the previous nights excess, I managed to hook up with a very handsome man from the island of Madeira who happened to have the room directly above ours.

Anyway, I reached for Scruff - where the men are manlier - and took a flick through what was on offer.

Having made my selection, I told my Mom that I was heading out to "see a friend" and, snatching her car keys off the hook, made a run for the door.

The man in question was only 500 metres away, as promised. Literally, two streets away. And he was ready and waiting. He was as advertised - handsome, hairy of chest, strong of arm and not overly chatty. What he had omitted to say was that he was a thumper.

As I moved in for the kill, I grazed his nipple with my hand. Thump thump thump.

"What the fuck was that?"

"My leg".

Hmm.

I kissed him on the neck and there it went again. Thump thump thump.

Seems that whenever I touched a sensitive part of his body, he had an uncontrollable reaction - to thump the floor (if standing) or to shake his leg (if lying down). It was like fucking Thumper.

What can I say, Dear Reader? It was disconcerting. It was a reaction that I've never seen before in my life - and hope to never encounter again.

As he shuddered to his foot stomping, leg pumping, knee knocking climax I was relieved it was over.

I'm going back to Mom's again this week.

I'll be avoiding his part of the magic forest.

new year, new rules, new me, new directions

So, like so many bloggers, I've chosen the month of January to re-connect with my former blogging self.

To be perfectly frank and honest, I'd kind of gotten bored of the blog. I was busy everywhere else in life and had gotten a bit blog-weary. But I have to admit it, I missed blogging. I missed the creative outlet, I missed the daily routine of it and most of all I missed the constant adulation by people who I've never met. Jeez, where else do you get that kind of ego boost?

Anyway, here I am and I'm planning to post regularly. Just, you know, don't hold me to anything. Let's take it a day at a time and see where we go from here.

First post will be tomorrow folks, come back and see it. It involves extra marital sex and thumper the rabbit. You have been warned.....

cut off in my prime

I love technology.

I hate technology.

Depending on the day/hour/minute either or both of the both can apply.

Saturday I headed from Paris to Newark NJ on the big bird of Air France. The lovely people at Air France and CDG airport managed to get together and come up with a 90 minute delay as a leaving gift for me. Which was nice.

So landing in EWR already late, it was with much happiness and smiling that I welcomed the news that another aircraft was parked at our stand and wouldn't be moving for at least 30 minutes.

So much for my decision to bring cabin bags only. Like that saved me any time at all.

Anyway, technology. Upon landing (late) at EWR, I switched on my iphone. It found me AT&T and T Mobile. Quite the choice.

However, it refused to connect me to either.

I tried every trick in the book during the wait for the stand, the queue for immigration, during the line to collect my rental car. I carried on trying whilst sat in the queue for the Holland Tunnel. Whilst waiting to check in to my hotel.

By the time I got to my room, I was distraught. How to tell friends that I was in town? How to set up a date for the night? How to give out my number to hot guys. Oh yeah, and how to ring my husband to let him know I'd arrived safely.

There was nothing for it but to jump in a cab and head north. To the Apple store, driver, and don't spare the ponies....

Well, let's just say that my visit to the church of the holy pomme was less than a religious experience. I left the underground chapel of the apple with a phone that not only no longer worked, but that now had no photo's, no contacts, zero music and zero apps. Yep, they wiped the fucker.

Back at the hotel and with the world of technology and jetlag working against me, I attached the phone to my macbook and set it to restore before flopping on my bed.

I fell asleep hoping that things would sort themselves out.

I woke up with the sure fire knowledge that they had.

How did I know that my phone had reconnected to a network?

It would be the three am ringing, beeping and buzzing of the numerous 'where are you?' emails, texts, voicemails and facebook messages coming in from the ether.

Yep, I had reconnected.

Yep, I had woken up.

Nope, I didn't get back to sleep.

Yep, I hate technology.