Marcel

So we go for a walk along the Augstbord water pipe, a duct that exists since 1320 and distributes meltwater among the villages in the neighborhood. Last time we visited was 8 years ago, when we got almost killed by falling rock (Michael, for unclear reasons, had stopped walking, perhaps waiting for Chang behind him, and 6 seconds later, at the exact location were he would have been, a massive rock slipped and would have killed him---not making this up). So we avoided the trail for superstitious reasons, but then Chang got his new Nikon D3300, and we had to go.

Click for a larger picture

It's funny how memory works. You don't remember anything about the trail 8 years later, save for the falling rock, but then, five minutes into the hike, things come back, and you recall having walked past this house (the Swiss call it "Hütte" --- hut). Last time, you remember, the structure was empty, or abandoned. This time, a dog (center) charges down the slope, barking, and, upon arrival, turns immediately on its back in expectation of cuddling and caresses. 

We continue. We're above the Matter valley at ca. 2100 m (Zermatt and Matterhorn are up the valley to the south (to the right of the picture), and frontal you have the entrance to the Saas valley that plays such an important role in Michael's story The Fountain of Geneva (Roman Emperor Hadrian, a shadow of Antinous, an erotic SWAT team, crazy Vikings).

A thunderstorm breaks (almost), we turn around. There's the dog again, plus his master, Marcel. "She has her beauty from me," Marcel opens the conversation (he means the dog, a Border Collie mutt). Marcel is a cowboy, really, he guards cows during the summer, and lives here. We talk about (a) language, how the Swiss dialect relates to ancient German, (b) the locals (god-fearing, superstitious Catholics, still), (c) afterlife, and (d) we promise to be back soon with a bottle of Fendant, the favored local wine (also mentioned in Michael's story). Later, during dinner at the Moosalp, the favored local restaurant, Carmen, the publican, tells us that Marcel writes plays.

Haha

(Hat tip: Homo Desiribus)

Fragment, fragment! Here, from This Is Heaven, Ch 27, "We need a room," (John & Taylor together)

(Early on in the chapter, before anything happened:) 

The room is in the same wing as Juliette’s (and Barbette’s I guess). The view is the same as well; we could see Africa if the world were flat. We bolt the door. We stare at the room: king-sized bed, closet, balcony window with A/C underneath, mini-desk along the wall with a flat-screen TV. Above the bed—-some anarchist decorator must have done this—-hangs a framed poster of the White Star Line about the maiden voyage of the Titanic. 

(It has happened now:) 

“The earthquake is over,” I say and withdraw. We’re lying side by side now, reeking of salty cum, unable to lift a limb, gasping, but otherwise silent. Everybody is silent. The children have stopped squeaking, the couples have made up, the bedheads are at rest. You could hear a pin drop. No pin drops. 

“You think they were listening?” he asks.

“So to hear,” I say. He laughs.

We’ve discussed this before. Up here, in our heads, us males get back to normal very quickly. 

“One more time?” Taylor asks.

“I’d take this as a compliment,” I say.

“Meaning?”

“Let’s cherish the memory.”

“This was the best sex in my life,” Taylor says.

“I thought it was your first time?”

“So, I’m right by definition.”

“You sound like Alex,” I says.

“Alex,” he muses. “Come to think of it. Alex. Ten inches.” 

He rises, steps into drawers, shorts, T-shirt, sneakers, horn-rimmed spectacles, collects his Marlboroughs, and says: “I think I’ll go now. Spread the good news.” He points at something above my head, above the headrest. There it still hangs, the Titanic, its frame severely off-kilter. “See you later,” Taylor adds.

In the woods and on the heath --- another book of prayers --- by Jan v. Rijn

Cool, folks, cool, we're in Jan v. Rijn's highly bibliophile book "In the woods and on the heath." And it's not, as you might expect, another explicit exercise. No, it is, as the subtitle says, "another book of prayers," so more in the old-school, Aubrey Beardsley style of cheeky suggestion. Jan's drawings are subtle, elaborate, time-consuming, black-and-white, and AROUSING! Michael is not the only author, there are contributions by Paul Eluard, Louis Aragon, Vanessa de Largie, and many others. 

Here's one of Michael's stories, accompanied by the corresponding picture. The story was written after Michael saw the picture, and the hero of his tale, Jeffrey, really is a spitting image of Jan's model. And as so often with Michael's work, the story is mostly true. Enjoy.  

Jennifer

The town house was located in an off-center residential street of Amsterdam inside its own red-light bubble: Blue Boys said the neon-sign on the façade. Jeffrey was one of the boys, although he’d come into the picture only after I’d failed to talk up a hot guy who sat behind the improvised bar on the second floor and assured me he’s a customer himself. 

The sex with Jeffrey on the third floor was so-so, so we had time to talk. He’d just enrolled with the Blue Boys because he had no place to stay, and no money, and a bright future with me—-if he could stay with me, that is, at my place, which wasn’t far.

Jeffrey spent one more working night at the brothel and then we had sex one more time, although I failed to penetrate. He pushed me away, wrapping himself in the blanket. I don’t remember how I came.

We separated, and he would sleep in the second bedroom. He’d “help,” or “contribute”—-he’d keep the place clean, which he did very well. 

My friends would comment on him, especially my female friends. He’s beautiful, they’d say.

On Saturdays he’d ask me to give him a ride to the acting school for poor boys/gals. “Cycle faster,” he’d say while sitting on the luggage rack behind me; he was from South-Africa.

We’d organize parties with his class mates and his new boyfriends. He had a Moroccan class mate, Muhammed, who’d complain later that the gals would never leave him alone and that he had to have sex in the spare bedroom, early-on during the feast, under the cover of the guest’s overcoats, and then more sex with somebody else later on, and it wouldn't stop; he didn’t look the part.


Jeffrey needed the money that I didn’t give him, but then he remembered Phillip, who had more money and was much older. I spent a lot of face time with Phillip while both of us were waiting for Jeffrey to show up. Phillip made his money running drugs but he’d always been honest with his clients, I learned. And he was addicted to Jeffrey.

We're gonna build a henhouse. I build the best henhouses. And we're gonna make the foxes pay for it! (Glenn)

Italian for beginners --- an Italian review of the Green Eyes

Cool folks, cool, we have an Italian review of the GREEN EYES in:

The downside of international fame is of course that---(terrible sentence)---that you don't understand what people are saying until you invoke Google translate---and even then. But the Italian sounds so much better.

Questa è la trama del romanzo di Michael Ampersant, ma se pensate che sia sufficiente per capire il valore, e la complessità del testo vi sbagliate. C’è molto altro in Green Eyes: c’è il sesso – esplicito e sconcio, ma no per questo volgare-, ci sono i riferimenti culturali, le citazioni, c’è ingiustizia che ancora oggi chi è gay subisce e c’è una scrittura, che nel suo stile sintetico che a me piace tanto, è in grado di suscitare nel lettore un miscuglio di emozioni e sensazioni pazzesche. 

Sono tanti, o forse è meglio dire diversi, i personaggi che John incontro lungo la sua ricerca di una vita diversa da quella attuale, ma Maurice, un turista inglese, è quello che più di tutto acquista importanza ai fini della storia. Infatti viene violentato da un poliziotto, in una scena vivida che sconcerta e fa incazzare.

Doesn't it?

The sunset this evening

We sat down with Queer Voices

Cool, folks, we have an interview with Queer Voices, a fairly large outlet by our modest standards. Have a look.

Okay, here's one question and one partial answer from the interview:

Q: Do you have a favorite author? Your writing is unique.

A: Mark Twain would be the most important author. I really aim to poke fun at the world the way he does (I must have read Tom Sawyer 20 times). My writing style reflects in some sense my difficulties with the English language; it’s not wholly intended, and it’s not Twain’s style, of course. I can construct long sentences since I’m German, but often do I stumble, and the process of getting back on my feet, that’s also reflected in my style.

Mark Twain

Why the rich need more tax brakes

Brexit (4) (Maud)

Chamonix --- Mont Blanc

We're still in Switzerland, and so we go for another excursion, this time to Chamonix, the town that hosts the Mont Blanc, the Alps highest mountain at 4,870 meters. In our days, the Mont Blanc was Europe's highest mountain, but then this James Bond movie came out, where the spy identifies Mount Elbrus, in the Caucasus, as being photographed from the wrong (Russian) side, and Elbrus is 5,642 meters high, which is unfair, and then somebody else figured that the Caucasus is still Europe.

"Sorry, Blanc, way it is."

The white stud

We receive a letter from---hold on---his pseudonym is The White Stud---and he writes: 

"I am a sexologist with a Harley Street clinic in London, where I have developed a new, you-know-what therapy based on photography. I took the liberty to download one of your pictures for my highly medical purposes. I hope you agree with the result. Sincerely, your 'Stud'." 

There you have it folks, what can we say:

And here's the original, from a recent post:

What we like about Ted Cruz

Lets get this in briefly. We hated Ted Cruz, and still do. But now we've found something we like about him. His reasons for not endorsing Donald Trump. He's not going to endorse a person, he said, who's insulting his father, or his wife. I wouldn't do so either, by the way. And the Republican Party---the party of family values---is all aflutter. Of course.

French for beginners

"HuH?"

Yesterday

We felt uninspired, and so Chang suggested we should make an excursion to Lake Geneva. We passed Montreux twice---coming and going---and so had a chance to contemplate on the life of Vladimir Nabokov, who lived his last sixteen years in Montreux Palace, the hotel.

Brexit no. 3

Good writing: About a dog --- James Joyce

We've started reading Ulysses, and we're not disappointed. Yes, sure, there's a problem with the tome in that there's a problem with literature anyhow, especially the literate sort: the writing coasts on the associative skills of the reader, and them skills tend to diminish with space-time. Hundred years later, us never having been to Ireland---or to Dublin, where the "plot" is set, mercilessly---not sharing much of Joyce's classical education, there's a lot of stuff we don't dig. Thousand years down the road, it'll be worse. But we are learning. We've begun to steal already ("in the shell of his hands" has made it into the penultimate chapter of This Is Heaven). And we feel assured; Joyce---hundred times better than us, of course---uses roughly the same observational distance to his characters that we keep when engaging them in a dialogue. 

Good writing. Here, from the first part, Episode III (Proteus), about a dog: 

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet. 

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Still in the Valais (Chang)

You may appreciate a sign of life from us, and here it is: