16 October 2016

THE KIWI FRUITS

For a relatively small country, in the past few months, I seemed to have hit a rich vein of gay New Zealanders.

OK well two, but that's a lot.

I present to you their stories.

Kiwi #1.

It's taken me a while to talk about this sexual liaison in the public sphere because, while I have always been quite candid about my experiences, there's a Josephite nun inside me, just waiting to wave her knobbly finger at me. And as this story unfolds, she's likely to burst through my chest like a small alien creature and attach herself to my face.

After a lovely dinner with my friend Fran in Sitges, we made our way into the night via the Mojito Bar. After two of the largest Mojitos I have ever seen, we were smashed. A few more fish bowl sized drinks later at another bar and we were catatonic. After escorting Fran back to our hotel, I made the half mile wobble back to the bar we had just left.

I was ordering another drink (like I needed it) when a handsome Kiwi entered stage right. I'm not sure how we started chatting, but his beard, his hairy chest and his cute accent had me hooked.

"Are you dancing?" he said pointing to the sunken dance floor. I nodded, unable to get a 'Yes' out, and with that he whisked me off, bounding down the steps whilst I tried valiantly not to spill a drop of my vodka lemonade.

It was 4am and suffice to say the dance floor was looking a little tired. There were only four people keeping the party going and we were a breath of fresh air. Three of them were Swiss and the other was a German called Herman. Of course he was. I'm sure they thought we were super annoying as we waved our Antipodean flag in their faces, but this place was crying out for an injection of fun.

Now, this is where things get a little hazy. Keep in mind ALL of this happened on the dance floor. In the space of one minute I went from dancing with Kiwi #1, to kissing Kiwi #1, to Kiwi #1 having his dick out on the dance floor. Mid-kiss, I did what anyone would do when faced with a dick on a dance floor.

I gave him a handjob.

Then he undid my trousers and before I knew it he was giving me a blowjob.

I know and on a sparsely populated dance floor, so did Herman.

It's not the worst thing to happen, but for me eating dick - my dick - on the dance floor is taking the PDA a step too far. I quickly covered myself up and made the suggestion we take this somewhere else. But there was nowhere else. I was rooming with my friend and he was also rooming with his friend. He then took me by the hand and led me out to what I thought was the exit, but it turned out to be the men's toilet.

Yeah. To each their own, I say.

In all my years on the scene, I seemed to have bypassed toilet sex. Not sure why, perhaps it has been an unconscious rule set long ago. Perhaps it was right up there with exposing myself on a dance floor. Well rules are meant to be broken. And besides, this is Europe and I'm on holiday, it doesn't exist, right?

Wrong! As the door closed and the dicks came out, I thought wow, we're really doing this. As drunk as I was, I could see this toilet had seen A LOT of traffic that night.

Can I get a mop and bucket to cubicle three?

The guy was a little shorter than me, so it was difficult in the confines of the toilet cubicle to get a really effective blow on my job. I thought, why not? This can't get any worse, so I sat down on the toilet to get a more front on experience. Turns out, it could get worse because this lavatory was missing a seat and I sunk further into the toilet bowl than I would like to admit. To add further insult, I was stuck and whatever organic remnants the toilet had not flushed away, were now smeared on my brand new chinos. Not that I actually realised, I was more concerned with the moment the Spanish fire brigade would have to jaws-of-life me out of a toilet bowl. Hola!

Thankfully, all it took was a tug (bwha!) from him to set me free. When it was all done, we left the cubicle, walked out, exchanged numbers, had a brief chat and then I left him sitting on a bench. I sashayed off thinking what a sexually empowered man I had become; a sexually empowered man who had just gotten briefly stuck in a toilet; a sexually empowered man who had the organic remnants of that toilet worked into his bone coloured chinos. But let's not start pulling threads. It was only after walking through Sitges Old Town and the hotel lobby that I realised the brunt my trousers had taken.

I threw them and my dignity away then and there.

*Josephite nun having conniption*

Kiwi #2.

So anyway. The other day I started chatting to a guy on Grindr who made it clear in his profile that he was only interested in dates rather than hookups. After a few messages, Kiwi #2 asked if I wanted to grab a drink and I agreed. His direct manner was refreshing: often all the date conversation happens over messenger which leaves the date void of topics. So I had no real idea who he was or what he did until we met. And that was kind of exciting. He could be a serial killer!

We sent through a few more photos of ourselves to reassure the other our profile pic's were not handsome flukes and arranged to meet that Thursday night.

After having the usual date freak outs, like this could be the last first date I ever have or I could die, I arrived to a very deserted, very quiet bar. Kiwi #2 walked in and honestly only looked about half the size of his photos. Height and weight. And while it was him, the pictures did him waaay more justice.

"Hi, how are you," I gritted, sticking my hand out to shake. I think we both felt the wait staff wince.

I didn't want to be rude (I'll save that for my blog), so we ordered a bottle of wine and sat down.

Guys, I know this makes me the worst of the worst, but he had a series of facial tic's that only manifested themselves when I talked and looked directly at him. At first I thought he was winking at me, but I soon realised they were uncontrollable facial spasms and not his amorous advances. It made it super hard to concentrate on what I was saying and I had to look around the courtyard we were sat and bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from laughing in his face.

We finished our wine and he asked if I wanted to go for dinner. I couldn't risk anymore involuntary twitching over croquettes, so I told him I was going home and we awkwardly left it at that.

Probs for the best.

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