My weekend was sinful.
First, I binged on Ice cream and chocolate and all the carbs that I could get my hands on and then contemplated on killing myself for eating too much. I was thinking if it would be the pill, the knife or my apartment's rooftop but in the end I decided against them all (obviously or else I won't be writing this entry). I remembered I still had to sway them hips Saturday night down nevernevergayland and I needed all my body parts intact, bloated or not.
In Manila during my wild party days, my weekends starts at 2 pm and ends brunchtime the day after. Depending on how many Mojitos I drank or who I slept with the previous night, you can catch me having my first coffee for the day in the mall wearing the darkest bumblebee shades at a time when people are just about to make dinner. Partying in Manila was indescribable though. It was pure bliss. Clubs play the latest music from all around the world unlike here in Spain where everything is at least 20 years behind (Okay, fine. Well at least here in Malaga) and people dress up for the event. I missed dressing up to the hilt and wearing the best accessory one can have---best friends.
So, at midnight, Antonio and I went out to Torremolinos and was a little surprised how packed the place was. Surely, it's almost summer now although the wind is still quite chilly in the evenings, so there were a lot of extranjeros (foreigners) most of them from eastern Europe where everyday you can throw your meat outside your house to freeze, ready and fresh for the next months consumption.
It was like a prelude for this year's Europe Gay Pride in Madrid only it is, in the little Castro of the coast.
The night was strangely dominated by bears----chunky to obese gay men who wear cheap leather outfit and hair! Hair, there and everywhere. I am a little bit fed up now with hair. In fact, I just shaved all my body hairs and I mean ALL. The Spanish have this weird keenness on hair which is suppose to be the sign of virility and being macho but the last thing I would want to do is to comb someone else's body with my hand to find his holy grail. You know what I mean?
SO, as I said, the bears were out of north pole and frolicking in Torremolinos that night. Everybody was busy dancing, drinking and looking for preys when suddenly it struck me: I wanted to flirt. The clean sort of flirting. you know...starting with eye contact, then some small talk...some little lip nibbling...going home hand in hand.It's been a while since I have done it.
I tell you, in Costa del Sol, the whole gay flirting culture is dead. Killed by the presence of the dark, filthy, dangerous, sinful but absolutely sexy labyrinth called THE DARKROOM. No one bothers to take the first moves anymore. The awkward gazes and smile are gone, the little chat about Madonna or Kylie or Martha has disappeared, and the clumsy touches are a thing of the past. People KNOW that after 3am, everybody would be in the dungeon doing their shopping, trying to stay away from rotten meat; doing a catfight--- nails, claws and hair pulling--- over an 18 year old cateto (One who has lived in the pueblo his whole life; very part of the mass. Cheeky.) who was in town for the first time to try something other than humping poor sheeps.
Anyway, I am sick and tired of the STD infested darkroom and I wanted to save myself from gurgling rubbing alcohol so I decided to do a little flirting activity, sanitized version.
And I proceeded. I did a little eye to eye contact with a muscled mary alone in a corner. He smiled, I smiled. The climbed the next step: moved closer to him. exchange of hi's, hello's. He's Portuguese and lives in Spain for 4 years now. His Spanish is passable but I thought he could do better with his tongue on other things.
Then the red light appeared:
¨You wanna come with me for a hit?¨, he said.
¨You are with a hit¨, I whispered with my bubblegum smile.
¨No, I mean, a COKE hit¨.
¨I don't do that. I can put two dicks in my nostrils but not coke¨
and I left him.
I thought there was hope left in this part of the Coast. I mean, for one, people do not communicate at all. I know the club is not really the best place for a sensible conversation about war, religion or politics but at least a light conversation which leads to a mindblowing sleepover.
It is really frustrating. I have the theory that it is all because of the effing darkroom. Again, as an example, in Manila, we have no darkrooms. Well, there's always this part of the club where you thought the management was so tacky to put floral printed curtains on until you realize it's whats BEHIND the curtains that really matters but that's it... and only B-clubs do that. In general, people flirt and talk because there was no other alternative way to get a laid but by that.
My flirting skills are in dire need of polishing nowadays. I was brilliant back then. I am not bragging but how could you get a Shaqueal O'neal (yes, he was black) look-alike who you meet in a straight club to be on his knees and do wonderful things with his mouth to your body? That's a feat and I did it.
It is strange that in a culture where people talk a lot, gossip a lot and shout a lot, nobody would want to carry a decent, or even a flirty conversation at all. I might be wrong for all I know. Maybe these places are just NOT for talking.
Moments later, Antonio re-appeared and resurfaced from the depths of the labyrinth. He looked quite disappointed. He quickly answered my investigatory look.
¨The guy was a pig. He liked to spit at my face!¨
I died of laughter. I realized there's only two things that come out of the people's mouth here: spits and moans.
So, I gave up my hunt for a clean, pure, fun flirting game and like the Portuguese drug addict, I needed a shot of my own drug---the pure adrenalin rush of a 5 minute quickie. My mind said NO but my loins said GO. I heeded to the latter and I disappeared in the darkroom along with all my hopes of Mills and Boon kind of romance...
Monday, 14 May 2007 at 02:00 Posted by LuxuryHappy