(posted by Danny)

Remember how I met Snoring Man? You don't? Or you're new here, and you haven't read that far down yet? OK, quick recap. Strange new club; bit bored; darkroom; fumble fumble; woah, you're good at this; "Listen, I know we're not supposed to say this in here but d'you fancy a drink?"

As it was with Snoring Man, so it was with Pants Man. Although unlike Snoring Man, Pants Man had already been quite ... vocal, let's say. Pants Man liked to Talk; and boy, did he have a silver tongue. I'd have said he charmed the pants off me, but a) they were already half-off and b) he was actually trying to get me to keep them on.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't know him as Pants Man just yet; he was just Incredibly Hot And Horny Invisible Man Who Looks/Feels/Sounds Like He Knows Exactly What He's Doing And I Wouldn't Mind A Whole Lot More Of Where That Came From Please Thankyou.

So we step outside, and I'm praying that he looks as hot as he feels/sounds, because I want this guy and almost nothing's gonna stop me.

Oh.

He's at least twenty years older than me, maybe more, and he's tubby in an out-of-shape way rather than a Daddy Bear way (and I'm not even into the Daddy Bear type much in the first place), and if I'd seen him beforehand I'd have said Absolutely No Way, Wild Horses Wouldn't Make Me, I'm Not That Desperate etc etc etc.

But.

I'm the one who invited him for a drink, and I'm not the sort of heartless sod who's gonna spin on his heels and scarper at the first sight of middle-aged flab, so I'm gonna buy him that drink, and sit with him at this nice quiet table, and we're gonna be civilised about this. And then I'll do the "Time I found my friends" bit, and that will be that.

Except.

I can't explain it, but I'm still totally hot for him. God, am I ever hot for him. Less than a minute in, and it's all hands under the table and knees rammed into crotches and heavy duty eye contact, and all of that. Ten minutes later, I'm in the passenger seat of his car. Twenty minutes later, we're back at his.

It's an old man's place; too old even for this guy. Inherited, maybe? Heavy crimson and gold flock wallpaper, loads of dark polished wood, horrible swirly carpets, nasty moulded rococo plaster panelling, bad overhead lighting ... a passion killer of a pad. Except that I'm still totally hot for him.

One of the reasons why I'm still hot for him: we've been talking dirty all the way back home. Which is also crazy, because as a rule I hate talking dirty; all that fake p*rn star "oooh yeaaaahhh" stuff always strikes me as so false, so learnt, so this-is-how-we're-supposed-to-have-sex. This has been different, though. He's been saying what he likes, and I've been saying what I like, not in a narrow agenda-setting way, but in a "let's open this right up and get all the options on the table" way. Opening up the imagination, not shutting down the options. (Though I've told him I'm not into f***ing, as I always do. I couldn't be the slapper I am, if f***ing was a menu item.)

One message has come through loud and clear: this guy likes Pants. (Note to Americans: we're talking underwear, not trousers.) Pristine white cotton pants, to be exact. Pants are to be worn at all times. Pants are crucial. It's all about the pants.

OK, not my thing, but I can go with this, no problem. I like giving people what they want. In fact, it's the whole point. If they're happy, I'm happy. I'm a giver far more than I'm a taker. Pants it is, then.

Over the next couple of hours, I morph into a catalogue model. Try these on ... try those on ... pose, and strut, and tease. As I say: not normally my thing; but the reaction this gets, and the look on Pants Man's face, is totally my thing. He's ecstatic. He's told me EXACTLY what he's into, and I'm doing EXACTLY what he wants, and OK, let's be honest here, I'm a considerable catch for him looks-wise, and this all adds up to a night where ALL of his private imaginings are being fulfilled. How could that not be the most massive turn-on for me in return? I've tuned into him, or we've tuned into each other, to a degree which is astonishing the both of us. No pretence, no inhibitions ... no bullsh*t.

He does get borderline weird at times, though; I just choose not to notice, and steer us on. His constant monologue takes us into some strange waters: "Did your mother make you wear white pants?" Huh? What???

At times like these, I remember just how fragile this whole set-up is. I know I have the power to break the spell, any time I choose.

"Did your mother make you wear white pants?"

Oh, you sad, sad, pathetic old man. Look at you, sprawled out there in your stupid precious knickers, slurping and slobbering and wheezing away, and droning on and on with your boring little fantasies. Do you know how ridiculous you look? You're a big fat joke, you are. You honestly think I'd fancy you, even for just one second?

I know I could say any of this, at any time, burst his bubble, wound him horribly. Maybe he knows it too. But this, all of this Pants Worship stuff, it's an act of faith. I could have derided his obsession (and it is obsessive, no doubt about that), but I've chosen instead to respect it, to honour it ... to respect and honour him.

Or maybe I'm just getting off on the whole narcissistic power trip. What my bitchy mate (and sauna fiend) Rob calls "charity work". OK, so that's an element; but it's more than that. Something purer than that is passing between us.

I'm not a looks fascist ... in fact, the whole concept p*sses me off something rotten ... but if a jury of twelve homos good and true stood all the men I've sh*gged in a row according to looks, then they would be bookended by the Spritzer on one side, and by Pants Man on the other side. Because the Spritzer is by far the most gorgeous looking man I've ever sh*gged, and Pants Man is by far the plainest. And yet: as so-called "casual" sh*gs go, Pants Man is right up there in the Top Five. In fact, if you look at it one way, I reckon our sh*g was one gigantic "F*** You" to the whole "hunks"/"dogs" world order.

The next morning, Pants Man makes me breakfast and plays me choral music: Allegri, Palestrina, Tallis. Turns out he's into choral music almost as much as he's into pants. The sex done and dusted, we have quite the cultural chit-chat. He's an interesting, civilised, thoughtful guy ... though the flock HAS to go. (He shows me re-decoration plans.)

Just before I leave, he gives me a pair of last night's pants. Could I wear them for a bit and post them back to him?

Over six years later, they're still at the bottom of my undies drawer. Paul had a heart attack when he first saw them. ("Where did these Old Man's Pants come from?") 'Cos on me, four inches or so slimmer in the waist, they just look like droopy old bloomers. I wear them sometimes, when I've run out and forgotten to put a whites load on. But I just couldn't bring myself to post them back to him, "used". I just couldn't. My one act of betrayal.

If we're sorting the laundry out, one of us will call out to the other: "Any white pants you want doing?" - and the other will always reply: "Ooh, did your mother make you wear white pants?" - and we'll start rubbing our thighs, Vic Reeves style. Yeah, we're evil, evil b*tches ... but at least we're flexible evil b*tches.

Labels: danny

(posted by Danny)

Beautiful post by Asta just below; but now it's time to drag Michael's blog back down into the gutter once again. Hur hur.

Darkrooms: that uniquely gay invention. For some (for most?) I'll wager they're seen as degrading, de-humanising, desperate. As for me: on the right night, in the right mood, they're democratic, liberating, and as horny as hell. And (this is key) darkroom sex is bullshit-free sex. Difficult for it not to be, when you think about it.

As you know by now, I love clubs. Sexiest places on the planet. Everybody looking their best, dressed/semi-dressed/undressed to kill, busting the moves, on display, showing off, the night reeking of suggestions and possibilities. And if there's a room at the back, jammed full with the self same crowd, all writhing and groping and groaning ... so much the better. Darkrooms scratch where I itch; they release the tension.

I've seen some sights. Upstairs at the old LA (London Apprentice) on Old Street (now a hetero-hipster hangout of some note; if only the walls could talk), I'm cheerfully going about my business, doing the rounds, when all of a sudden I hear a dog barking, somwhere round my ankles. Grr, growl, YAP, YAP. I peer down into the gloom. Guy there on all fours, no shirt, collar round his neck, someone I can't see standing further back, holding a leash. Dog-man catches my look with beady, eager eyes, holds my stare, and yaps and yaps and yaps. Part fantasy scene, part evil wind-up. Major headf**k, even for me. I make my excuses.

In an after-hours joint in New York: busy enclosure at the back, lights just bright enough to see what's going down, perky official signs on the wall saying NO LIPS BELOW THE HIPS, and I'm getting to know a friendly red-head (from Washington DC; we dated a couple of nights later). A new guy comes in, stands right in front of us, unzips and flops out easily the biggest I've ever seen, in both length and girth. Freak-show dimensions. It breaks the silence between me and the red-head. "Have you seen THAT?" No-one else has noticed yet. They soon do. Feeding frenzy. He's the belle of the ball alright.

But I'm no longer looking down, I'm looking up. Amidst the scrum of bowed heads, his regular-joe-in-the-crowd face is bolt upright, staring into nowhere, with the most mournful expression you could imagine. Sombre, sunken, haunted eyes. Disconnected; like he's not really there at all. Which, in a way, he isn't. He's just a monster-jumbo-funsize party-pack c*ck with a body attached. No-one's giving him a second look. It's like he's being held prisoner by his own freakish dimensions. Two minutes ago, I thought: lucky bleeder. Now I'm thinking: poor sod. I turn back towards the red-head, and him to me, and we let them all get on with it.

Gran Canaria, 1998, bunch of us there for the week and we've hit the famous Yumbo Centre: concrete shopping precinct by day, tangle of gay bars by night. Something for everyone; if you've got no taste at all, that is. Deeply disappointed with the place; so, we get to come here every night for the next seven nights, do we? Gee bloody whizz.

Early on, we have a quick one in a leather/sleaze bar, still mostly empty, not really any of our scenes but we're tourists, right? One of us says he'll do a reccy of the "maze" area at the back, disappears through a doorway, re-appears two minutes later through a second doorway, squealing with shock. "Oh my God, Oh! My! God! Guys, you've got to see what's in there!" One by one, we wander in - you can hear the squeals inside, like a Ghost Train at the fairground - and scamper back out again, hands over mouths, clutching each other and giggling.

What we've found: a series of corridors and little rooms, all empty, until you turn another corner and go into this little cell ... which is almost completely taken up by an ENORMOUS naked guy, no spring chicken, splayed out horizontal in a sling, skin glistening green in the half light. Each time one of us pokes a head round the door, he ROARS at us. No words, just this guttural growling. I think it's meant to be a come-on, but it scares the living Bejasus out of us. Run for the door! Run! Run for your life!

My mate Rob, b*tch of the group, dubs him Bouncy Castle On A String. The name sticks for the rest of the week, as we recommend him to others as a top tourist attraction. "Trust me mate, you haven't done the Yumbo till you've done the Bouncy Castle On A String."

Later on - much, much later on - I'm in one of the two clubs at the end of the circuit. Kings Club? XL? No matter. I'm flagging, can't fake the fun much longer. It's not my sort of place, and I can't put my finger on why. You'll laugh, but I think it was too much of a last chance knocking shop. But there's a sleazy basement, isn't there. Hey, rude not to.

I'm downstairs, doing my duty, not connecting ... until this one lad comes along. Pitch black in there, can't see a thing, but something between us clicks. His hands are tender rather than frantic, he's concentrating, working me out, paying attention to detail, reciprocating in kind rather than just grabbing what's on offer.

Rule Number One Of The Darkroom: You Do Not Strike Up Conversations With People In The Darkroom. Me, I've always thought: b*ll*cks to that. After a bit, I lean in and whisper. "Listen, I know you're not supposed to say anything in here, but do you fancy heading upstairs for a drink?"

Straight away, I hear the relief in his voice. Turns out he'd been feeling just as bored and lost as me, didn't really want to be down there but was doing it anyway, like you do. He's Irish, stocky, ruddy-faced, not bad looking, and on the level. Nice guy.

"Shall we?"
"Love to."

Back in the chalet it's all going great, though we're both trashed on all that cooking lager. His head disappears downstairs for a bit (I'm trying to spare your blushes, I really am!); I lie back and shut my eyes. It's not frenzied, it's actually quite relaxing, he's slowing down a bit - nice.

He slows down some more. And some more. And then, in mid stroke, comes to a dead stop.

OK, I guess this is some clever timing on his part. Slow down so you can speed up again, right? I appreciate the finesse. Except ... it's been quite a long time now. And what's that strange noise? I raise my head a bit.

The f***er's snoring. I can feel the vibrations coming from his throat. Mid-bl*wj*b, and he's only gone to sleep on me. Well, there's a nice tribute for you.

If a cartoonist was drawing this, I'd have one of those Charlie Brown zigzag mouths by now.

No, of course I didn't wake him up and make him finish the job. What do you take me for? No point in flogging a dead horse; and anyway, he looks so peaceful down there. Oh, who am I kidding, he looks like he's in a flat-out coma. There'll be no shifting him now, and he's quite a chunky lad anyway. I, uh, extricate myself as gently as I can, and try to find a comfy spot till morning.

It's only the next morning, in daylight for the first time, that I realise his whole body is red raw sunburnt and flaking off all over. Perhaps we'll just leave the re-match, shall we. Yes, cup of tea's the best idea.

Do I tell him what happened? Will he be mortified, or will he see the funny side? Depends on how I tell it, I guess.

He apologises first, anxious for a few seconds ... then we both collapse in fits of giggles. The slapper's life is a funny old life sometimes. You see life.

Damn, no time to tell you about Pants Man. Maybe I'll tell you tomorrow. Pants Man and Ripping Billy ... yeah, they'll go well together. G'night peeps! Happy Blogday Mike!

Labels: danny

(posted by Danny)

(Warning: this is a bit gross. Yes, again.)

Barcelona, Easter 1995. Paul and I are taking a long weekend city break over here, in the city that all our friends always come back raving about. To be honest, we're not having such a great time. Spain's a Catholic country, this is a big religious festival, and it feels like half the city is shut for the duration; museums, galleries, the lot. We've had trouble finding things to do, and I've seen enough Gaudi to last me a lifetime. In fact, I'm all Gaudi-ed out.

I've tried suggesting a day trip to Sitges, but Paul's having none of it, hates beaches, thinks it will be wall-to-wall pumped-up maricons strutting along the strip in their Speedos. Yeah, and your point is?

We've been to dinner, been to a few bars, and now my genes are kicking in and screaming "Club! Club!" Paul says he'll leave me to it, lends me his coat as it's turning nippy, and cabs it back to the hotel.

I've done my research. I get my home-made map out and head off for the Metro club. It's already one in the morning, but the club's still pretty quiet. Has all of Barcelona gone away for Easter, or am I just unfashionably early? I bank on the latter and bide my time. Sure enough; by two, the place is packed.

It's an OK place, this; obviously the big club in town. Glad I came. I've always "collected" clubs; some people find them boring, "done one, you've done the lot", but they just fascinate me. I'm an observer by nature. I wander round, taking it all in, comparing and contrasting.

First observation: there's not much of a fun atmosphere here. I like clubs when people are letting go, whooping and whistling, acting daft, wiggling on podiums, punching their arms in the air, that kind of thing. This is all a bit, I dunno, serious for me. No collective spirit, no sense of community, everyone standing around on their own and staring into the middle distance.

I do like the flamenco room, though. While the main floor plays bog-standard dancey stuff, there's a second area which is blasting out traditional Spanish music, and pairs of queens are all doing perfect formation flamenco steps to it. It's a lot more fun; at least for a while, until I start feeling too much like an outsider. (Don't know the steps, do I?) I retreat back to the familiar.

Hey, bet there's a darkroom somewhere. Let's go looking. Oh, OK; the entrance is through the bogs. That's logical, I guess.

(The bogs are weird, by the way. There are these little individual TV screens above the urinals showing p*rn while you wee. What's that all about then? Isn't it a bit, y'know, counter-productive?)

I slide into the gloom. Christ, this area is massive. It must take up a good third of the club. I'm forming more theories about Catholic countries, and unmarried men having to stay with their families, and repression and secrecy, and how when these guys do manage get out of the house and into a gay place, then they're going to have one primary purpose.

Which suits me fine. When in Rome! I start to ... circulate.

Dot dot dot.

Woah, is that the time? Four o'clock, and I've been adored and explored enough for one night. Thanks for the party boys, but it's time to make a move. I slither back into the light, and up the stairs to the coat check.

B*ll*cks. What have I done with my coat check ticket? I can't find it anywhere. What's Spanish for "I've lost my ticket?"

The staff are polite but firm. No ticket, no coat.

Paul's coat.

Paul's nice expensive coat.

He'll kill me. Oh God, he'll kill me.

I turn up the charm, playing on the whole naive, innocent, no-speaka-da-lingo Englishman Abroad vibe. The staff agree to let me into the cloakroom, so I can at least show them what the coat looks like. It takes me ages to find it: I was here early, so it's right at the back. OK, first wave of panic over. They tell me I can have the coat back, so long as no-one else claims it ... but not until the club shuts and all the other coats have gone. The club shuts at 6 o'clock. I've got to hang around in this place for another two hours, then.

I jig disconsolately around the dancefloor for a bit, but there's no vibe and I don't like the music much. Thin, anonymous euro-techno with no soul. Anyway, I'm worrying too much about Paul's coat. It's a nice coat, and I'm praying that no-one else makes off with it. I know what some queens are like.

It takes me a while to work out how I lost the ticket. I only went and put it into the breast pocket of my shirt, didn't I? Darkroom ... shirt opened and hanging halfway down my back ... laws of gravity. Silly arse, Danny. Two stories in, and a pattern is already forming, n'est-ce-pas?

Well, I suppose I could always go looking. Nothing better to do. I squeeze back inside, find my little corner, squat down, (wow, does that ever get mis-interpreted; off! off me, I say!) and start scrabbling about on the floor with my hands. God, this is vile. The floor is wet, and I can feel bits of broken glass and soggy tissue paper and God knows what else. 'Scuse me senor, can I just squeeze past; ta very much. No, trust me, you really do not want me to do that. You don't know where I've been.

I can demean myself no longer. No ticket, still an hour to go. Back out, wash my hands, feeling really tired and fed up and stupid now.

Somehow, an hour or so later, I seem to be back inside the darkroom again. Hmmm. Funny, that. Let's call it second wind.

The lights come on.

Now, I don't know whether any of you have ever been inside a darkroom when the lights come on, but it is a sight I will never forget. People spring apart from each other with startled expressions, as if they've all just been given an electric shock. Bloody hell, have I just been sh*gging that? Meanwhile, funny little old men in zip-up cardigans, with pasty skin and hollow eyes, are scuttling out of corners as fast as their legs will carry them; like ants under a rock which has just been lifted.

It's worth one more look. I find my original spot, crouch down again, and Eureka! Floating in a pool of muddy water and spilt beer (well, I'm telling myself it's just water and beer) is a small piece of folded pink paper. It's all I can do not to whoop. Dignity lost several hours back, I have no qualms in picking it up.

It has somehow got itself folded into quarters. Very carefully, I prise the soaking wet paper apart, to reveal ... Yes! It's my ticket number!

I'm practically bounding up the steps to the coat check, ready to share my good fortune with the coat check staff. Look! Here you are! You'll never guess where I found it! I restrain my euphoria just in time to avoid the final humiliation.

Yeah, you've guessed it. Paul dines out on this story for years as well. Tell them the Coat Check story, Danny! B*stard. He puts up with a lot though, he really does. Like Michael said in yesterday's comments box: they don't call him The Heart With The Tart for nothing.

Labels: danny

(posted by Danny)

Paxos, 1995. Paul and I are staying in a villa on the edge of Gaios, having a chilled fortnight. We've rented a motor dinghy, and we've been spending most days cruising up the east coast of the island, picking out uninhabited beaches, and generally keeping the world at bay. There's not much nightlife in Gaios, except for the open-air bar near the swanky yachts, where all the sexy Italians go. Paul and I are down there most nights for an hour or so after dinner, discreetly ogling at all the men. By the end of the first week, we've got pet names for most of our favourites. As for the humpy locals: we've called them all Pan, and are working to a numbering system. (We're already up to Pan V, though dreamy Pan II is still our favourite.)

It's Saturday night, and the big local disco at the other end of town is open. Paul's not keen - fair enough, he's here to take a break from all that - but I'm chomping at the bit. Clubbing's genetic with me. I have to be there.

I tog myself up, going all out for the flashy Euro look: Moschino shirt, silver bootlace tie, and Paul has lent me his tight stripey Versace jeans. God, I look so GAY tonight. If this doesn't smoke 'em out, then nothing will.

The disco is all seventeen year locals jumping about to Jam & Spoon (Right in the night) and The Prodigy. (You're no good to me, I don't need nobody...) Sweet, but I'm wondering what I'm doing here. Still, I'm a bit early. Let's see what happens. I'm banking on two things:

1) As this is the only club on the whole of Paxos, every gay man on the island is going to find his way here tonight, sooner or later. Every gay man that I might want to meet, that is.

2) Spotting each other in this crowd is going to be child's play.

By half midnight, I can confidently say that there are the grand total of five gay men on Paxos. One of them is back in the villa, sleeping. The other three are all dancing in my corner of the disco. We're spread out a bit, but we've spotted each other, no doubt about it.

To my right: the D&G Boys. Paul and I have been drooling over the D&G boys all weekend, our gaydars popping and fizzing every time we see them. Are they a couple, or just mates? One of them keeps smiling my way - but I dunno, they're gorgeous, but something's holding me back.

In front of me to my left, and facing me almost full-on but not quite: a handsome, lightly muscular man, fair-haired, quite craggy looking, in an olive green vest, and all on his own. He's the reason I'm holding back. My type, but is he in my league? He hasn't looked at me once, after all. Straight? Nah. No way is he straight.

OK, so this is how my slapper's logic is working. I know I'm OK looking; OK looking enough to pull people I fancy, but I know my limits, and I know that anywhere else, a total stunner like Olive Green Vest would be way off my limits. But here on Paxos, he's only got me and the D&G boys to choose from. If he's as big a slapper as I'm feeling right now, then he ain't gonna be too choosy. Danny boy, this could be your night.

Buggeration. He's spotted the D&G boys, and he's slowly angling his dancing so that he's directly facing them. Their move. I'll just stay here, cool as a cucumber, jigging away, biding my time.

One of the D&G boys has been dancing the whole time with his nose in the air, eyes half shut, probably trying to pretend he's some place else. The other one still keeps looking over and smiling at me, and I'm looking at Olive Green Vest, and Olive Green Vest is looking at Nose In The Air. Dancefloor deadlock. Something's gotta give here.

I go and grab a beer (let's see if they miss me) and come back to the edge of the dancefloor, only a couple of feet back from where I had been jigging around a few minutes ago. What's this then? Smiling Boy is muttering something to Nose In The Air...and now he's coming straight towards me.

"Hello, how are you? My friend and I, we go now. We have to catch the ferry in one hour. We live in Athens. Here for weekend. Nice to meet you. Bye bye."

I give him my biggest, sexiest smile, flash him a wink, shake his hand, and watch the competition leave the building. Yessss! From now on, I'm in a pool of one. Olive Green Vest, there's no escaping my clutches now! You shall be mine! Mine, I tell you! Ahahahaha!

I'm straight back on the floor. Easy now, Danny. Take your time, but don't take too long. Start off by facing half away from him, about three people away, like you don't care. Give him time to notice you. Then slowly, slowly ease round, so you're facing him, and let's see whether he moves. Oh, he's moved a bit closer. That's good. Your turn. In a bit closer. Yes, and he's just come half a step nearer to you. Now try for eye contact. Got it! Smile, see if he smiles back. Well, I suppose you could call that a smile, but he's not really the smiling type, is he?

Let's swing in a bit, so that we're properly dancing together. Show him your best moves, 'cos you know you always pull when you're dancing. Sex it up a bit, but not too much, don't want the teenagers cottoning on.

If it hadn’t been for Cotton Eye Joe, I’d been married a long time ago, where did you come from, where did you go, where did you come from Cotton Eye Joe?

F**king hell, who put that on? How the hell am I supposed to do the whole sexy bump 'n grind bit to the f**king Rednex, for crying out loud? I flash him a "can't believe they're playing this pile of sh*te" look. He's grinning back at me, shrugging his shoulders and laughing. I'm laughing back; not a fake cruisey laugh either, but a proper laugh, 'cos this is quite funny when you think about it. Two hard-bitten sophisticated urban gayers in their late twenties, trying to cruise each other to the strains of bleedin' Cotton Eye Joe, surrounded by a bunch of hyperactive teenagers. But we've still managed it! God, we poofs can be a resourceful bunch when we put our minds to it.

Drink, chat, blah blah blah, nice guy, really nice guy, German, here with his daughter (she's with a sitter), divorced, seeing a guy back in Frankfurt, nothing very serious; I tell him about Paul, he's cool with that, says he'd like to meet him, maybe we could all find a beach tomorrow? Yeah, sure, good to hook up with someone at last, but what does he want to do now? (My hand's on his knee under the table.)

He's got to get back to the sitter within the hour, and Paul's asleep in our bed. Hmm, problem. He says he's hired a moped, he's not been drinking, shall we head off and find somewhere? You betcha.

I'm on the back of his moped, arms round his waist, buzzing with excitement, and keeping 'em peeled for a good spot. This rocky promentory will do; it's wide and flat, on a slight slope, sheltered by trees, and there's no-one about anyway. It's a full moon, we're overlooking the sea below, the cicadas are clicking away; the perfect spot for some holiday naughtiness.

He's naked in seconds, while I'm still carefully removing the designer duds and folding them neatly on the sloping rock, just below my feet. We get down to it, giggling at the unexpected thrill of it all. We've started speaking in German; I know a bit, and I'm showing off what I know. Ja, ja, das ist gut, du bist so toll, o Gott ja...

He's straddling me, looking down at me, looking just so bloody fine in the moonlight. Perfect good looks like his can sometimes turn me off - it's the little flaws and imperfections which give a man character - but not tonight. He whispers to me, urgently.

"Ich will spritzen. Darf ich spritzen?"

Well, we've been at it a while, homes to go to, that sort of thing, so maybe it's time.

I hiss back at him, with as much urgency as I can muster. "Ja, JA!"

I lean back and close my eyes, waiting for the final movement.

(This is where it gets seriously Adult Content, folks. Look away now, if you must.)

Hot liquid is pouring all over my stomach. He's groaning with delight; I'm groaning back. "Ja, JA!"

Bloody hell, HOW much? Is this a week's worth, or what? He's a gushing German geyser alright! "Ja, JA!"

Hang about. It doesn't usually trickle off as quickly as this. There's an odd lack of viscosity here. I open my eyes, raise myself up on my elbows, and make a startling discovery. Namely, that the German word "spritzen" doesn't mean quite what I thought it meant.

Well, this is a first. And me saying "Ja, JA!" like that. The dirty beggar!

My next thought: OH MY GOD PAUL'S VERSACE JEANS THEY WILL BE RUINED I WILL NEVER LIVE THIS DOWN HE WILL BE DINING OUT ON THIS STORY FOR YEARS IF I DON'T DO SOMETHING...NOW.

I cast my eyes ahead of me. Bloody sloping rock! The tide is heading towards Paul's beautiful three-weeks-old designer strides - silly arse, why did I leave them downstream? I bet that every self-respecting slapper knows that trousers should always, always be left upstream. I make a mad lunge for the Versaces and save them in the nick of time. The Spritzer is looking puzzled.

"So soon? But you haven't..."

I smile a watery smile.

"You know when you used the word sprizten...well, I thought..."

Luckily, as they say, we see the funny side. And so does Paul. Oh God, does he ever. I get it to this day, in fact. "Come on Danny, tell them the Spritzer story." Cruel sod!

Tomorrow: The Coat Check Ticket.

Labels: danny

(posted by Danny)

That Michael, he's such a whiner sometimes. "You never read my blog! Why don't you read my blog?" OK OK, anything to shut you up. Troubled Diva? You don't know the half of it.

"So what do people write about on these blogs?"

"Oh, anything they feel like..."

(I get the big speech here. How Blogs Are Changing Everything, or something like that. I zoned out a bit, to be honest. Lovely boy, but he does go on a bit. I think he said Empowerment a couple of times. Yeah, whatever.)

"Alright alright, so what DON'T people write about?"

Two things. Work - well yeah, I can see why not - and sex. Huh? Why's that then?

That set him off again. Waffle waffle. I think he might have said Boundaries a few times, but I was too busy sniggering at the club photos in the back of Midlands Zone. (Rule One of the Birmingham scene: don't get papped when you're mashed. Snigger snigger. State of 'er!)

So I started reading the blog, and before I knew it I was hooked. Archives, the 40 Days thing, the works. Even spotted Paul and myself in there a couple of times. Christ, he doesn't use one word where ten will do, does he? As in life, so in blog. Oh, it's all coming out now. The stories I could tell! What price my silence, Michael?

8:30 Monday morning, and already I'm sounding like one of the bitches in the bogs at The 'Gale on a Saturday night. Can't help it, Mister! I was stood by the dryer, fag in hand, dissing the Toilet Terrors (they mean well, but such easy prey), and then the wind changed and I stayed that way. Don't end up like me, kids! Sour old hag of the parish! Step into the light while there's still time!

Anyway, like the Diva says, I'm gonna be talking about ESS-EE-EX this week. Boundaries, schmoundaries! And no, of COURSE I'm not really called Danny, and of COURSE Paul's not really called Paul, and I'll be changing names and places and odd little details along the way, just in case. Because I may be new to blogging, but I'm not completely STUPID either.

Who's this Martin then? Is he fit?

Later!
Danny x

Labels: danny