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.

The Canadians are coming

So I'm sat at my desk at work yesterday and in a dull moment, I decide to log on to a chat site that I visit from time to time.

Now, one of the guys I chat with is from Toronto and (promise) I was initially attracted to the photo's he'd posted of his art. The fact that he's as handsome as a handsome thing didn't hurt either. Anyway, we're both happily married men and so we chat about fairly mundane things but enjoy each other's virtual company.

So yesterday when logging on I get a message from him:

"Husband is in Paris with work and is bored to bits. Can you call him and take him to a bar or two please? Here's his number....."

And, being a good virtual friend, that's exactly what I did.

That's how, at ten pm I found myself at the entrance to the BHV greeting a very handsome Canadian guy. Now we're talking handsome here. Really handsome. Kind of 'be still my beating heart' handsome.

He was blond, stocky, big arms and shoulders, and a hairy chest showing at the top of his t-shirt.

Knowing how in love this couple is, I didn't dare get too excited. But excited I was.

So anyway, we meet up with a couple of my friends - the fiercies - and we get some drinks inside us. We start with chatting at the Freedj - my bar du choix. We then head on over to the Raidd bar to watch the boys dancing naked in the showers. Classy, right?

Anyway, it's whilst at the Raidd bar that Canadian Boy receives an SMS, looks at it, giggles and then turns to me and says "do you and FP have an open relationship?"

I splutter my beer over him, recover and try to be cool when I tell him that we do - but that we have no secrets. If we sleep with someone else it's allowed as long as the other one gets told about it.

"Yeah, me and hubby have the same deal" he said. And he showed me the text message that he'd just received from his husband.

It read "If he's that hot then you should absolutely go for it. And send me the photo's"

Now, beyond that what can I tell you? You know where this is going, right?

I mean, I could tell you about how we ended up in a sexclub. How we grabbed ourselves a cubicle. How it was the most amazing, passionate, dirty, refreshing sex I've had in a long time.

I could go on at length about his arms, his chest, his ass.

I could turn the whole encounter into a work of literature of epic proportions.

I could do all this, but I won't. I'll spare all of our blushes.

I'll just say 'hot damn' and 'God bless Canada' and 'oh my oh my oh my' and leave the rest to your imaginations.

But as a word of warning - be careful who you ask to look after your husband when he's away from home. You never know where it could all end up....

oh my God, oh my God, oh my God

"Is that? It is! It is! Oh my God!"

This is the sound I made, having seen one of my all-time idols in the flesh. In fact, on a chilly sunday afternoon, in the middle of the 13th arrondissement, I ended up seeingtwo people that I *almost* worship and one that scares me to death but who I would LOVE to be.

It happened like this.

"I have a surprise for you on Sunday afternoon". This is how le FP started my weekend.

"Tell me", I demanded. I hate surprises.

"Nope, you'll see" and he kept schtum from that moment on.

Four o'clock Sunday afternoon arrives and he tells me we're leaving in 30 minutes. He also tells me to dress 'fashion fashion fashion'. Shit, I hate it when he does this to me. What on earth to wear?

So I rustle up an outfit - Jacket by Francesco Smalto, sweater by Massimo Dutti, t-shirt from Armani, jeans by Levis and fabulous silver Nikes - and fix my ever growing hair.

We jump on the scooter and head off - in the opposite direction of anything that is fashion in Paris. I figured we'd be heading to the avenue Montaigne, to the Faubourg St. Honoré, to the Place Vendôme. Instead, we headed out of town and crossed the Seine on the pont de Bercy (still one of my favourites of all the Seine bridges).

He pulled up outside a dubious looking venue in the 13th. The venue was somewhat enhanced, however, by the presence of paparazzi and limousines. And a crowd of gawping public.

With a flourish, he produced an invitation - written on a pirate's treasure map, no less - and whisked me through the crowd and past the security.

"What the fuck...?!?" said I, still unsure of what was going on. It being Paris Fashion Week, I figured it was a show - but whose?

"It's John Galliano, baby" said le FP. Oh my. I love Galliano. This was going to be special.

We made our way into the venue and were stood chatting with a friend who we'd bumped into when it happened.

Now, this never happens to me. I see famous people and I'm rarely impressed - I think it's funny, exciting, but never does my heart stop. But this time it did.

"Excuse me" I heard a gruff voice say, and a security guard tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see that he was making way so that they could pass.

Who are they, I hear you ask.

Well, I turned and there she was. My heroine. My idol. The grande dame herself.

Grace. Coddington.

Mon dieu. My God. Mon gode.

And walking ahead of her was her nemesis. The Ice Queen extraordinaire.

Anna. Wintour.

Oh. My. Wet. Pants.

I grabbed le FP's hand and squeezed. He looked at me and we knew that both of us had just had one of those moments that you never forget.

I didn't know what to say. This was like the September Issue but for real. Oh my goodness.

"Our life is amazing" said le FP. He's not wrong.

We took our seats (third row, alas) and waited.

Then the chaos descended.

Lindsay Lohan was ushered into the front row directly ahead of us and the paparazzi descended.

It was craziness. Push, shove, Lindsay! Lindsay! Over here Lindsay! push, shove. Madness.

And then they stopped and turned.

I stopped. I turned. I nearly fucking fainted.

And there she was, walking in like the Queen of Fucking Everything. Beautiful, too beautiful.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you....Beth Ditto.

And that was the moment where I started to breathe again and thought to myself, "How is this my life. How is this what I do on a sunday afternoon?"

Reader, I don't know the answer, but I do know that I'm a very happy boy.

And a very lucky one at that.

curious questions #2

So, I was on the métro heading home the other evening. The train was full, rammed, blindé.

I hate it when the train is full - I'm always thinking that I'll get my wallet stolen, so I tread a fine line between keeping my hand on my pocket and holding on to a 'grippe-A'-infested handrail.

At Hôtel de Ville, a guy got on and came to stand next to me.

Well, I say he came to stand next to me - he actually had little choice, it was the only space available. And he didn't stand next to me, so much as stand against me.

I looked up to see who had suddenly squashed up against me. It turned out to be a well built, hairy, well-dressed bear of a man. As I looked at him, he chose the same moment to look at me and there was an uncomfortable moment when eye-contact was briefly made.

Well, it was uncomfortable for me - it's just not the done thing - but for him it seemed to be the opposite.

"Bonsoir" he said, cracking me quite the grin.

"Bonsoir", I replied, looking away.

Two stops later, the train pulled out of Bastille station. We both looked up at the same time, again.

"Where are you getting off at?" He asked.

"Quoi?" said I. "What?"

"Which station are you getting off at?"

"Gare de Lyon", I replied. The next stop.

"That's a shame" said the bear. "I'm staying on until Vincennes".

And with that, the train pulled in to my station. I stepped out and gave a backwards glance at the guy.

He once again cracked that big smile and winked. Yes, he winked at me.

Nice to know the old magic is still there, but I have one question - how did he know I'd be interested in what he was offering?

Hmm. Could it be because when he purposefully pushed his crotch into my wallet-protecting hand after saying bonsoir, I didn't pull away? I may even have pushed back a little.

Yeah, thinking about it, that might be what gave the game away...

curious questions #1

A couple of days ago, I left le FP on the sofa and headed out in search of a taxi to take me to meet friends for a drink in the Marais.

It was nearly one a.m. and I asked the taxi driver to drop me on the corner of rue du Temple and rue Ste Croix de la Bretonnerie. This is an intersection where you'll find at least five gay bars within twenty metres. It's kind of poofy like that.

"You smell like basil" said the taxi driver as I settled into his cab.

"Really?" said I, a little taken aback.

"Yeah, like a bowl of pasta" he replied.

"Good enough to eat?" I ventured, jokingly.

"Well, erm, maybe" he replied, definitely uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"le Marais is full of queers you know" said the taxi driver.

"Really?" I said. "You do surprise me."

"Are you gay?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, you don't look gay but you're going to the Marais at this time of night".

"Well," I said, "I'm not gay, but my boyfriend is." I nearly pissed myself laughing at how funny I found this.

"I don't understand" said the taxi driver.

"Never mind" said I. "Probably best if you just concentrate on driving".