Barely legal

One reason to return home after two days (see It's a little bit funny) was that Ned (see Greener grass) and I planned to go out together on Friday evening. In fact, I was quite tired after getting up early and riding my bike home, but it had been four weeks since Ned and I last met, so I decided to go anyway.

We met in his favourite gay bar one hour before midnight. It was an interestingly diverse crowd and it was certainly a place that I'd visit again. Then we moved to another bar that doesn't close until five in the morning. Ned had asked me in advance to help him a bit resisting temptations, as he has a boyfriend abroad. However, he seemed perfectly capable of doing that himself. According to him there were no hot guys around anyway, except for me. He got quite some attention though, and I was under the impression that I didn't.

Then when Ned went outside for a smoke near closing time some guy walked up to me and said, "Hi there. We've been looking at each other all the time, so I thought I'd just say hello." I hadn't noticed him until two minutes earlier and only looked at him once, but anyway. After one minute of conversation the lights went on: it was five in the morning and the bar was closing.

He asked my age, I said 34; Rodrigo said he was 21 and asked if that was not too young for me. He was going out in my city for the first time this night and lived in another big city, only two hours away by night train. His friend was about to take this night train, but Rodrigo wanted to go home with me instead. As I hadn't slept since I woke up in a far away city 24 hours earlier, I told him I was too tired for any hot action. He gave me a French kiss and asked me again, adding 'please'. I realised that if it weren't for the vodka, I would have said 'no', but I was just too horny. I somehow knew I would regret this later on. Then Ned came back, winked, provided a nice escape which I didn't take, and then texted me.

[5:04 a.m.] Ned: Sorry for calling you a slut just there. That was a joke. ;-) Happy fucking! x x x

When we arrived at my place he asked me what he had said his age was, and was obviously relieved that he had claimed to be 21. He explained that he and his friend had been looking at me all evening, as I would sure have noticed, but his friend said I was probably too old for him. So, when he finally had the guts to start a conversation with me, he added a few years to his age. To my obvious next question he responded, "Uhm,... well... 18. So, it's totally legal!" We kissed and he said, "Why didn't you kiss like that when we were in the centre? If I knew you could kiss like this, I wouldn't have had any doubts." It hadn't seemed as if he had had any doubts at all though. I never kissed anyone with a tongue piercing before, and however I dislike looking at it, I didn't feel much of a difference really. After some more minutes he shocked me by saying, "I want to meet up with you again, and again. If I would have lived in your city, you wouldn't be able to get rid of me all weekend!"

Rodrigo wanted to take a shower together in the dark, which we did. He said he didn't like oral sex either way, but in the hours that followed he did suck me several times. He wouldn't allow me to suck him. He did want me to fuck him and we tried, but it hurt him too much -- same problem every time. At some point I wanted to go to sleep, but he said he couldn't after eight in the morning. So, we took a dark shower again and I tried to fuck him again, which was still too painful. After almost five hours of sex I walked him to the bus.

To my surprise I have no regrets.

It's a little bit funny

I earn more money than I can spend. So, when I applied for a job three years ago I focussed more on atmosphere and free time than on the height of the salary. Strangely enough it's exactly the people who went for the money who envy me. In the remainder of the 2009 I can still take about 55 days off, and my boss is extremely flexible: I take days off literally last-minute if I'd want to, and up to three months in a row.

Now that I bought a motorbike (see Sworn to be mild), I can enjoy this freedom even more and go wherever I want to go. Of course, I could have bought a car years ago, but that's just not the same thing. Moreover, I've never been on a trip all alone: in the last half of my life all of my trips have been with one, and only one, companion. Therefore, I wanted to go on a longer trip alone for once.

The last 48 hours I have ridden a little over a thousand kilometres. On Wednesday I just put a toothbrush, a pair of shoes, and a summer jacket in my case, and left with only a vague plan. This way I could get accustomed to my bike in the mountains, on crowded highways, and in overcrowded cities, while at the same time I could get used to travelling alone.

It was just great. Although it was not that far from home, the landscape and culture were quite different. Most of it is so obvious it's hard not to notice, other examples are more subtle.

Walking an empty street at night in a strange city I was just behind some local adolescent. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with some macabre print and his hair screamed for scissors and shampoo. I bet you know the type. In his right hand he casually carried a boom box that filled the whole street with music. Where I live, teens play music on their cell phones nowadays, which have far more limited volume level -- sometimes new technology is good for everyone.

Still, something else wasn't right and it took me a few seconds to realise that it was the music itself. The boom box wasn't booming much: it played Elton John's first pop hit song 'Your song'. I expected him to fast forward to the next song or change channel, but he didn't. He actually seemed to like this ballad that was almost twice as old as he himself. I couldn't help smiling.

After he -- or actually I -- was out of sight I still heard the music. The next song I heard was Billy Joel's first pop hit 'Piano man' -- almost as old as the previous ballad. I wonder if he knew the importance of these two songs for these two heroes of piano pop.

The contrast between his appearance and his choice of music was perplexing. Even Elton and Billy would have been surprised to be broadcast through the streets by this kid. Little things like these can make my day.

Two taking a plunge

A while ago I wrote a post about seventeen-year-old David from Eastern Europe who was planning to move to my country to study English (see God and gullibility). He also had a thirty-year-old boyfriend here he could move in with. He told me that his boyfriend had shown him around the county last time he visited.

Recently he said he had to come clean with me, and confessed that he had neither been to my country, nor physically met his boyfriend. He had been afraid to look foolish, and when he found out I'm not judgemental at all it was still hard to confess his lie and all the little lies the first one had invoked. I urged him not to move in with his boyfriend immediately and find a place for himself so he would be independent. It turned out he had the same idea.

David loves the English language and wants to practise with it a lot. He's likes reading and writing and he's always got a lot to tell. Next week he's coming to my country for a few weeks, and in two months he will move here to study. There's obviously a lot about to happen in his life. Now, is it just me or does all this indeed scream "Start a blog!"? For what it's worth, I urged him to do so. I explained that if he'd start it just before he'd start his adventure, writing about his plans, worries, and expectations, and then regularly post about what's going on in his life, it would be very interesting for his readers, but most of all for himself. He could practise his English writing skills, get feedback from readers, and enjoy reading back his personal developments and experiences.

I promised him to popularise his blog and to make sure that he had some readers to start with, so please do me a favour and check out the blog of Mr. Fahrenheit. And please comment: not getting any comments is the most common reason for people to stop blogging.

My blog is supposed to be a nice mix of posts about the present and posts about events in my past that shaped me. Being half my age and plunging into a big adventure, David's blog will mostly cover present events. You can imagine that someone twice my age,would have many more interesting stories about his past.

That's why, when my friend Rick became twice my age, I suggested he start a blog as well. He loves writing, and he's certainly got some stories to tell. I recently paid Rick a surprise visit (see A surprise visit), hoping to also meet his wife, who seemed to be a wonderful person from what I read about her from independent sources. Unfortunately, I didn't meet her as she was in the hospital at the time, and not long after my visit she died.

For Rick this was the end of an important era in his life, but also the start of a new one. Although he loved his wife very much, he had always known he was 'queer'. After the tragic death of his beloved wife, he's single again, but now times have changed and homosexuality is not as restrictive as it once was. I think his blog will not only cover his interesting past, but also contain some self-discovery. He's written a few posts already, and knowing part of what is to come I can assure you Rum & Coca-Cola will make a very interesting read.

Sworn to be mild

It's about a year ago that I posted about my sudden interest in motorcycles, and how guilty I felt for not sharing my father's main passion while he was still alive (see Passion between the legs). I wrote that I had just started taking motorcycle lessons.

Consider yourselves lucky that I don't want to jeopardise my anonymity over this post. Otherwise it would have been a tirade against this driving school that abused the exam system in my country in order to get the greatest possible amount of money out of me. I'll settle for a single example.

One example

In mid-September I had reminded my instructor that my personal deadline for taking the motorcycle exam was October first. He said that would be no problem. Nevertheless, it took until late December before I could finally do my exam.

Routinely there is a last brush-up lesson on the day of the test, but the first part was wasted waiting for the instructor who was half an hour late, as was my fellow student. This other student had only gotten notice the prior evening that he had this license exam the next morning. He was ill-prepared. I asked my instructor a technical question about the motorcycle, but the instructor didn't have time to answer it: he was in a hurry because we had to drive to a nearby city where the exam would be given. I was pissed. My exam was postponed because I had to practise all the tricky situations in my own city, and now the exam was in another city? Moreover, the ride to the other city took the remaining time of my last costly lesson.

The communication is one-way: the instructor talks into a microphone while pushing a button, so that the aspirant bikers can hear his instructions in their earphones. This instructor sometimes forgot to push the button. On the way to the test site we didn't get any instructions for a while until suddenly the instructor yelled in our ears, "I said to the left! To the left you assholes!" as I just passed a crossing. He had probably forgotten to push the button at the initial instruction, but now he obviously forgot to release it, and my fellow student and me had to endure a very long, rude, and pointless tirade about how stupid we were. Then we lost him, physically, although we could still hear his verbal abuse. Finally, he found us again and led us to the exam location.

We got off our bikes and he repeated some technical details of our motorcycles, but did so very slowly because he didn't want to finish the talk before finishing his cigarette. In the meantime, I was getting very cold. I asked one standard technical question about my bike that the examiner could ask me, but my instructor didn't know my motorbike well enough to answer it. He finished his cigarette and finally we could go inside. There he said we were not driving all that badly, but I could see from his expression that he didn't mean the 'compliment'.

I fucked up my exam because I was surprised by a tricky bend in a wet and muddy road, and therefore I didn't take the bend the way I had learned I should. If I practised in that city, then I would probably have done this tricky bend a thousand times before. I failed the exam solely because of that one bend where I "could have fallen". The examiner stressed that apart from that one failure the exam went very well; my instructor wouldn't immediately book another exam though. Just for the record: the other student failed the exam too. The examiner didn't allow him to ride because the tires of the bike that he used from the driving school were worn, so he had to use 'my' bike.


The plan

After I spent almost four thousand euro on lessons, my instructor finally booked a second exam for last Monday. Again everything went wrong from the side of the driving school and the exam ride went horribly bad: far worse than my first exam -- or my first lesson, for that matter. Nevertheless, I passed this time.

For the last year I have been dreaming of the super sport bike shown in the picture with the former motorcycle post (see Passion between the legs). However, after discussions with some people and reading many reviews and forum discussions, I realised that I should buy a somewhat heavier tour bike with a sporty look and properties. And so I did last Friday: I bought a second hand bike for twice the amount I had spent on lessons, and the safest protective gear I looked good in.

Yesterday I have enjoyed riding it very much. I booked a big block of time for Sam's visit starting in a few days, but now that he has to stay at his job that week, I will spend it with my motorbike. Once I'm accustomed to it, I will visit Sam by motorbike and make a tour through Ireland and Scotland.

Money and time never were a problem, but now that I have a motorcycle, I feel freer than ever.

An angel on crack

When I was eight years old I played records in my room and sang along with them, but I always made sure no one ever heard it. Nothing much has changed...

...or has it?

Out of tune

In the first year of secondary school the whole class once sung Happy Birthday for a classmate. All of a sudden I heard the sound of something hitting the wall next to my ear and the girl behind me screamed out in pain. Everyone stopped singing and our English teacher shouts angrily at the girl: "Why do you have to sing out of tune, ruining this song for your classmate!?" It was obviously a rhetorical question. Nonetheless, I turned my head to the girl -- maybe also to see where she was hurt. I hadn't heard her sing out of tune. While I turned my head, the teacher yelled, "Look at me when I'm talking to you!" She had actually been shouting at me. I was flabbergasted. It turned out that she had thrown a blackboard chalk at me halfway through the classroom, which had bounced on the wall about a foot from my ear, and then ended up hitting the fingers of the poor girl. Instead of apologising to the girl, the teacher blamed me for that too. From that moment on I always sang far softer than the people around me.

I never sang when there were people around. I preferred singing while speed cycling through empty forests and fields. Whenever my parents weren't home, I sang pop songs in the shower, or at the piano while accompanying myself. I had taught myself to play, and in the sheet music from the library the lyrics were nicely printed beneath the bars. That's actually the reason why I still know so many lyrics by heart.

When I played these piano parts for my parents without singing, they never recognised anything but the intros and the instrumental solos. The rest was meant to accompany a singer, of course. My father could sing, and sometimes I got him to sing along for half an hour. Usually, I guided him a bit with the pace, starting point, and tone by singing softly myself. Whenever he was lost completely I would just take over, until he picked it up again. At these moments I would forget that I couldn't sing and just sing along aloud. My parents told me they were surprised that I sang so well, and my father predicted that I would join a band and do well as a musician. He repeated that too often to me and other people for it to be merely a way to build my self-confidence. Even so, it didn't work. I don't believe that friends and family can ever be objective or rude enough to tell you the truth about your skills. I think any judge at any talent contest will agree with me.


No more nerd

As a teenager I composed music and wrote poems; in college I combined these two and wrote a few songs, but I was only comfortable performing them for Victor (see Butt buddies) and Harry (see Coming out: Harry). In fact, I asked each of them if they wanted to join me in starting a clever three-man variety show, for which I'd write the songs and acts, and participate in the performance. Each of them had too much stage fright and I hate being the centre of attention all by myself, and moreover -- if you recall -- I couldn't sing.

I continued to avoid singing in public at all times except when out in a bar with friends and we were all drinking and singing along with some campy folk songs on the loud speakers. At the end of college however, on Victor's birthday party, his sister had invited a couple of her girlfriends, one of whom had brought a guitar. At some point after midnight the girl with the guitar played a few songs, and then Victor told her that I also played the guitar. I tried to escape, but unsuccessfully. First, I played a few lame campfire songs that everyone sang along with, but when I ran out of those I switched to real music. Since no one knew the lyrics to 'Selling the drama' by Live, I sang it alone, and to my surprise people applauded afterward and asked for more. I performed some more songs and actually enjoyed being the centre of attention for once. Afterwards, the girls all wanted to chat with me.

A few years before, Victor's mother had warned him that I might be gay and in love with him and urged him to break contact with me (see In the cards). His sister simply swallowed everything her mother said and, as a result, disliked me very much. She and I never talked much for the next few years. The morning after the party she said to me, "Jack, you've changed so much for the good. I always thought you were a bit of a nerd, but you've actually developed into a very cool guy!" I didn't feel I had changed all that much.


Stage fright

Much later I was a teacher at a secondary school for five years. It was a school tradition that after the diploma ceremony, teachers of the senior courses put on a 'bon voyage' revue. During my first year there, I joined that group of teachers because I felt morally obliged to do so. However, I made sure that I wasn't in the spotlights too much: my acting is even worse than my singing, while most of my colleagues were reasonable actors. It comes with the profession, I think.

The idea behind this was very nice, but I thought the music was a bit old-fashioned, and that the jokes in the lyrics and sketches could be much sharper. Moreover, while every graduate was mentioned at least once, too often the names were exchangeable. I thought the jokes should be much more personal. Instead of telling them the quality sucked, I wrote some material myself. In the next few years I became one of the main writers of the program, and I got much involved in the music, choreography, and direction. I also created all of the computer graphics which I would project for the sketches. This way, I could stay off-stage as much as possible.

In the third year, however, during the first rehearsal no singers had yet been assigned for the songs. We were just running through a line reading so everyone would be acquainted with the songs and sketches. Someone suggested that, until the parts were cast, everyone in turn would sing a solo part, just for fun. Just for fun, I felt a sudden urgent need to call a pupil's parents. But, when I returned someone remembered and said, "Hey, Jack, you are the only one who hasn't sung yet." And so I sang two verses. Everyone agreed that I had a very nice voice, and so I got a large chunk of the solo selections. As I had written much of the material, I could ensure that I didn't get any really difficult parts.

At the big evening, I sang on a stage for an audience of the sixty pupils of the highest level, their friends and family, and most of my colleagues who taught other levels or grades. Afterward many pupils told me I was the best singer of all, and even the music teacher and a vocal coach told me that they were happily surprised by my "very nice singing voice". After that I was no longer afraid to sing on stage within the confinement of the school.


Fuck the neighbours

My boyfriend Matthew kept giving me negative feedback on the way I sang in the shower. He said I sounded preposterous. So, I rarely sang at home: only when Matthew wasn't there, and softly enough for the neighbours not to hear me. Now that I'm single again I sing a lot at home and -- at reasonable hours -- I stopped caring about the neighbours (see Singing in the shower).

When I told Ned (see Greener grass) I couldn't sing, he responded that it makes him happy whenever people sing, because they are being themselves. "It's not about the quality," he said. And of course he's right. In fact, I feel the same way.

Recently, during a Skype conversation with Sam I had to get something from another room, and returning to the livingroom I had forgotten that my microphone was still open and I was singing loudly. "You didn't hear me sing, did you?" I asked Sam when I got back behind my computer. "Like an angel on crack," he said, whatever that may mean.

A deadly sin [2 of 8]

Among my friends I'm actually often praised for my total lack of jealousy. I think they reach that judgement from my spontaneously supportive stance when other people are doing well, and maybe also from the fact that I didn't complain when my boyfriend Matthew adopted my suggestions for going out and having fun but did so with anyone but me. They give me too much credit: while I'm indeed not a very jealous person, I'm not always free of the feeling. I do, however, recognise the emotion and actively try not to let it influence my behaviour toward other people.

When my boyfriend didn't want to have sex, do sports, or go out with me and did do those things with others instead, I felt a lot of jealousy toward those other guys. Apart from that I can't remember ever having been intensely jealous. Envy, however, affects me more often. Let me list some examples.

1. Small talk -- I cannot do it; I just can't. For me a conversation should be interesting and have a subject, and that's what I'm used to when talking with friends. The topic doesn't have to be heavy or something, as long as there is one. When starting a conversation with a stranger it usually starts with small talk, and I easily get tongue-tied when I feel that we're not talking about anything. That often happens in larger groups. Only when I'm drunk I get better at it, or maybe it's just that the people around me -- who are then also drunk -- are more open and honest so that the conversations actually get more interesting. However much I dislike small talk, it's socially very inconvenient to suck at it. Oh, how I envy people who are great at small talk.

2. Naturally toned body -- Some people I know have a muscular body without doing anything to keep in shape. I have to work out in the gym twice a week just to avoid losing my shape. Gym workouts are about the most boring activities I can think of -- even worse than topicless talk. Fortunately, at least I always feel very energetic afterwards. I think that when you do a lot of sports as a teenager, your body will have some extra basic muscles in later life. Since I sucked at sports (see Long ago: The secret weapon) I avoided all except speed cycling. That may explain why my legs stay muscular even though I don't use them especially much. I do indeed envy those guys who have the same thing with their whole body -- arms and torso in particular.

3. Intimacy -- I really need to find myself a boyfriend. Whenever I saw the interaction between my friends and their partners, I always felt happy for them. In the last few months that feeling is still there, but it also makes me ache with envy. I haven't had that level of intimacy with anyone in the last five years...

4. Singing -- Whenever I hear someone sing live -- someone who can really sing -- envy overshadows joy. I'd give anything to be a good singer. Well, maybe I wouldn't give up an intimate lover -- screw the great body and the small talk. I will write more about singing in my next post.

Mucked up self-image

I've always been quite insecure about my looks. Bullied all through primary school (see Long ago: The name of the game) and plagued by severe acne all through secondary school, where I wasn't very popular either (see Long ago: Blending in), I was generally considered unattractive. However, when my acne disappeared I was popular with girls all of a sudden (see Long ago: Too good). I built some self-esteem and never worried about my looks anymore... until I met Matthew seven years later (see Love in the fast lane [1 of 2]).

Gain and loss

Recently Matthew admitted to me that the reason he never wanted to go to any bar or club after the first and only time we went out together was that he couldn't handle his jealousy. According to him, everyone had been oogling me. In the next eight years he 'surprised' me with snacks about five evenings a week: three frosted doughnuts one evening, two extra large chocolate muffins and a sack of crisps the next, et cetera. A remnant of my muscle co-ordination problem is that I still more that suck at sports and at dancing (see Long ago: The secret weapon), so when I'm sober I avoid either to prevent making a fool of myself. In the first seven years I gained thirty pounds. Then I changed jobs and my new company had a gym, so I started to work out and lost all the extra pounds within a year. Still, Matthew kept telling me how unattractive I was.

I broke up with Matthew, and found out that I was rather popular socially and sexually (see Love in the fast lane [2 of 2]). To my own surprise I could easily date the guys I had always considered completely out of my league. It's eighteen months later now, and now I am once again insecure about my looks. Because of my love for food I have gained a few pounds, but only a few since I still work out in the gym twice a week. My Body Mass Index is still on the lower side. Still, I seem to have lost whatever it was that made me attractive. I can't remember having worried so much about my looks ever before.


Honesty?

Joe told me several times that he thought I was very good-looking, but he's got an ulterior motive, so there's no reason to believe him. When Ned and I were spending the Saturday afternoon at a lake last week, lying in the grass and enjoying the sun, I took my shirt off to get a bit of a tan. Ned then remarked that I had a great body. I cannot take that seriously, of course: he was just flirting with me. When Sam tells me I'm 'wet', I'm flattered, but he cannot judge my looks objectively as he already knows me too well. However, when people are negative about my looks I tend to believe them. At least they are not trying to be nice, so they must be telling the truth.

Last Saturday night the Iraqi rocket scientist came over again (see I'm back). The original plan was to go out together as friends. However, in the daytime something triggered an allergy and he couldn't go out, so instead he came over to my place. In our conversation my gym habits came up and he wondered why I worked out twice a week.

Nadim: Twice a week is not enough to build any muscles.

Jackdaw: Indeed, twice a week is just to stay in shape.

Nadim: But, then you need to have a shape to begin with...

Jackdaw: If I wouldn't go twice a week, I would put on some weight.


Then I found out that Nadim isn't exactly a rocket scientist, in the literal sense that is. True, he had a degree in that direction, but not at the highest lever, as I had thought. His wordplay was the cause of the misunderstanding that he has preferred to maintain until tonight. After a long discussion about religion he said he wanted to hold me. Then he wanted to fuck me.

Nadim: C'mon, let me fuck you!

Jackdaw: Uhm,... no!?

Nadim: Come on, you know you want it!

Jackdaw: I'm more of a top, you know... so if anyone is gonna be fucked, it's you!

Nadim: No, never. Yours just won't fit. Ever! So, come on and suck my cock.

Jackdaw: Sucking mine would be a good start...

Nadim: Nah, I don't feel like doing anything tonight, I only wanna fuck. Nothing else. C'mon suck me and let me fuck you.

Jackdaw: That's not gonna happen!


Sauna

Yesterday I went to the local gay sauna and I never felt less attractive in my life. Most people my age find their dates on the internet, so the crowd in the sauna is generally, but not exclusively, old. Sitting in a whirlpool, as soon as the bubbles started three pairs of hands were touching me underwater, with a total age of at least three hundred years. I gently moved them away one by one. Guys my age or younger seem not to like my looks at all; it seemed to be impossible to make as much as eye contact with them. The only few interesting guys I saw ended up having sex with each other.

I'm both too shy and too polite to touch anyone without any approving eye contact first, but for one of the guys who had actively been avoiding eye contact I made an exception: I touched his chest in the steam room. He was happily surprised, started touching and kissing me, and then told me that he had considered me completely out of his league. Could it be that other guys avoid eye contact for the same reason? The thought alone makes me feel uncomfortable. I cannot possibly judge my own looks, but it feels so arrogant and foolish to think of myself as good-looking.

The guy's kisses were kind of a turnoff, so I moved on. When I was about to give up and go home I noticed a very handsome, young, muscle god. He was with a distance the hottest guy in the very crowded sauna. I looked at him from a distance and he looked back. I thought he acknowledged my attention with a nod, but I immediately told myself I must have imagined it. Nonetheless, I followed him into the steam room. There he immediately touched my abs, took me to a dark corner and gave me a great blow job. It actually felt as if he chose me! When I returned the favour, he whispered, "Wanna go upstairs?"

We showered and continued the oral sex in a cabin upstairs. He was so extremely hot that I got nervous and didn't get as hard as I usually do. Unfortunately, he came far sooner than he wanted to. I didn't dare ask if I could contact him, because I couldn't imagine that he would want to meet me again or to get to know me, and I was afraid to make a fool of myself by asking. Stupid, because what did I have to lose?

The sting

I haven't seen Joe (see Touch of evil) for more than a month now, and that's certainly a good thing. He treated me in a way I won't accept from anyone, but his behaviour was so irrational that it can hardly be malice. Something must have happened to this guy that makes him act the way he does.

During the first few weeks he wanted to come over every day. Routinely, he would eat at my place and, as he refused to go out most of the time, he skyped with his mother and watched the Brazilian news on YouTube while I cooked and did the dishes, and afterwards he chose a film from my collection that he wanted to watch in bed. Moreover, he kept on talking about marrying me and taking me to Brazil. When I asked him why he wanted to stay with me every night he explained that he thought people in love should sleep together as often as possible, that he was afraid of being alone, that he hated his roommate-landlord, and that he had no one else in my country. At night he wanted to cuddle and kiss a lot, and to sleep in my arms. However, when I had a hardon, he got angry with me, accusing me of only wanting him for sex. In fact, we only had sex once: when he wanted a quickie on the first date I refused, but on the second date we had a bit of oral sex and after that nothing ever again. I didn't complain.

Shortly after my trip to New York (see A surprise visit) he came to visit me once. Since then, he suddenly can't make time to meet up with me anymore. He complained that I wanted him to come over every day, that I never wanted to go out, that because of me he had neglected all his other friends in town, and that he hadn't talked with his mother for weeks. I didn't know what to say: the truth was exactly the other way around -- I read back our MSN conversations to verify I was right. Moreover, he accused me of only wanting him for sex, of being pathetically jealous of his friend Xavier, and of being extremely egocentric.

One of the least unfriendly conversations went as follows:

Joe: Hi

Jackdaw: Hey

Joe: I want come over this week.

Jackdaw: When?

Joe: What you mean?

Jackdaw: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,... etc?

Joe: Why you want see me every day? You me suffocate!

Jackdaw: You misunderstood me.

Joe: I know you mean that, and you know too!!!

Jackdaw: So, are you coming over on Wednesday for example?

Joe: Yes

Jackdaw: Do you also plan to stay the night?

Joe: You can only think of sex.

Jackdaw: That's not why I asked it, but then you'll need to get back before sunset because of your broken moped light.

Joe: We still have chance together but if you want sex with me ever again, I never want to see you again.

Of course he cancelled on Wednesday because his friend Xavier -- the friend he mistakingly thought I was so jealous of -- needed his help with something. Halfway the evening he texted me, "Damn, I need condoms!" What a pathetic attempt to make me jealous! I responded, "Why? During gangbangs you usually let dozens of guys fuck you bareback too, don't you?"

Shortly after the last time I saw him, I realised I had two options: forget about him, or be nice and help him with whatever was troubling him -- someone must have hurt him very much because no one in their right minds behave the way he does.. I'm a nice guy, so I went for the second option. I wanted to tell him that, but that wasn't easy. Although he contacted me very often on MSN, he actually didn't have time for a conversation. He texted me every other day, suggesting to meet up, but he always cancelled, whether I responded of not. As MSN was the only place where I saw him, I asked him to 'listen' to me there for just ten minutes. He tried to bargain it down to five, but I put my foot down and he finally agreed under a lot of protest.

In these ten minutes I typed something like, "Joe, a romantic relationship between us will never work. I will stop this farce now, as you seem to have done already, despite of what you tell me. You've been treating me in a way I won't accept from anyone. You tell me you want to make some friends in this country, who can help you with the language, and give you legal and financial advice. I can do all that, but not if that is all you want from me. If you don't want to see me anymore, that's okay. If you do, then let's agree on never having sex together, and let's go out and have some fun soon. But, most importantly, be honest and respectful to me! If you don't, then let's not waste any more time on one another."

He interrupted me several times with wild accusations and sarcasm. When he was done I wanted to hear what the hell he wanted.

Jackdaw: So what's your response?

Joe: No response.

Jackdaw: ?

Joe: Because is 12 minutes already.

He keeps contacting me by sending text messages and starting conversations on MSN. He's always hostile and full of self-pity, but that's his problem, not mine. I finally gave up on him in every possible way.

Being bored and boring

It was a warm and sunny day last Sunday, and there were annual festivities in the village where my mother and her husband Paul live. In the evenings villagers take part in the events, while during the day there are parties for children while residents will have friends and relatives over for drinks, snacks, and more drinks. Even though I know how much my presence is appreciated, I didn't show up last year nor most the years I was with Matthew, so this year I paid a visit.

Whenever I visit them, with or without a festival, pretty much the same thing happens. There are always visitors since my parents have a huge social network. Usually they have a full house, but this time there were only three couples visiting. The conversations seemed to be the same as ever, with only the names changed.

After two hours in public transport I finally arrived at 4 p.m. Paul was sitting in the backyard with a few people, my mother in the front yard with some others. When I made a joke about it everyone moved to the front yard.

My parents live at the exact centre of the village, near the church, pub and supermarket, and they know just about everyone; passers-by always say hello. When a friendly-looking couple did so, the ritual started.

Visitor 1: Isn't that Bob Wilkins? I thought he was a widower.

Paul: No, the woman by his side has been his wife for about thirty years: Angie Edmonds. You must have mixed him up with Bob Jones. It's his wife who died last year.

Visitor 2: Angie Edmonds, isn't she the youngest daughter of Jacob Edmonds, who had a bakery in West Bloomington? I think she had two sisters, Joan and Mary, and three brothers, Ben, John, and Adrian.

Visitor 3: Doesn't Ben Edmonds work as a clerk at the notary's office in Bunsdale?

Visitor 2: He used to. He recently retired and bought this large farm for half a million in Dolbridge right next to Diana and Edward Mortimer.

Visitor 1: Diana Mortimer, the redhead?

Visitor 4: No, that's Diana Brooks you're confused with. Diana Mortimer's maiden name is Holmes. She's a daughter of Carol Holmes whose oldest sister Ruth married Benny Moore, the third son of Cathy and Joseph Moore.

Visitor 5: I think I know Benny Moore's cousin then, Patrick Young. He used to live in East Bloomington, next to this farmer -- c'mon what's his name?

Visitor 3: Yeah, you mean Earl Gustafson, but Patrick Young is not a cousin of Benny Moore. That's the other Young family in Swiglon you're confused with.

Visitor 6: Is there another Young family in Swiglon?

Mom: Sure, with Graham, Pete, Arnold, Elaine, Dolores, and John Young, and their parents Frida and William. Only Elaine has left Swiglon to live with some poet Rick Johnston, the others all still live there.

Visitor 4: Arnold and his wife buy that house on Plum Road together with Fred and Annie Baker in order to share it. That's bound to go wrong: Fred is a control-freak.

Visitor 5: Annie Baker? Is she a cousin of Ray Cantwell who runs this computer shop in Wedgemond?

This went on for four hours during which I didn't say a word, escaping to the kitchen every now and then to help my mom with the snacks and drinks. After behaving myself for more than 243 minutes, I gave in and checked the email on my iPhone, at which point my mother broke the chain.

Mom: Jackdaw must be thinking, "Who are all these people?"

Jackdaw: Indeed, I don't recognise any of the names, and I haven't visited any of the villages that were mentioned for about twenty years.

Then for a very short time everyone asked me about life in the 'big city' and my trip to the 'Big Apple'. That made me feel uncomfortable too: I don't like being the centre of the attention, and moreover it now felt as if they thought I could only join a conversation if it were about me, and that I was being 'interviewed' out of pity. Fortunately, they soon resumed talking about people whose relatives some of them vaguely knew some facts about.

I took the bus back to the train station feeling boring and alone.