I apologise for the potentially disturbing mental images this post are likely to cause with some of you. But hey, it’s all done in the spirit of good and clean fun.I’ve had a great fix of good, clean, homo-erotic fun last Saturday.
It’s really the party time of the year again. Usually, these come around biannual for me. First up is around March, when 4 of my best friends celebrate their very first encounter with the female genitalia (or birth, for all you Anglo-linguistic purists) and again around December, when my student buddies get that pardy-hardy bug, while no events are likely for quite a while, due to the holiday season. They then simply celebrate their something-something-and-a-half’th anniversary. Gotta love being in college…
So anyway, I celebrated one of my best friend’s “I love living in my student dorm”-ness. He (I’ll call him Muscleman, he’s the athlete of our group), his housemates and their neighbours all joined in and turned one house into a loungy “let’s get together” VIP-room. The other house was more of a “par-tay!” disco kind of environment.
Being called a “Diesel” by those who love me, I started in the “lounge” and worked my way up to the disco as the night progressed. I start slow, catch up with my friends, meet their friends (always fun to amaze and/or abhor new people :o) – just read on, you’ll understand). Then, as the alochol starts to shake my milky-pale legs into a movement resembling “dancing” (from afar), I work my way up to the dance department. ‘t Was here, that I got my fix.
I brought one of my fave CD’s with me. It’s called “the Best from the Homo Top 100”, with 40 of the greatest party-hits ever. It includes YMCA, In the Navy (Village people), I will survive (Gloria Gaynor), I’m too sexy (Right Said Fred) and Smalltown Boy (Bronski Beat, I think). It’s a CD released to commemorate the first ever Homo Top 100, a newly started tradition in Holland, in which the gay-iest (or party songs, as I call them) hits are aired on our public radio. This is done one the day of the Rotterdam gayparade, another Gay-pride moment.
Personally, I hate these parades. They’re a mockery of what I call “real gays”. If you ask me (which you don't, but it's my diary, so what the heck), I don’t consider a moustachioed hairball in an ass-less leather outfit a real gay. I call them sensational gays. Sure, they take it up the ass, but they only do these “gay pride” things for the attention and the chance to show of their freshly waxed asses. A real gay, in my humble opinion, is someone who prefers men, isn’t afraid to come clear about that (unlike the “closet-gays”), but doesn’t spend his off-hours rubbing every even remotely erotic bodypart into the faces of all who can see. I’ve seen more but-cheeks in my days then I care to remember and that means something, coming from an ass-man.
I’ve spent quite some hours in a local gay bar. A highschool friend of mine was just “out of the closet”, and I promised to come with him to this bar, to meet his new friends. It was one of the best nights-out I ever experienced. These gays…, I mean guys were true and cool “real gays”. No bullshit, no hiding, but no pushing their asses in my nose (or visa versa, if you'll excuse the lovely image) either. These guys were simply gay and glad to have it out of secrecy.
So anyway, back to the story. My girlfriend was about to fall asleep on me, so she went off to get our jackets. It was like half past four anyway, so it was about her time to leave. I don’t want her to walk home alone at night (I live in a really crappy neighbourhood and luckily, I've got quite a large physique), so I decided to call it quits too. When she was off, Muscleman and I were dancing with some others to the Homo Top 100 CD, when the DJ put up some Spanish song. Being quite drunk, my buddy and I started our Spanish-dancing act. I played air-castanets and tapdanced in a latin-like fashion, while Musleman approvingly stamps the floor in a Toreador-like style. It looks pretty cool, since we’ve got that act down quite well. Oh, and we don’t mind playing a pseudo-erotic game together, because we think its bullshit to connect that to homo-eroticism per se. Friends can be close if they want.
Anyway, a girl I’ve been dancing with before (she came on to me, didn’t notice my engagement ring, I suppose) dances her way back to me and asks, quite sincerely…
"Are you sure you weren’t on the wrong queue when God handed out sexes?"Naturally, Muscleman heard this (he was humping my leg at the time). We looked at each other, confirmed our mutual sense of humour and Muscleman picked me up. He laid me on a table, lifted my legs and started to air-fuck me. You should’ve seen the faces… it was a classic. Besides my single friends, a couple of girls were the only other present partygoers(the main reason my single-friends were still in the disco and not the lounge, I suppose). These girls were obviously not used to such a display of friendship, as could be clearly seen from their facades.
Those faces will keep me smiling over my morningcoffee for quite a few mondays, I can tell you. :o)
Oh, both my and Muscleman’s girlfriend walked into the room just as Muscleman started the air-penetration. They looked at each other knowingly, with that eye-rolling thing, you know the one that says “here they go again”. :o)
Well, I’m off to work. I’ll leave you with my frustration of the day: Why didn’t the DJ play chop-sui? I love System of a Down.