I'm not gay, guys

Green Eyes --- Chapter 26: No pubic option

Previously --- well, basically we fell in love with Alex. That's actually the most important thing. But other events interfere, and the last such event involves a hitchhiking black young man whom we are trying to take home for a ride (in a funny vehicle). We've already arrived at our doorsteps and are wondering whether father is at home or not.


…empty.

The place is empty. No father anywhere to be seen. I check everywhere.

There are a few loose ends here, like the wealth gap between the truck's cerulian color and the duff brownish gray of my 1.5 bedroom kitchen den. I should explain this gap away, or excuse it by telling the truth. But we have reached the point where a little mystery comes in handy, so let the explainable unexplained. And just as I'm thinking this, another thought swings by, namely that I could have used an attractive car to attract an attractive man in the same way that an attractive man could have used an attractive man — himself — to attract an attractive car. Symmetry rules again.

You, John, you could be a serial sex addict who's entire inheritance went into a man-eating Mercedes fly-catcher. And this black looker, what did he do? His whole effort went into an equally absurd approach, hitchhiking. Nobody is hitchhiking, so he isn't hitchhiking at all, he's standing there in your kitchen because he's a serial sex addict like you. Perhaps he’s a prostitute? No, that would be a first at 4 PM on Georgia Avenue, there are better venues for paid sex. But innocent sex of the unpaid kind —there's always implicit cruising, thousands of eyes have met there before and changed their mind. Prostitution is a calculating business, but wild sex is not, you're overrun by insurgent urges, that's the whole idea. John must have been overcome by those urges, and his only solution was to put his fabulous body on display, raise his thumb, and hope for the best. That's why he was hitchhiking and followed you home. Eight percent we'll get laid? No, John, it's much more. Let's put a number to it. Eighty percent, bullshit, it's hundred percent. If he were only into girls, he wouldn't have accepted your ride but waited for the next cerulean attraction. Hundred percent? We should know within 20 seconds.

Subliminal (Sacha)

This is us, folks, look at this picture, this is us...

...no, it's Sacha, actually, who sent this picture and writes: "Maybe just my homophobic look on things, but there is a hidden message in this image somewhere..." (he added this grinning emoticon that we can't reproduce here, sadly)

The view...

...yesterday evening...

...and this morning...

...from our chalet into the (Valais) valley.

Green Eyes --- Chapter 25: The hitchhiker's guide to gay sex

Previously --- well, basically we fell in love with Alex. That's actually the most important thing. But other events interfere, and the last such event involves the first autonomous Google vehicle licensed in Georgia ("Isolde" is its name), which is driving us home as we speak. Otherwise, the chapter's title speaks for itself. Watch out!



There's this black guy standing on the sidewalk....wait, not yet, give it two paragraphs (here's his picture already):

We've automatically backed out of Godehart's driveway, and Isolde has already shown its autonomous mettle by coasting down Atlanta Avenue's rows of antebellum miniatures and Victorian ladies—this is so beautiful, folks, the care-free proportions, the windows talking to you like the eyes of a trustful dog, fluted columns, ornamental pediments, occasional gingerbread, mini-towers for the mini-room upstairs (where the vampire sleeps), muted colors, daring colors that speak to the neighbors, manicured lawns (green), comely hedges planted at the base of creaky porches decked with patient rocking chairs, the dwellings lined up along the street like invitees at a banquet—this is America at its best. So, we've coasted down Atlanta Street, and then turned left on Second without a hitch, and then turned right on Georgia Avenue where we meet the rush-hour back-up around the downtown traffic circle. Isolde takes note and eases neatly into the file of slowly-crawling afternoon vehicles. This could take some time, the jam may continue all the way up to the junction of Church and Route One. We're passing Lupo di Mare, the smarter Italian restaurant, and there's this black guy standing on the sidewalk, facing the traffic, raising his right arm with an extended hand, the thumb pointing forward. What is this guy doing? Perhaps he hails a taxi, no, you would do that differently, you wouldn't use your thumb. We haven't seen this since I was born, he is hitch-hiking. He must be hitchhiking, he's holding a chain saw. No, we got that wrong, he’s not holding a chainsaw, he's unencumbered, but he wants a ride.

Back in Bürchen

Finally, finally, four weeks of preparations are over, it almost feels like the trials and tribulations of a Wagner opera production, the preparation of our house for the summer rentals, but we're done now, and off to Bürchen, CH, where we habitually spend the summer, and the weather is awful upon our arrival, the coldest spring ever, temperature outside 6° centigrade (around 3 PM), and we go to bed and slip under the winter covers, and it's cold, cold, but the next morning...

The view from our chalet, June 2, around 7 AM

...the sun shines, at least for a brief moment (we're in the clouds again as I'm writing this), and everything is fine, more or less. We'll resume blogging soon, and will tell a few more stories from Korea.

Evil Sherlock Holmes: Everything I thought he'd be and stuff (Lokfire, reblogged)

Lokfire writes on her famous blog Hollywood hates me:


Yea! I just saw a movie! It was the new Star Trek movie, which I'm glad I didn't let anyone talk me out of, because, as a non-Star Trek fan, I didn't care about any continuity issues or any of that. All I cared about was two things: Benedict Cumberbatch as KAHHHHHNNNN!!! and Simon Pegg as SCOTTTTTTYYYY!!! (OK, that's not quite as ... eh, whatever.)

 Pictured here: All my hopes and dreams as a fangirl realized. 

So, play by play of the movie:

The Enterprise crew does something on a planet and Sylar from Heroes nearly dies, which makes his girlfriend, Hot Actress Whose Name I Don't Know, kind of sad and angry. Then they go back to earth and OH MY GOD SO MUCH TALKING WHEN WILL THE EXPLOSIONS BEGIN and then Benedict Cumberbatch saves a little girl's life so her dad can kill some other people, like, YEA, THINGS ARE BLOWING UP FINALLY. Then Benedict Cumberbatch kills some more people, including New Captain Kirk's boss/friend or somebody (didn't see first Star Trek reboot film; probably won't; not sorry; except about excessive use of semi-colons), but he doesn't kill Robocop, who is also in this movie, YEA ROBOCOP!

*breathes*

Green Eyes --- Chapter 24: Six minutes to eight heaven

Previously --- well, basically we fell in love with Alex, who has disappeared, but we met Godehart Wagner again, the genial host of last night's orgy, Godehart helped us with our broken-down Mercedes truck, we reciprocated by following him home and entering a session that lead to a serious a sexual accident (there's no other word for it), and to the appearance of Dr. Alice Sandeman, who has applied a serious drug to Godehart, but can't find the antitoxin to neutralize the drug's deadly side-effects in her doctor's bag...

How much time do we have, I ask. She does not answer.

Instead, she gets on the cell-phone. "I need dada-hexa-dada-oid," she says to the phone, a word I don't understand. "We have 6 minutes."

12 hours ago we had eight minutes to wait for the same ambulance. That took a long time. Six minutes takes longer. Godehart has left for dream country, an elated expression has taken hold of his regular features, his small eyes are closed. "He looks like a younger, elder statesman who has made peace with the world and is ready to die," I say to Alice (in reality I said something more banal).
"Elder statesmen live forever," she replies, "possibly our only hope."

Eighth heaven?

Silence. "You believe in God?"
“Us escorts believe in anything,” I utter reflexively.
“He pays you?”
“No, no, I misspoke.”
“Let’s hope he paid you in advance.”

The view this morning

6:02 AM

Yes, we're back in France, folks, since May 4, in fact, and I haven't posted since, out of sheer exhaustion. We'll be off to Switzerland next Saturday, expect to hear more from us then. Cheers, Michael (& Chang)

Say that again...

...you want me to read a novel called Green Eyes?

(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant after an original by Hatnapper)

The ultimate post

The Bhuddist temple --- Korea (11)

We had to pay an entrance fee to get there but a sign next to donation box inside the holy compound reads: "We have nothing to do with the entrance fee you paid already."

Number 1

Five more readers?

(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

Not about gay erotic writing (Tony)

We know, we know, we should focus more; this has nothing to do with the mission of this blog. Anyhow, here it is, a Lufthansa Airbus 380 landing on San Francisco International.  And it doesn't blow up, the Airbus, there are no glitches, the pilots don't have sex (as they do in an anecdote we've heard from a credible source, the pilots flying together for the first time, and they really like each other, really, and then the flight attendant forgets to knock on the cockpit door (we are not making this up)), anyhow:




Did you watch it till the end? Pilots not having sex, right?

Oblivion --- the movie

Perhaps you remember a post from last year, a report from Phuket, the Thai beach 'n sex paradise with its empty, black-marbeled multiplex located in the main mall showing Prometheus, the Ridley Scott movie. What a bummer, Prometheus. After Scott's flick I had given up all hope --- what a silly, one-dimensional horror-story clad in sci-fi illustrations and peopled by captains that fly at superluminal speed and then land their space ship manually on visual clues coming from co-crew that happens to look out of the window.

Hi, I'm Tom Cruise. Yes,  I'm pleased to confirm, turtleneck collars are back in fashion.

An easy act to follow, Hollywood must have thought, and yes, Oblivion is better. There's actually a story, a bit too complex for me, perhaps, the story, but just-so for Chang, who relates to movie scripts like wild boar relate to truffels, he is always, always one step ahead of the script (if that's what wild boar are, the analogy is a bit shaky, perhaps). So Chang knows already that something's wrong with Jack Harper, Tom Cruise's character. Jack and coworker/lover Victoria (Andrea Riseborough) are manning this modernistic, nicely appointed, totally airborne watch post, all glass, steel and plastic, a mile high in the sky but otherwise almost looking like Mies van der Rohe's Barcelona pavilion except for the futuristic rounded edges from central casting that have signaled sci-fi since the dawn of time. The watch post also features a swimming pool.

Airborne watch post and helitropic vehicle

Freedom Fries --- Chapter 3: "I said Hu" (Part II)

Previously, Pamela Nachtrieb Timbers, the voluminous Dean of Berkeley Law School, had been asked by President Obama to swing by for an interview --- a position at the Supreme Court is vacant --- but Pamela, regretfully, had to tell Obama about a skeleton in her closet. She is now explaining to Georg Lukacs, the charismatic hedge-fund titan (who happens to be an old friend of hers) why. Various secret services are listening in of course, anything Lukacs does is of interest, and even more so when it involves a potential future member of the Supreme Court.

“You really want to be a Supreme Court judge?” Lukacs continues on the tiny screen of the Park Avenue spies. All hot dogs have been finished by now, and Smith is twice as happy as his partners.
-“What’s left in store for a wise, hence middle-aged, woman? Plus, it would get me away from Berkeley.”
-“What’s wrong with Berkeley?”
“The sun always shines, and this Yoo always smiles, you know, John Yoo.”
-“Sure, torture memos.”
-“He’s back, you know.”

“Did you talk to Obama about Yoo?” he asks.
-“He couldn’t care less. He cares about the torture thing only because it could mess up his agenda.”
-“To the extend he has one.”
-“To the extend he has one.” Funny, Pamela thinks, we always agree on politics.
-“Did you mention him at all?”
-“Only between the lines.”
- “And?”
-“He answered only between the lines.”
-“Well, you’ll have to return to your Yoo now, and teach him torture manners.”
-“Very funny.”
-“You need my help?”
-“How?”
-“I could help, you know.”
-“You know, Yoo got pranked, sort of. It wasn’t on the news? Well, he’s go pranked. Somebody got into his class, with the Abu Ghraib outfit. It’s on the internet, YouTube.”

Jim, the driver, is back in his seat when a NYPD officer knocks at the side window of his van. Jim lowers the window, and the cop lowers his pointed cap into Jim’s cabin. “You are mis-parked, to put it mildly,” the cop says. Jim points to a sticker on the dashboard with a large picture of Hizzoner Michael Bloomberg, surrounded by a sizable posse of doting women, a large signature of Bloomberg, and the message ‘EXEMPTION, HOW CAN I HELP YOU?’ The officer squints, shakes his head, and is about to say something, when the Tea Room conversation audibly resumes inside the van.

Taurus (Jezza Smilez)

History of the world --- Korea (9)

How about the situation? In Korea? Now? Aren't your scared? Don't you think they are going to throw their nukes? They know this would be the end of it, wouldn't they, a full-fledged war would trigger a violent American reaction that would certainly bring down a regime unable to feed its own people properly? They aren't crazy, or are they? Kim Jong Un, the new "leader," has studied in Switzerland, he has seen the world, he knows, right? They know, don't they, they know! At least he does!

Note the map of the US on the wall

Relax. Lean back. (Just back from the Korean dentist). Lean back.

My father was so lazy, he did not actually swim when dipping into the North Sea during our summer holidays. Instead, he did a "dead man," filling his lungs with extra air and staying afloat motionless in the water like a buoy. Along those lines, let's do an old man and tell a story from 10 years ago or so when I last heard from Michel Kortczek. Michel had specialized in China, and then North Korea, and had published a beautiful essay on North Korea and its ideology on the internet when I was about to leave Amsterdam for good. The page has disappeared in the meantime, but what I recall of his essay spoke of a regime quite unlikely any other on earth, a regime completely in the thrall of  magic, superstition, and delusion.

Green Eyes --- Chapter 23: In flagrante masterclass

Previously --- well, basically we fell in love with Alex, who has disappeared, but we met Godehart Wagner again, the genial host of last night's orgy, Godehart helped us with our broken-down Mercedes truck, we reciprocated by following him home and entering a session that also involved a gigantic dildo ... and now we find ourselves in a really tight spot. The dildo got stuck, and the doorbell rings. 

The doorbell rings.

There isn’t much left of Gohard's casual-ceremonial ways, the dildo has him in its grip, or pinch, or its inverted pinch, whatever. And while the situation is serious enough, I can’t suppress another collateral thought, this one involving the washed-up scriptwriter and an art house flick in which Gohard (not Godard), would try to answer the doorbell now, get up, dildo and all, the down-dildo still inside, the up-dildo sticking out (the terminology may require adjustments), his member weak and loppy, he’s somehow haunching to the door, shifting from leg to leg, perhaps groaning, opens the door, and gulps "Hilfe.” (Come to think of it, didn't Godard (Jean-Luc, not Gohard) make a movie exactly like this one, with Woody Allen as a peripatetic porn star and a peripatetic flower pot that’s always blotting the view of the adult parts of the unfolding drama? Did Allen survive?)

The door bell rings again. So it’s the postman. Or not. It's not for nothing that us escorts are paid well—if we are paid at all—there's so much learning by doing involved. Shall we open the door? My budging A-level instincts tell me to stay put. Gohard (we switch back to Godehart now), Godehart moans softly, it's unclear whether he's praying or trying to say something. He rolls his head, that's what Buddhist monks do a lot when they pray.

We're expecting the echo of a failed doorbell initiative, silence followed by departing footfalls. Instead we get the clanky noise of metal on metal. There's something tentative to this, perhaps a burglar who’s been pushing the bell to see whether the residents are at home and is wielding a picklock now. Godehart can't really roll his head any more. In flagrante masterclass.