I am picturing you naked right now.
I am thinking I should leave France within a week, or actually by next Saturday at the very latest. I envision myself fucking off to Gibraltar, pretending to be super-British and possibly hiring a pool-boy who goes by the name Miguel (who knowing me will be between 18 and 19 and well up for anything sexual)
I am not being dramatic, I do have very good reasons (and none of them are alcohol related).
For starters, Marc’s parents - in particularly his mother - is putting pressure on him to bring his boyfriend (I still have no idea how the fuck I ended up in a position where I am someone’s boyfriend again - surely this must be alcohol-related, which is to be expected being I’ve been drunk since late Tuesday afternoon. Sure I didn’t drink yesterday, but I am convinced my body was still feeding off all the vodka in my bloodstream from Friday at Lynn’s causing for a vegetative-state all Saturday) back home for dinner. This would not really be a problem, parents normally like me (unless they’re Italian, RE: my ex-mother-in-law who feel exactly the opposite sprinkled with Glen Close Fatal Attraction-era) but then again I normally do not date people born in 1994 (unless they are British and are called Tom Daley). Yesterday I felt ready to have Marc elaborate a bit more on the age of his parents as so far I have stopped him (normally using my never-ending sexuality or in plain English: blow-jobs) and thusly preventing him from relating anything else but the fact that they had him young.
Marc’s mother had him when she was 22, proving once and for all that girls from that part of Paris are slags with an almost uncontrolable urge to uncross their legs, but what is worse: after crunching the numbers this morning (yesterday I was in too much of a state) we come to realise that this bloody woman is 5 years older than me. Oh, it’s awkward.
If this bloody woman would’ve been born into a respectable arrondissement, e.g the 17th like yours truly she’d be at least 58 by now. Marc’s Dad is a respectable 42, meaning if his son takes after him in 1) the looks-department and 2) the hung department I will have slept with him before la rentree and no one will care because that would be A LOT more socially acceptable.
And it’s not like I can talk to my friends about this. Manwhore (Romain) has his own problems (and I think they are drug-related becuase he has been looking fucking rough lately, but I am too busy to care or ask him about it) and Laurent cannot even force the name Marc over his lips without giggling like a school-girl with a crush on one or several of the members of One Direction (My GOD, it just dawned on me: I am Caroline Fucking Flack).
And as if that wouldn’t be enough to want to pack up the hats and go live with the monkeys on the Rock (which apparently is the nick-name for Gibraltar and I am keen to fit in) my mother is redecorating the kitchen of her apartment (in order for my sister to be able to request a higher price when she sells it the same day our mother dies) and she sent me a text this morning reminding me that she’s coming to stay for a week starting next Saturday. Normally she would stay with my sister, but that arrangement came crashing down in October 2011 when the rabbi pointed out that from now on my mother would need to enjoy her Times out on the balcony (Times are cigarettes that are smoked by my mother and Joan Collins in Dynasty).
Now, my mother is super-jewish and thrives on the fact that the sister from hell (that makes Glen Close circa Fatal Attraction look like someone you would accept a friend request from on Facebook) married a holy man (with shit dress sense and curly side-burns) but first and foremost she is super-French and asking her to smoke outside is literally like taking a shit on the concept that is fraternité egalité liberté and then wiping your ass with the flag ON Bastille Day. I still remember when I was forced to move back home for 8 (long, tedious) days when I was between apartments. Sure, there are ashtrays everywhere, but there are also rules of maximum one bottle of wine a day, no swearing and so much judaism that you’re literally reciting whole passages from the Diary of Anne Frank in Hebrew when your time is up.
So I ask you is there any wonder that I am planning on emigrating to Gibraltar before the end of next week. Also, I’ve agreed to meet Madame and Monsieur Huriaux for dinner at their place on Wednesday (during a week and possibly very sexually-related moment last night). I should find some solace in the fact that Marc will be there, but then again he’s 18, it’s not as if he’s got any clue about life.
Why do I like him (apart from his sexual appetite, wonderful smell and Tom Daley-esque body)? I have no idea, but I really do. I just wish his mother would’ve been less of a slag, waiting with uncrossing her legs 10-12 years.
It has been one of those perfect Parisian days, meaning I’ve been slightly drunk since 9h this morning and therefore also completely ignorant about the state of my VISA-card, choosing to remember the near heart-attack that I had when I received the last statement as a mere palpitation that one might have to endure after two many ristretti (preferably at open air-cafe in Rome, but any Italian city will do)
Yes people I have bought hats. In fact so many hats that at least one of the dogs will need to move out asap in order to clear some space because each hat is individual and therefore requires its’ own place.
Marc suddenly turned into a grown-up (as opposed to real-life persona with insatiable sexual appetite that flunked high school) and was slightly worried about my insane shopping-spree (as perhaps his monthly allowance from Mum and Dad will not allow for irresponsible spending) Either that or he was worried that he would need to carry everything back home (MY home, where he has a VERY temporary residence permit) because 18 year olds have no idea how to stay drunk for 9 hours without falling over or at least calling one of their friends to inform them that “will b bezz mates 4eva!”
Other things I’ve come to realise during these past two weeks of whoredom is that 18 year olds never wake up before 15h, they still hate their parents (for no apparent reason whatsoever, unlike me who has well-established (and even notarized) validity for everything I disapprove of when it comes to my own Mother.) 18 year olds are also in a foul mood in the morning aka mid- to late afternoon by us regular people. There is something really bizarre about seeing a starch-naked Marc stumble through the apartment sporting an almost ridiculously inviting erection with a facial expression that said: “Talk to me and you are fucking dead” Clearly I have very little experience in this area - as I have no children - but I refuse to take his semi-phsycotic behaviour as a reference and will keep on believing that Tom Daley is a ray of sunshine in the morning (though still equipped with inviting erection and washboard stomach) until proven otherwise. I am not religious and you gotta believe in something.
Also don’t mention any 80-ies or even early 90-ies references around your 18 year old. They wont get it and what will follow is an awkward silence as you are hit by the terrifying realisation that 1) You’re old and 2) You’re dating someone that played with Transformers less than 5 years ago (this fact did very little to improve my erection let me tell ya!)
Other random facts that has caused Marc to smile today (and has got me to seriously consider severe plastic surgery): They do not remember when broadband didn’t exist and they’ve had an e-mail address since the age of 5 (I envision it to be transformersrocks@hotmail.fr or similar), Titanic 3D is the ONLY Titanic release directed by James Cameron and possibly do they remember a time when the Euro was not the official currency of France (something that tells me that Marc needs suppressed memory therapy because the Euro was introduced when he was 11…and I was…slightly older.)
But what amazes me the most is the sexual appetite of the 18 year old. Holy hell, surely I was not that bloody horny when I was 18 (which in my slightly deranged mind was 3-4 weeks ago) but there is no denying the fact that one look is enough to turn your 18 year old on and thereafter it will be hell to switch him off (if this indeed does happen after 15h in the afternoon)
And still though Marc is incredibly cute. Pity he is only 18.
Anyway, enough about how to maintain your 18 year old (because you can’t have mine) because I am about to re-enter adulthood to accompany downstair neighbour to the theatre (and then get absolutely shit-faced) Also I felt the need to send Marc home to his Mummy (or Mumsy, I don’t know. Also I don’t want to know) an hour ago when this woman had the audacity to demand that “she’d like to meet this guy, you’re spending so much time with”. I know Marc’s parents had him when they were very young (I have not dared to ask how young because there is not enough alcohol in the world to make that answer acceptable and I no longer do cocaine) and now I have it in my head that they are the same age as me - or alternatively younger. Considering the area she’s from I am sure Marc’s Mumsy was a total slapper who had sex at 14 (possible in exchange for payment or drugs. I don’t know!)
Still though he’s cute and I did let him try one of my hats on today.
As a working single mother of two (3 if you count Denmark - the cat I found a year and a half ago in v. seedy part of Paris) it amazes me how the days are seemingly floating into one weird stew of sex, alcohol and advanced pricing.
Somewhere along the line though I am still managing to enjoy life in spite of the fact that there is not enough time to buy hats, go to the gym, eat (would kill the buzz of the meager alcohol units I stress down in manner of world ending tomorrow or very similar) or satisfy the hunger that is the sexual appetite of Marc that has seemingly moved in with me (I have no idea how this happened but quite frankly I am much too tired to argue or even question it) I figure if my Mother can keep on shagging boyfriend half her age, I shouldn’t let 17 years stand in the way of his fingering technique and the sexual gratification it brings me.
I could write a book about Marc’s index and long-finger alone, but clearly I wont as that would mean I had even less time to buy hats and believe me we have now reach crisis mode RE: hats. I love each and every one of my hats but I do have a reputation (a slutty one) to maintain and I blatantly refuse to be seen in the same head-wear more than one weekend in a row, which is why I took tomorrow off (I finally managed to wear my Boss down by threatening to plaster some less flattering photos I took of her during business-trip to Germany all over Facebook): in order to buy a shitload of hats.
Yeah, I am not sure you would want this published either…
Also because I am nowadays culturally involved. Have been asked by downstairs neighbour to join him at some theatre-related premiere in the 7th and since he promised there would be an open bar at the after-party (along with a bunch of D-list celebrities that I have never heard of, but that will probbably be sexually inclined) I readily agreed to join him. A new hat is a must.
In between I will try my hardest to squeeze in as many glasses (who the fuck am I kidding: bottles) of wine as possible, because my liver is starting to wonder what I am doing and I keep experiencing this weird sense of clarity (sobriety) which I am not at all a fan of, there is only so much reality I can handle in a day.
And I swear if I get more shallow I will kill myself.
I am not going to deny that I like having Marc around because other than brilliant fingering techniques (and a body that is quite frankly bloody fantastic) he is also a proven excellent dog-walker, funnier than I could ever dream of being and not once has he touched my hat-collection, or tried to mess with my iTunes-setting.
This is not good, but it is good to be bad.
(via karinamacarena)
(via wordpervert1)
Somewhere between 7h and 7h30 Marc - aka the 18 year old that I’m apparently dating (How? When? WHY???) finally passed out or alternatively knocked himself uncoinscious against the headboard of the bed after a weekend that can only be described as a shagaton.
I now feel that I am in the need of urgent medical attention due to severe chaffing and I might also need to find a pharmacy that is open on Sunday (there is one on the Champs, but there is no way I can get that far) in order to purchase some kind of soothing lotion and/or sleeping-pills to administer in Marc’s coffee when he finally wakes up, ready to go again. (Which will probably be around 17h this afternoon because 18 year olds can sleep like no one I have ever met. They also have an insatiable sexual appetite. Admittedly flattery will get you far but yours truly is not that bloody deluded, there is no way I am willing to believe that I am in fact so hot that he needs to do it all the FUCKING TIME)
I have spent the better part of the morning doing Kegel Exercises or I will be wearing diapers for men before the end of next week and given how tight my suit-pants are there is no way anything else will fit into there unless I immediately turn into a manorectic (and with the amount of calories I’ve burnt off this weekend, chances are I will soon look like one.)
Went out yesterday - after watching The Voice UK, lusting after 17 year old Aleks (keeping with semi-pedo theme that has been my life ever since Tom Daley started prancing around on the diving-board wearing insanely tight budgie-smugglers), meeting up with Manwhore (Romain) and Laurent in V:eme (student-area to make Marc feel more at home in his natural habitat of torn jeans, 1 euro-shots and loud trashy music) My two so called friends managed to squeeze something in about the 17 years age-difference between us at a rate of 5 times per sentence and re-named Marc: Anna Nicole Smith (who he is obviously too young to remember as he was still in diapers when she offed herself. Not the same kind of diapers that I will be forced to wear shortly though, but Pampers or similar)
At 4 o’clock Laurent had headed home (after several comments about how he and I should meet up at MotherCare first thing tomorrow), Romain was caught in v. juicy lip-lock with extremely tall black woman, who I am sure either still had or has had a penis at some point in his/her life) and little Marc was ready to talk emotions. Now, I don’t talk emotions ever, especially not with someone who was born in the same year as I was shagging my hebrew-teacher and stole alcohol from my parent’s liquor-cabinet.
Marc: So are you my boyfriend now?
Me: Silence.
Marc: I really like you.
Me: Coughing, followed by lengthy v. awkward silence.
I finally had to fuck him just to shut him up, meaning we’re now one shag away from getting a free packet of condoms at Ann Summer’s. No rest for the wicked.
Clearly I am going to have to end this very soon (as I always dreamt that Tom Daley would be the one to get me on the sexual offender’s list and I am not willing to alter that fantasy) but I must admit (and this is about as emotional as I am going to allow myself to get without a bottle of vodka in my blood-stream): He is super-sweet, really good in bed and his smile could do bad things to global warming.
Shit, this is not good. I need a drink, but first gym.
Men slept with this week: 1 (but repeatedly so it’s not like I haven’t been sexually active. I am a gay man in his prime - after all)
Sexually insinuation e-mails that have received in German: Too many to count.
Cigarettes smoked: Unfathomable number
Arguments with bitch downstairs: 1 (2 if you count that I called her a fucking cunt earlier this evening)
Nightclubs that have promised to visit during the weekend: 5
Nightclubs that will visit during the weekend: 100 (rough estimate)
My Russian colleague at work got married this Monday, to a duke no less and throughout the past three days she has been reminding us all that we should addess her as Duchess von Schweringen, which let’s fact it is not going to happen regardless of how drunk I get during extended liquid-lunches in semi-posh restaurant in La Defense together with British colleagues that have crossed La Manche to teach us all about upcoming structured products. And I know I could be fired for admitting this but in spite of the fact that I was drinking all I could think of was taking a stroll along La Seine (whilst drinking wine) - possibly hand in hand with my new flavour of the month (or for coming five days) Marc, the 18 year old that I should not enjoy sleeping with, but by all the Gods I have ever pretended to worship I really do.
I remember being 18, much less cynical, pretty much as slutty as always, couldn’t handle alcohol at all, and great skin that I didn’t even want to botox. I’m not saying it was good, just different. Clearly though I am turning into a semi-paedophile and I need someone to stop me before I stop myself. Dating an 18 y o does have several perks though, amongst others: insatiable sexual appetite and oh such a willingness to learn. I am always keen to promote fingering (as it’s safe sex and I have a clear hand-fetish) and though I kept shouting instructions and probably made it feel like work, Marc kept right at it, resulting in three highly enjoyable orgasm (me: 2 him: 1).
Also directly afterwards he ran all the way down to Boulevard Voltaire to get McDonalds (sex makes me hungry), that I obviously paid for. Not only am I a semi-pedo I am also buying food for my toy-boy.
Meanwhile in a different part of Paris - far away from the sexually uninhibited 11eme, namely at work everything is pretty much the same except that the Hungarian girl is dressing - if possible - in an even more slutty manner than before. The fact that Kai fingered me last Thursday has caused a huge dent in her confidence - and I quote: “But he can’t be gay, he can’t be!!” Steady on there Hungary, it’s not like your emigration papers depends on it!) Needless to say, I am currently taking bets on when one - or both her boobs - will pop out one of her ridiculously tight tops, which would be more suited for a strip-joint and not so much at a respectable French bank. Also I don’t see why she needs to sort her papers on the floor, on all fours in a position (and look in her eyes) that literally screams “breed me”, but I pay very little attention, always trying to avoid the stench of Swedish girl’s armpits and remembering that Russian girl is nowadays a Duchess. Yeah I keep busy, still wearing impossibly tight suits as is required by some sort of fucked up banking law.
Not much else to report, except that my Mother just told me she would be spending the whole week of August in St. Malo with 37 (though soon to be 38 y o which apparently makes a huge difference) boyfriend fucking up my vacation plans. With all the hats I plan to buy from now until then I need a cheap August, but now that shot to shit just because Mother Dearest is planning nasty shagging session with much younger man. Also I have toy-boy to maintain meaning I need to be careful with money.
I shouldn’t say anything about Mum’s age-preference though as I am not as angelic myself (though I will accept Saint-nominations as that should put Russian girl in her place once and for all). Maybe I can vacation in Marc’s room, in the apartment where he lives with two flatmates…who just happen to be his parents.
In closing I think 80’s music is making a comeback and I am still not sure how I feel about it.
