Monday, September 22, 2008
I was a goth slut for a night
The Germans dressed me up. When I walked home drunk, two cars pulled up alongside me. I was drowning in a song from The Stnnng so I couldn't hear how much money they were offering.
Then, there's the date with The Filmmaker, which turned into another date the next night just based on the way he grabbed me and kissed me at the metro station. The second date lasted a night and a full day. The third date lasted a night and another full day. I think I like him a lot.
In between, was The TV Producer. The Filmmaker shared whiskey and cigarettes and slow caresses and rough fucking. The TV Producer blindfolded me and had me lick wine off his finger, guessing which wine it was. He bent me over his knee and spanked me, looking into my wincing eyes after each slap. And the fucker had the audacity to say, "Oui.. ça c'est bon ça..." Just like The Economist Beekeeper Sex God. Damn him. Tonight he wants me as an escort.
I guess my paper on the analytical comparison of prostitution policies in the EU will have to wait. I'll focus more on work when school starts. I'll focus more on everything then.
Then, there's the date with The Filmmaker, which turned into another date the next night just based on the way he grabbed me and kissed me at the metro station. The second date lasted a night and a full day. The third date lasted a night and another full day. I think I like him a lot.
In between, was The TV Producer. The Filmmaker shared whiskey and cigarettes and slow caresses and rough fucking. The TV Producer blindfolded me and had me lick wine off his finger, guessing which wine it was. He bent me over his knee and spanked me, looking into my wincing eyes after each slap. And the fucker had the audacity to say, "Oui.. ça c'est bon ça..." Just like The Economist Beekeeper Sex God. Damn him. Tonight he wants me as an escort.
I guess my paper on the analytical comparison of prostitution policies in the EU will have to wait. I'll focus more on work when school starts. I'll focus more on everything then.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Lola is... My Morning Jacket
Reflecting at midnight on Friday.
I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.
I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.
If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.
Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?
Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.
And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."
Yes, he was a character for me.
For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.
So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.
And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.
Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)
I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"
And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.
So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.
I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.
Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.
Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.
I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.
I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.
If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.
Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?
Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.
And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."
Yes, he was a character for me.
For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.
So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.
And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.
Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)
I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"
And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.
So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.
I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.
Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.
Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.
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