There's nothing I hate more than somebody who believes being a good Christian entails sucking and wanking and everything else except putting it directly in the hole. It makes me livid. After all, I'm sure Jesus wouldn't mind that somebody had their gob over your cock, so long as the vagina never really got close. Forfucksakes.
This brings me to yesterday when I hosted a Bollywood Party at my house. I say party when in fact it was only I, Belle de Bengal and Norah Rockers. Being the good Indian boy I am, I got up early and spent three hours in the kitchen making an assortment of Indian delicacies. And once they'd arrived, we watched a string of Indian films and drank cheap topical juice. Indian.
Belle de Bengal is currently 'seeing a boy'. By 'seeing', she means they sleep in the same bed once in a while, have oral sex and decide that full blown sex is something they really shouldn't do. Actually, this is him, all him. She wants to fuck him, but he won't.
'I'm going to break up with him' she declared.
'Hang on, I didn't even think you were going out?'
'Well, we're not'.
'So, what's there to break?'
'Oh, it's complicated. I don't want to stay with him when he's not giving me sex and I'm looking for it elsewhere'.
'So, what's there to break?'
I just don't get it. I mean, the whole point of 'seeing somebody' was that the element of exclusivity so important for so many people was removed from the equation.
If you ask me, she's doesn't owe anybody anything. A long term future is also far out of the equation. All in all, Belle de Bengal doesn't have much hope with this man, but if she wants to dump him, who am I to intervene. The voice of reason?
That said, our feast of Yash Chopra, Vishal Bharadwaj and Mira Nair films was wonderful. And the food, delightful. Even though I do say so myself.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Mechanical Sex
A friend of mine was telling me the other night about an 'arrangement' he has with a Phillapino guy he met over the Internet.
'I haven't even got his number. He calls me on a withheld number, we arrange to meet and we fuck for a few hours before I come home' he explained.
'Lovely' I said.
'And he's married. And he's got a child', as you can imagine, the conversation got all the more interesting.
'So where do you hide the wife while you fuck?' I asked.
'oh she's a nurse, work's nights' he replied.
'Well, what about his child'.
'Whenever we meet, the child is asleep in the room next door'.
'Splendid'.
'And is he hot'?
'Not overly. I think it's just the convenience of it all. I like his voice and he likes my body. It works well for us.'
'And you don't feel guilty? I asked'
'Nope, not at all. The blame shifts to him, I'm doing nothing wrong'.
And at the end of this conversation I felt like I'd just been told the details of an arrangement which to my mind, was perfect. Enough lust, enough danger, enough attraction (although this could be better).
'Onwards and upwards old boy', I told him. Although, there was a part of me wondering whether the man's wife ever suspected anything? Or whether, like Katerina, Arthur and myself, he was a perfect liar.
Either way, this is something I want. I've decided.
'I haven't even got his number. He calls me on a withheld number, we arrange to meet and we fuck for a few hours before I come home' he explained.
'Lovely' I said.
'And he's married. And he's got a child', as you can imagine, the conversation got all the more interesting.
'So where do you hide the wife while you fuck?' I asked.
'oh she's a nurse, work's nights' he replied.
'Well, what about his child'.
'Whenever we meet, the child is asleep in the room next door'.
'Splendid'.
'And is he hot'?
'Not overly. I think it's just the convenience of it all. I like his voice and he likes my body. It works well for us.'
'And you don't feel guilty? I asked'
'Nope, not at all. The blame shifts to him, I'm doing nothing wrong'.
And at the end of this conversation I felt like I'd just been told the details of an arrangement which to my mind, was perfect. Enough lust, enough danger, enough attraction (although this could be better).
'Onwards and upwards old boy', I told him. Although, there was a part of me wondering whether the man's wife ever suspected anything? Or whether, like Katerina, Arthur and myself, he was a perfect liar.
Either way, this is something I want. I've decided.
Flamenco
Alright, you’ve missed it now, but in order for me to show you where I, in my capacity as one of London’s major Culture Vultures, went last Thursday evening, you’ll have to click here.
That’s correct, I went to the Flamenco Festival at Sadlers Wells. It was awesome. Rivetting! Cheapo tickets, as I’m still officially a student, and company in the form of a Nepalese beauty with whom I used to work a while ago.
And if we were to rewind, I’d tell you that we met an hour early, had dinner at the Breakfast club in Angel whilst playing a game of scrabble – that’s correct, we played a board game and ate food in a quirky boho restaurant before we went for the show.
Let’s for a moment forget that language wasn’t an issue. I can’t speak Spanish but I know good music and flexible clapper bodies when I see them. Equally, I know that, from the looks of things, there was a narrative to the dance pieces which completely passed me by. And despite this, I’m telling you it was great. And let me not forget the amount of Spaniards in the audience shouting ‘Ole!’ I suppose that’s the Spanish equivalent of Bravo!, or Wah!.
And it finished at 9pm. Early. In time for drinks here.
The Dollar bar on Exmouth Market serves what are, in my opinion, quirky cocktails which, for the most part I haven’t seen anywhere else.
So…
A Pornstar martini, a pomegranate and lemongrass mojito and a cucumber and rosewater martini later, I was full. Full enough to talk freely. You may laugh, but even I require some sort of verbal lubricant at times. The drinks were delicious.
Alright, alright, I’m a posh, cultured, snob. Deal with it.
Let me tell you something. If I had enough money, I’d fulfil that dream of being a bohemian. I’d do arty farty things all day.
Who wants to work?
That’s correct, I went to the Flamenco Festival at Sadlers Wells. It was awesome. Rivetting! Cheapo tickets, as I’m still officially a student, and company in the form of a Nepalese beauty with whom I used to work a while ago.
And if we were to rewind, I’d tell you that we met an hour early, had dinner at the Breakfast club in Angel whilst playing a game of scrabble – that’s correct, we played a board game and ate food in a quirky boho restaurant before we went for the show.
Let’s for a moment forget that language wasn’t an issue. I can’t speak Spanish but I know good music and flexible clapper bodies when I see them. Equally, I know that, from the looks of things, there was a narrative to the dance pieces which completely passed me by. And despite this, I’m telling you it was great. And let me not forget the amount of Spaniards in the audience shouting ‘Ole!’ I suppose that’s the Spanish equivalent of Bravo!, or Wah!.
And it finished at 9pm. Early. In time for drinks here.
The Dollar bar on Exmouth Market serves what are, in my opinion, quirky cocktails which, for the most part I haven’t seen anywhere else.
So…
A Pornstar martini, a pomegranate and lemongrass mojito and a cucumber and rosewater martini later, I was full. Full enough to talk freely. You may laugh, but even I require some sort of verbal lubricant at times. The drinks were delicious.
Alright, alright, I’m a posh, cultured, snob. Deal with it.
Let me tell you something. If I had enough money, I’d fulfil that dream of being a bohemian. I’d do arty farty things all day.
Who wants to work?
Monday, March 03, 2008
Dinner parties
Aliena's cousin invited me to her flat a few weeks ago where we indulged in a semi-boofay and conversation ranging from Aliena's inability to speak her mother tongue to a more heated debate concerning Katerina's moral castle of relationship(s). And yes, it all was a larf.
So much so that this weekend just gone, I decided to invite them all to my house. Seven of us, four from Leicester, three from South London. People in finance, chartered surveyors, Maths Teachers, Lawyers and the like.
And for the menu:
To Start
Indian Fishcakes
Chilli Paneer
Mains
Chicken Biriyani
Desert (ala Katerina)
Amaretto Parfait with blueberry sauce
Well it was lush. LUSH.
And we drunk, and discussed bunions.
'Does anybody else have bunions?' asked Aliena, drawing everybody's attention to her stockinged leg.
'Oh, actually I think I have got one. i never used to, show me yours.'
'Is it hereditary? i think it is.' she concluded
'Well, i think it is'.
'And is it flesh or bone?'
That was it. The exact point at which i knew the evening was in fear of turning into a disaster.
'Er, can we stop talking about Bunions at MY dinner party?' I commanded. Of course it was met with giggling girls, but i was serious.
And then, being the host I am, i wanted to feed my friends warm food and spent a part of the evening slaving over the stove, only to return now and then to fill my glass. And when i did, much to my horror, talk of bunions was still rife.
It's not so much medical discussion I'm opposed to know. Knowledge is infinite after all.
But talking about crusty feet as the food is being prepared is difficult to swallow. Pun most certainly intended.
Things did improve however and soon we were eating, chatting about un-bunion related matters and playing games until 3 in the morning.
you know the game - where you stick a post it note on your head (or chin) that displays the name of a person, any person, and then we go around the group and everybody asks a question aimed at correctly guessing who it is who's stuck on your head. Of course, we ended up with two Dame Edna's and two Margaret Thatchers.not that I'm complaining.
All in all a great evening. That's the thing about being a Londoner, friends are so easy to find - dinner parties easy to host - fun easy to have. And thank the lord for dishwashers.
p.s. for those of you keen on chocolate see here for four delightful recipes
So much so that this weekend just gone, I decided to invite them all to my house. Seven of us, four from Leicester, three from South London. People in finance, chartered surveyors, Maths Teachers, Lawyers and the like.
And for the menu:
To Start
Indian Fishcakes
Chilli Paneer
Mains
Chicken Biriyani
Desert (ala Katerina)
Amaretto Parfait with blueberry sauce
Well it was lush. LUSH.
And we drunk, and discussed bunions.
'Does anybody else have bunions?' asked Aliena, drawing everybody's attention to her stockinged leg.
'Oh, actually I think I have got one. i never used to, show me yours.'
'Is it hereditary? i think it is.' she concluded
'Well, i think it is'.
'And is it flesh or bone?'
That was it. The exact point at which i knew the evening was in fear of turning into a disaster.
'Er, can we stop talking about Bunions at MY dinner party?' I commanded. Of course it was met with giggling girls, but i was serious.
And then, being the host I am, i wanted to feed my friends warm food and spent a part of the evening slaving over the stove, only to return now and then to fill my glass. And when i did, much to my horror, talk of bunions was still rife.
It's not so much medical discussion I'm opposed to know. Knowledge is infinite after all.
But talking about crusty feet as the food is being prepared is difficult to swallow. Pun most certainly intended.
Things did improve however and soon we were eating, chatting about un-bunion related matters and playing games until 3 in the morning.
you know the game - where you stick a post it note on your head (or chin) that displays the name of a person, any person, and then we go around the group and everybody asks a question aimed at correctly guessing who it is who's stuck on your head. Of course, we ended up with two Dame Edna's and two Margaret Thatchers.not that I'm complaining.
All in all a great evening. That's the thing about being a Londoner, friends are so easy to find - dinner parties easy to host - fun easy to have. And thank the lord for dishwashers.
p.s. for those of you keen on chocolate see here for four delightful recipes
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