Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Wednesday, 28 July 2010

Back by popular demand....my filthy side....

Ok. I'm just going to come out and say it.

90% of people would secretly love to have a foursome.

....Or at least are silently, furtively, curious about it... probably masturbate furiously about it in their spare time. Or office hours depending on how wrong they are.

To my estimation about half of those people would actually go through with it if the opportunity presented itself and about half again would have the initiative... and quite frankly the chutzpah, to actually engineer the situation themselves and make it happen.

To be clear, I am talking here specifically about two chaps and two mademoiselles. Group sex is a complicated thing at the best of times and I haven't got room here to go into the politics of menage a trois (2 guys and a gal or 2 gals and a guy? Very different negotiation and tactics necessary I assure you) or a gang bang (according to urban dictionary it's only a gang bang if, say, 8 out of 9 people are the same gender, any more mixing than that and it's an orgy.)

So a foursome can fairly be called an orgy then... nes pas?

Catalysts for a menage a quatre (choose from the below, combine, add lubrication and stand at a safe distance - or up close. Whatever your penchant):

2 horny blokes who don't mind touching other blokes bits (accidentally or deliberately)

OR

2 horny blokes who are good enough friends that if skin (or cock) contact should accidentally occur it will never leave this room

AND

1 recently corrupted, young and (possibly impressionable)madmoiselle who is a lot less innocent than she looks...

AND

1 seasoned filtherella who enjoys it when people try to shock her and end up being shocked themselves instead.

AND

An empty house

AND

A large bed

AND

Vodka, champagne and aphrodisiac foodgroups....


So, last week SbH asked me in his most innocent tones whether I'd like to come round for a 'romantic' dinner with him....and his friend J (whose reputation, I must say, precedes him as being someone who is quite often naked and takes any opportunity to show off his giant wang) and his new girlfriend G.

Seemingly innocent. Unless of course you know how SbH's dirty little mind works. Which I do.

G, you see, has been going through a process of, shall we say, liberation, at the hands of J and his giant wang.


'This wouldn't be a clumsy and underhand attempt to get G and me into a room together and engineer a foursome would it?' I asked. I prefer the direct approach.

'No....maybe....erm. Well if it DID happen it was just be us shagging in the same room. The only other skin touching would be me and J exchanging high fives....But really we just thought we could get together and chat...you know...'

Chat.

Unfortunately yours truly saw this as a bit of a gauntlet being thrown down.

I wish I could explain why at about midnight, after a lovely, civilized dinner and a few vodkas, the words:

'Shall we go upstairs
..............and play truth or dare
..................................on SbH's bed?'



...just, well, fell out of my mouth.

It was like I was possessed or something. I take no responsibility.

Anyway, to miss-quote Velma Kelly: 'I have absolutely no idea what happened after that. I completely blacked out. I can't remember a thing. It wasn't til next morning when I was washing the cum off my hands I even knew we'd all got frisky!'

I did remember SbH's Mum coming home at some point though. Luckily she was trolleyed, but who knows what she heard.

Oh. And I also remember a few high fives being exchanged between SbH and J. And possibly G and me....

How's that for killing time between seasons?


So finally I suppose there's only one question left to ask.

I clearly have the chutzpah to muff dive. But do I have the chutzpah to publish this post?

Yah, darling.

Monday, 26 July 2010

A blackbird

So...I took the ferry at dawn and watched that strange little parched party island fade into obscurity. I left Ibiza. No place is so big for its boots. It gets pretty small amazingly quickly when you leave...

I was rescued by Dad at a rendezvous point in Valencia and we drove three days straight to get home. Despite the fact that I had clearly got myself into a massive clusterfuck of a skint, ridiculous situation we both secretly quite enjoyed the trip. My Dad enjoys a good excuse to drift around in the car between bizarre tumbleweed french towns at the best of times. The opportunity to wonder around looking for good restaurants in his summer safari uniform (ankle swingers, socks and sandals) makes him positively chipper. So it was all gravy for him.

So here I am back at home.

A large blackbird with an orange beak flew into the house today.

I was sitting alone in the dining room at my laptop (yes, I am trying to earn some money) when it alighted nonchalantly on the easy chair and peered calmly at me through one of its spry little eyes. It winked at me.

‘Cheeky fucker!’ I thought.

Then it hopped twice and ruffled some rather glossy feathers. A fine looking specimen, and unusually for a bird, it seemed completely calm about its presence in the house. Usually birds go ballistic and hurl themselves at the walls, braining themselves in desperation for escape.

My next reaction was to roll my eyes and mutter, 'oh for fucks sake' under my breath, before stalking off to the kitchen to retrieve a tea-towel. A tea-towel is the time-honoured tool in my Dad's household for ushering spooked, confused wildlife that has strayed over the threshold back to the wilderness. One can either flap it around extravagantly, matador-style or discombobulate whichever rodent or feathered friend one is dealing with by shouting ‘FREEZE!’ and chucking the tea-towel over its head.

Anyhoodle, Before I had time to arrange my tea-towel strategy, it had relocated to the top of the kitchen door and then the laundry pile. I cornered it near the coat rack and made a shushing sound at it.

‘Bugger off!’ I said firmly, indicating the door.

And it did. Just as calmly as it had arrived it flew out of the door. I stood for a minute and stared after it, slightly moved, in spite of myself.

It is said, by vacant, superstitious house wives the world over that a bird in the house can mean two things. It is both a portender of death and a visitation of comfort from a loved one. A superstition of course.

Paranoia is the friend of superstition. And in my book superstition is the friend of OCD and my least favourite bane of society… religion. I have no time for it. Superstition is the reason SbH spends his entire time scampering around looking alarmed and saluting thin air whenever he comes to visit me at home.

‘There’s a shit load of magpies round here’ I always tell him, ‘you’re never gonna get them all. Imagine if everyone in the country spent the whole time saluting them. Nothing would get done. I’ve never saluted one in all my days as a country bumpkin, what the fuck do you think’s going to happen?’

He eventually and very grumpily conceded that saluting all of them was impractical, and now (demonstrating a note of stubbornness which is both endearing and reflective of his Irish roots) just does one massive comprehensive salute when he arrives, a general big up to all the magpies in the locale.

I detest superstition. But I must nevertheless concede to finding pleasure at least in the fleeting notion that my Mum popped in to see if I was ok today. She died five years ago on July 26th. And sadly The Ex also lost his Mother two days ago. A lovely, kind lady who lived for her family and had a way of speaking to you that always made you feel she was genuinely interested in your life.

Maybe it was Laura making a little visit.

Maybe it was nothing.

Today I was going to apologise for the radio silence over the last few weeks and regale you with some absolutely filthy stories of what I’ve been up to lately. Glastonbury. The party to end all parties (we literally ripped parties a new arsehole), the big countdown to the imminent birth of my niece. Hell I’ve even taken part in an impromptu orgy. But more of that later, I promise. Today is a day to think of others.

Tuesday, 6 July 2010

Last days in Pergatory

So I tried the Ibiza life on for size to see if it fitted. And hey ho, it doesn’t.
The DJ couldn’t comprehend my logic when I announced I was leaving.

‘But’ he frowned, looking confused, ‘I like you! You’re fun! And you’re my platonic female friend which means I’d look after you – treat you and stuff. Take you with me on jaunts...And You LIVE in Ibiza. Why could you possibly want to leave? If you’re feeling hungover you can go and just SIT in the SEA. Just SIT in it! ‘

Fair point. I’m giving up a shit load of fun here. But this is a conversation between someone who has just definitively found his place in the world and someone who is still very much seaching for hers. Ibiza was, afterall, practically invented by mother nature for The DJ. Skipping happily from one party to the next, with a few cursory hours thrown in each week mixing tunes. Surfing between comedowns on a cocktail of sunloungers, sea, sex and reefers and getting in free everywhere. Particularly if you’ve been doing just that for the last 15 years -the simple life.

Predictably, as soon as I made the decision to leave, it suddenly seemed like a ridiculous thing to do. Where else in nonexistantgod’s name will I ever find myself draped on a sun lounger at sunrise on an empty beach having my head stroked and being fed K off a crucifix by a complete stranger? Where else will I dance bare-foot in the sand with tanned beauties in at a secret beach party and meet Ian Brown all in one week? Where else will I meet a girl like The Dam and feel I’ve known her for 10 years after only a few glasses of wine and a dance in Space? Where else will I ever lie round a pool with such colourful characters as Fat Tony and Sid? Where else will I ever be exposed to the magnificent levels of directionless debauchery achieved when The DJ joins forces with his double-act side kick, The Other DJ (or ToDJ as I will affectionately dub him)?

After their entourage of fans, their stalker Alison and The Dam had drifted off to various other parties, or to sleep I found myself the lone passenger on the drug-addled escapade that inevitably follows a magnificent set played in Space the night before. It had been a hard morning’s lounging on the beach with The DJ's disco ipod speakers balanced on my tummy, sharing a warm Strongbow with ToDJ and scandalizing holiday-makers. (The DJ, wearing an enormous square pair of shades, skin-tight jeans, a wife beater and with his head swathed in a bright red Lawrence of Arabia style turban, tried to hammer our beach umbrella into the sand using an empty Lambrusco bottle. It smashed and flew in all directions, spraying small children and elderly ladies with shards of glass. No one was amused).

‘Fuck you’re clumsy’, said ToDJ, scooping lumps of glass out from between his legs onto the sand.

We were hot so we decided to go and sit in the sea for a bit. I found myself sandwiched between them as they each tried to out-do one another with bizarre stories of the antics they’ve been up to when everyone else in the world was at work. They were like two ten year old boys trying to impress a new girl at school.

‘This one time, yeah? Right? ….we were round my old house off our tits and we, like, decided to make the stairs into a slide and skid backwards down them in a sleeping bag.’ This was ToDJ. ToDJ is 35….

The DJ: ‘This one time I like got on Old Street tube in rush hour and on a whim decided to pull the emergency cord. The whole train stopped and the guy had to walk the length of all the carriages to sort it out. And what I loved…. Right? Yeah? ….. is that at no point in the whole exercise did I like think ‘oh shit what have I done?’ …. I just thought, Brilliant! I’ve always wanted to do this and now I have. Now to deal with it. So I took my sunglasses off, admitted it was me, said I was a prick and apologised to the whole carriage…then got off at the next stop’

DJ’s are a menace to society. And they wear sunglasses on the tube.

I have also never met someone as supremely confident about his abilities with women, as the DJ. So far since he's been here he hasn't actually managed to get laid - so I'm concerned that his confidence is a little misplaced.

'I'm not saying I'm perfect', he said, leaning back on his sunlounger like a fucked roman emperor and beaming at me from under his shades, 'It's just that I'm that little bit better than everything else that's on offer.'

Oh the stresses and strains of being an international superstar DJ. The main focusses of their daily concerns:

1. Who do I know who can get me into Cocoon free later?
2. Where are the next drugs coming from?
3. Am I going to get laid in the next 24 hours?
4. Are my leggings outrageous enough?
5. Where the fuck am I?

The last 24 hours have, as I predicted, been the most fun. I thought about staying. But when I peered ahead into the fog of parties and recoveries I just felt a bit bored. Turns out I left more at home than I knew I had. When I decided to call this part of the blog ‘Lost in Space’ I had no idea how appropriate that name really was.

I don’t want to be lost any more.

Sunday, 4 July 2010

Chunt

Oh how amusing it is to see grim-faced pasty Brits sitting crestfallen on sun loungers on an over-cast day such as today. Evil of me, I know. But I can't help glancing down smugly at my epic month-of-sun tan and knowing that I've ticked one of my must-do before I'm 30 boxes. Namely, obtaining an inch-deep all-over golden colour that doesn't peel.

In spite of myself, I have to admit, I can't help liking The DJ. He is infectiously happy-go-lucky and on closer inspection (despite my undying commitment to first impressions) has a heart of gold. He's exceedingly clever and rather more self-aware than I gave him credit for initially. He has wheedled his way into my affections with his enthusiastic rants about genomes, NLP, quantum physics and the architecture of sound. I love a geek on a rant. He says a DJ set is like playing chess - you have to choose your moves. You can't just jump from here to there...and you've gotta love that.

The young lady he drove here with and who subsequently went home several weeks ago was charming but, admittedly, a bit of a thicko, (Apparently on the way down here she managed to reverse his jeep up -actually onto - the central reservation, and at Glastonbury she asked him if Stevie Wonder was blind. Oh. Holy. Jesus) so I can't blame him for being on shag patrol like a horny terrier. He is in Ibiza after all.

I must also give him snaps for coining the phrase 'Chunt'.... I conjugate:

I chunt
You chunt
He/She it chunts....
etc

To Chunt.
To Cunt Hunt.

Well, I don't know whether he coined it, but I like it...

The DJ and I are united in our mutual reservations about The Boss, who is impressing me less and less with his antics each day and quite frankly needs to get a clue, or I'm offski.

'I hope he doesn't fuck it up where you're concerned,' said the DJ last night, 'I'll be pissed off if he does....'

We shall see.

Saturday, 3 July 2010

Crimes against fashion

The DJ owns leggings.

Not just owns. Wears.

They are hot pink, and shiny. No, not shiny, spangly. He is not gay, to clarify...

Baring in mind my continuing crisis about being here, I set myself the mission of making the most of things and found myself at, respectively, a DJ mag party at Space and a secret beach party in the middle of nowhere. The DJ certainly knows a few bigwigs and is a fantastic blagger.

To get in the mood, I thought I'd slut it up a bit in an ambitious and revealing All Saints number from yesteryear (v short, basically a mesh of posh rope to obscure my boobs and a belt to hold it all in place). The dress only really works if you go commando - a vpl is not a good look, and well, if these bimbo tarts can do it I can.

Except I can't.

Thanks to my post-Glasto lurgy I'm quite sneezy at the moment, and, yes....sneeze + too much rum and coke = unexpected mini wee.

Not fucking pleasant. And when I ventured to the club toilet to sort the situation out (barely more acceptable than a Glastonbury longdrop) I was faced with an empty toilet roll holder. No loo roll. No pants. You do the maths. How do the bimbos manage?

So my tip for the week: Never go commando when you've got a cold. You'll get a chill in your kidneys and piss yourself.

Manana

Friday, 2 July 2010

Too much of a good thing

Dark rooms filled with vibrating, thumping people. Left foot. Right foot. One foot goes down in front of the other. Free drinks. Guest list. Free list. Murder on the dancefloor. One set two sets. Big gig. I-like-techno-don't-like-disco-give-me-big-beat-underground-Balearic-sounds.

It's all the same, said Dad.

Leftfield. Cow bells, tom toms, bongos, strange smells. Beer heads, fuckheads. Try hard girls in heels and headbands.

I'm fucking bored. My early-20s party girl dream. It should have been filed under 'not as good as I thought it would be' years ago...

'This DJ's seminal. The best thing to happen to the house scene in a decade.'

Right. Why's he playing the same old shit the last guy did then?

And the sky comes down to the ground. Letting go with love.

I'm glad I'm not her. Or here with him. It's then I realise I'm on the toilet. Cos I needed a rest. Reading my text messages from yesterday to feel like it's home - need you...want your head between my legs. A cuddle. Some baked beans.

Things aren't what they used to be. I'd rather be in bed with a good book. Or some friendly banter down the Lion and Lobster, than here with you. With all of you.

It's not that I don't like to party. I just don't like this party. Something's missing. I think it's her. I think it's them. I think it's him.

Ok fair enough. I kind of like this tune.
It's coming in.
Yeah....

I think I'll go home now.