03 December 2006

Le vendredi

I hadn’t seen J since September: my trip back to Ireland, his trip back to the States, my having X visiting for a week, and his shagging habits, had made it impossible to catch up before.

Who is J? Our friendship extends back ten months, a considerable duration for acquaintance in a world where the average relationship lasts as long as it takes to wipe up the spunk. Knowing that you will assume the worst whatever I tell you, it’s better to be honest and open about how it all came about.

While looking on Craig’s List for accommodation last January, I noticed advertisements for gentlemen who have sex with gentlemen. Imagine my surprise to discover one advertisement that I might have written myself: a brilliant, desirable, well-endowed and eminently shag-able gay male of the same age, arriving in the same week, same interests, same everything, who was interested in making new acquaintances. It was quite uncanny… and so of course I responded, in the knowledge that it was highly likely that we’d hate one another upon sight.

Upon meeting, despite our stunning good looks, all thought of our bodily fluids ever being exchanged was forgotten, and small talk quickly gave way to open discussion of our tumultuous personal lives: he was stepping out from a five year relationship that had been going wrong, and in yet another coincidence I was stepping out as a single man on the scene after a five year break: a year travelling, following a year in the gay-less wilderness of New Zealand, before which I was with in a relationship with X for three years. By a strange twist of fate, we even found ourselves living on the same street in the 11eme Arrondissement, meeting regularly to discuss the trials and tribulations of settling in Paris while practicing our French. He poured out tales of online encounters and sexual fantasies that he was tempted to fulfil, remaining hesitant before taking a plunge that was sure to end his committed and monogamous relationship: I poured out frustrations brought about by the strangest sexual involvement that I’ve ever had in my life, concerning P (my life at that time was being scripted by David Lynch: it’s a tale worth waiting for, believe me)

Suffice to say that at one point J went back to the States, then returned to France happy, single and unattached, and into the welcoming arms of every available gay man in Paris. Fantasies were no longer unfulfilled, and internet encounters no longer ended with a little hand-relief after a quick fumble at the keyboard. Before long, I was vicariously enjoying a fulfilling sexual life, without the risk of picking up anything nastier than the bar tab.

As I approached Le Duplex on Friday, fond memories came to me of the last night we met. In the space of a few days of freedom, he’d already arranged thirteen meetings (an unfortunate number, I know) kindly sharing with me his satisfaction with the first four of those highly charged encounters (details will not be posted on this website for fear that screens melt.) He sat in the basement of Amnesia Cafe, with his mobile telephone vibrating gently in his pocket, announcing regular messages from men declaring their indecent intentions to shag him senseless for the remainder of the week.

Later that same night, J and I wandered to our perennial favourite Oh! Fada, and one of J’s platonic gay friends joined us, a short stocky and indisputably handsome fellow called Z, accompanied by an attractive blonde Aussie (who will remain letter-less, for soon to be obvious reasons)

A night of drunken revelry ensued, with much gin, much dancing and much fun… causing much offence to those standing around; at one point, I engaged in apology for toes metaphorically trampled upon. But I digress: what matters is that I liked both Z and the attractive Aussie, who undoubtedly intended to take one another home and do unspeakable things, and at the end of the night I left their company expressing my hope of meeting with one or both for more mindless drinking and conversation.

Having been provided the means of contacting the attractive Aussie, with whom I had spoken for a long period about careers, I duly invited him to another planned night of drunken revelry, on this occasion in Pigalle, which offers a pleasing contrast to the Marais, with my preferred ambiance of light sleaziness as opposed to completely stylish sleaziness. I had arranged to meet with C and one of her several friends in La Fourmi, an appropriately named bar, for ‘the ant’ marches all day and night with its zinc and patina tables, enormous antique mirrors and superb hedgehog centre lighting. J was invited to join us, of course, but circumstances made it impossible to attend.

What might cause two inseparable friends like ourselves to part? Childish nonsense, of course.

It appeared that the attractive Aussie and Z, having exchanged bodily fluids and telephone numbers, did what all gay men are driven to do… play excruciatingly silly games with one other. Unfulfilled promises to call, unanswered invitations, unreturned messages… it must be said that it was all the fault of attractive Aussie, behaving in what can only be described as an immature way, not openly declaring his lack of interest. Unfortunately, it spoiled everyone’s fun: it left J unable to attend our social gathering, fearing that he might offend his friend Z, who certainly wasn’t coming… all excessively like returning to adolescence, I know… but such is the gay world. Suffice to say that I allowed the Aussie make his own way to the gay horizon after that night, without knowing or caring if Z ever heard from him again, or if Z knew that I knew that he’d… oh, hell, you see, that’s what happens, it becomes so confusing for everyone.

Let’s return to Le Duplex, shall we? I was going to see J after a two month break, and there was a certain skip in my step as I made my way through the frosty and badly-lit streets, for it had been several nights since I’d been well and truly inebriated and a little sensational gossip was long overdue. There’d been suggestive emails from J about a man who resembles no other than Mr O Martinez, the Frenchman involved with our own Ms K Minogue… in short, I was guaranteed an entertaining evening.

Little did I know that before the night ended I was going to be enjoying lively entertainment of another sort, from a gentleman caller, for the first time in… why, I blush just thinking of it!


The Gay Guru said...

Hey Duncan,

I am one of the occasional staff writers for Best Gay Blogs and saw you on Fridays update list and wanted to say Hi and Welcome To BGB. I have my own personal/community blog and I maintain a website and MySpace page that goes with it. It's called The Gay Guru and I try to offer advice, information, commentary, and hopefully some humor to the GLBT community. Please stop by sometime and say hi. I would appreciate it if you would link to me on your blogroll, and I will link you as well if you dont mind. I look forward to reading more of you, take care.

Scott aka The Gay Guru

Jason said...

Such fond memories I have of Le Duplex, from not being able to move to having the man next to me at the bar look down and say "I hate your t-shirt" in accented English. I love that place.

Of course, the siren song of Le Depot will always claim me before the night is through.

Cunt-in Qrisp said...

Dear Ms Gay Guru,
Please accept my thanks for commenting upon my bloguette.

In normal circumstances, I would henceforth invite you to call me Cuntin, for I have never been one for formalities. Sadly, you have made the unpardonable faux pas of addressing me by the name that is not mine.

It has happened to better men than you, I assure you, while in the throes of ecstacy in my presence, and I appreciate that as you browsed through my blogue you may have experiences such admiration and pleasure that you forgot yourself. Unfortunately for you, I am not a forgiving type: please address me in future as Ms Quisp.

I have no objection whatsoever about being added to your Blog Roll, provided that it is tastefully done. Having glanced at your blogue (briefly, for I felt rather faint upon discovering it's size, not to mention all of those photographs of attractive men) I assure you that I am do not approve of your decision to not maintain alphabetical order on your Blog Roll, and I am certainly not interested in being listed alongside blogues titled 'Gravely Gay' or 'Teen Boy Secrets' but otherwise I have no objections.

I will return to peruse your own offerings at leisure before determining whether to place you in such illustrious company as those who appear in my own Blog Roll. I'm sure all of those I have listed with approve of my prudence.

Gracious thanks for having visited my own blogue.

Ms C Quisp

Cunt-in Qrisp said...

Dear Ms Ake,
Or should I call you Jason?

Please accept my thanks for commenting upon my bloguette.

I appreciate that you may have found my formal tone in the comment above somewhat offputting, however let me assure you that you may called me Cuntin, Ms Quisp, or whatever you should choose to... day or night, 24/7, 365 days a year.

Let me begin by remarking that I greatly admire your cunning, leaving a light and pleasing remark on my own bloguette, only to draw me back to your own where I discovered your true motive in contacting me.

Having read ALL that you have to say, all I can say is that I blushed violently and my right hand has since been steadily occupied... with the fan, of course. Moi, a 'hot read'? Do you really think... and I haven't breathed a word about what I did to that boy on last Friday!

Kindly return to visit at your convenience, offering a definition of the terms used in your own posting: c'est quoi, un 'hog'? c'est quoi, un 'heeb'?

Sadly, I must inform you that I am not 5'9". Well-endowed, yes, but really I believe that your expectations are beyond reasonable, even in the States where everything is oversized. Really, if I were that big, taking a photograph as you suggest might prove rather difficult without the use of a crane... never mind trying to find an envelope in which to fit it, don't you think?

As for your comment on my own bloguette, are you sure that it wasn't moi who delivered that remark on your t-shirt? It's quite like something I would say to a complete stranger that I have no interest in.

On that note, gracious thanks for having visited my own blogue and I look forward to you coming... I mean returning to visit.


Jason said...

Mon cher Crispy,

I can be almost completely certain it was not you who delivered the bon mot regarding my shirt. The fellow bore a striking resemblance to the witch in a Grimm tall, except taller and male, and also very drunk. You are clearly hotter than the surface of the Sun so it couldn't have been you.

hog = VWE
heeb = member of the tribe, son of Jacob, a Jew.

À bientôt,

Cunt-in Qrisp said...

Dear Jason,
I appreciate that I brought this upon myself by inviting you to call me whatever you should choose to. But "Crispy"... really, please!

Do you not think that to describe oneself as a 'hog' is somewhat vulgar? Having seen a hog eating, I have no desire to see how a hog might approach copulation. Lots of enthusiastic grunting, but little longevity, one imagines. To the best of my knowledge, compared to other members of the animal kingdown, the hog is not particularly well-endowed. Let us use something a little more tasteful, like 'choking hazard' in future.

Were you wearing beer goggles on that occasion in Le Duplex? The more you describe this person, the more convinced I am that it was me.

A plus tard,

Cuntin x