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Monday, October 09, 2006

Learning Latin The Hard Way

In the first year of blogging, you're really just finding your voice. Setting your stall out. Trawling your past for interesting stories to captivate and intrigue your fabulous audience who just happens by because you accidentally mentioned 'Alistair Appleton naked' and Google went mad.

In the second year of blogging, you skip through your daily life exclaiming 'Ooh, I could blog that!' to anything that happens to you. Mercilessly repackaging situations, pinching ideas and conversations wholesale for tbe amusement of the hypercyberinterweb.

By the third year, you're actually putting yourself into situations where you think 'Oh now this'll make a grand story!'

* * *

I've been a bit down of late, as you know. I was hoping to put it down to Seasonal Adjustment Disorder, but there's a gorgeous new line of kicky little jumpers in Zara this season, so who dares be depressed its the weather's gone south. Instead I have the fallout of a long term relationship. Four years! That's forever in Gay Years. Come on, you see how fickle we homothexuals are: one minute we're exalting the Spice Girls as the second coming, next we're baying for Geri Halliwell's head on a pencil-thin pike (or - as we usually know it - 'Posh Spice'). It's a long time for we Gentlemen Who Have Two Copies of Brokeback Mountain Because The First Starts Glitching Around 20 Minutes In. Well, it's a long time for anyone, but I'm just saying that we boys are a little more easily distr- ooh, look! Kittens! Which seemingly helps when you're trying to cheer yourself up.

One of my friends has a great saying: 'put yourself in the way of fun'.

It's gradually becoming a motto. Although I have oft mistaken the words 'in the way of fun' to be 'in any passing boy who pauses long enough to tie his shoe laces'. Initially I thought it was terribly constructive thing to do, but last night I had a dream where I had sex with a midget. Honest to God. A freaky little man, and there was me bouncing off him like a Pontin's trampoline.

You don't have to be Freud to note this probably means my subconscious is worried I'm partial to nailing anything at the moment. Standards are things that the Royal Mail sticks to, not me.

* * *

So then came the priest.

Literally honest-to-God. A priest. We met in a bar; I was reading a book, he was drinking a pint and we fell into conversation. He was hilarious, had tattoos, talked about ordering the communion wine from Sainsburys. We got on like a polyester wig too near a cigarette. Very, very attractive gentleman. If we'd had someone like that in my parish, maybe I wouldn't be the Godless little oik I am today.

We were several doubles down when somehow these things often turn to matters of the boudoir. I'd assumed he was celibate; no idea why. But what was suggested we did was not even close. I was slightly taken aback to be asked to be taken back (grin). Although I'd already had a conugal visit that very afternoon with a gentleman caller: I'd popped in to see my Boy - the affair - on the lunchtime and we'd had urgent, fabulous sex on his office floor. There's three girls who work on the floor below him and I'm sure they heard every guttural sound, and in a few cases, whoops. He likes to whoop. It's very endearing.

But anyway, the priest - very persuasive gentleman - tried to inveigle me back to his. He was very good at talking me around and I tell you, he could save my soul any time. But something in the back of my head just niggled the whole way there, becoming worse when we lay down on the bed. Although his bedroom was a riot, all mirrorballs and crucifies. It was like the set model for a Madonna stage show, but with nicer throws and watched over by a couple of choice portraits of Pope Benedictine and the Royal Family. And as I lay there being kissed, my mind wandered slightly: 'How cool with this be,' I pondered, 'blogging about how a Catholic priest accidentally licked my affair's dried love-muck off my pods while I was being stared down upon by a picture of the Queen Mother! That would rock!'



Was this why I was doing it? Just to blog it?

Oh fuck.

I snatched my coat off the floor, stamped my boots on and left. Sharpish Running for the last train with the fear of God in me.

* * *

'One should put oneself in the way of fun. But only if you're 100% sure' I think shall be my new motto.

I've since apologised to the priest, and I hope he forgives me. Weird - asking a priest's forgiveness for not having sinned.

It's been a weird old time. What seems to have happened is I've bypassed part of my brain that's taken out the 'should I?' and replaced it with a 'can I?' sometimes followed by a 'can I get a decent story out of this?' And that's not really fair on anyone now, is it? Pah, another reason to be woefully introspective.

But hell. If being chased around a bedroom by a tattooed priest with a bottle of rosé isn't God's way of saying 'For My sake, start having fun!' I don't know what is.


Gaymosexual said...

OH! I have had a similar experience, my priest wanted o spank me across teh altar. I ran away too.

He didn't happen to live in the Victoria area did he and have an American accent??

Tom Williams said...

"He didn't happen to live in the Victoria area did he and have an American accent??"

I'm guessing Kentish Town, personally.

Anonymous said...

Definitey a sign. I wish someone would try and persuade me like that, sounds like a skit from a top shelf carry-on ;)

Inexplicable DeVice said...

Ooh! It's my first anniversary today. Two more years and I'll have to find a priest of my own. Knowing my luck though, he'll try and duck me in a pond or burn me at the stake...

At least you did manage to get a story out of the situation, despite him not "accidentally licking your affair's dried love-muck off your pods"... Heh heh!

klee said...

"Do it for the anecdote value."

I've lived by that maxim for years. Sadly no priests have come across my path (or chest, for that matter) though.

CyberPete said...

Having the Queen mother staring down at you in the act is a huge turn-on don't you think?

I'm not talking from personal experience



Lee said...

I now fear you, Pete.


I'm wondering if a picture of Princss Anne or Camilla Gorilla would have gotten you in the mood a bit better?
He sounds like he was a sexy beast....

Spike said...

We got on like a polyester wig too near a cigarette.

Fucking excellent.

Reminds me of a bleary night down the Taxi Club.

mainja said...

just to be different i'm going to ignore the whole priest affair (no pun intended) and talk about blogging...

i find it facinating how much my relationship with blogging changes as time goes by. and as my audience changes. i now have a small community of readers that i think of as friends, and so, as a result, my blog has turned into a bit of a group email to friends, which is bloody boring. sometimes i hate how borning it is. but other times i'm thankful for the ability to get it all out there.

odd indeed.

CyberPete said...

Moi scary? Lee, you were the one checking out the tramp a while back

I insinuated other things


Anonymous said...

What? No strobe lights? No fog machine?
Sounds like you were almost making Madonna's next video.

Anonymous said...

odd that everyone is fixating on the priest while I am unshakingly focused on zara.

kicky little jumpers? they have a houndstooth cape this season.

houndstooth. cape.

Tickersoid said...

Does this mean we're not going to hear about your bunk up with a midget priest?

Ellie said...

Fabulous! Fabulous! Fabulous! You do glitter! xxx, e

Adrian said...

Towards the end of last year, for about 6 or 7 months, I went through a phase of shagging international guys, purely to notch up a list of countries I had 'been in'. Once I had been there once, I didn't need to revisit (unless they were very special, thank you Brazil).

I notched up: Italy, Brazil (many times), France, Spain, Malaysia, Latvia, Russia, Japan and Austria.

When I met my boyfriend (the Austrian) my thoughts were totally on his nationality. And he turned out to be great, and I'm still with him.

So I say take the chances, even for anecdote sake - who knows what'll happen? And if nothing else, at least you have that anecdote.