Maandelijks archief: januari 2012

White lies, dark truth

 

His kiss was passionate yet controlled. Powerful enough to impress, but soft enough not to hurt. I was relieved he was a good kisser, yet I was equally relieved that my toes were not tingling, my heart was not leaping out, and I still knew my own name. In other words: I wasn’t in love. Good for me because David was married.

Thirty minutes before this very welcome snog, David asked me: “Am I too old for you, Lauren?”
He knew I had been with younger men.
I blushed, and David probably thought I lied when I answered: ” I have no preconceptions about age.”
Benjamin. Valentino. Noa. Nubian Prince. Samuel.
They were little devils laughing on my shoulder, when David questioned me. One of the young ones yelled: ” Ask about the skin David!”
But David didn’t care about my preference for his dark skin. Nor did he ask why I was blushing, or who all those boys were on my shoulder.

If you have to choose between black or white, what do you choose? (black)
Between a brown student and a blond? (brown)
Mature African, or Amsterdammer in his 20s? (African)
One night with Denzel or marriage to Ian Somerhalder? (Denzel. And yeah you should google Ian. He’s hot as a pepper.)
And in return I asked the angels:
” Would I go for a mocca skinned bi-sexual or fair heterosexual?”
But they all laughed because they knew that wasn’t a question. I love bi-sexual men.

I suffer from inverted racism where my ability to love and to lust increases when the men get more exotic. And my willingness to deal with being dumped, hurt, left? Off-the-charts when I’ve fallen in love with black man. I have regrets and played the blame game. I’ve cursed men for their insensitive behavior, lousy timing, or their inability to feel or fall in love.

But Benjamin, Valentino, Noa, Nubian Prince or Samuel, will always be forgiven.
And the only regret I have, is that I didn’t sleep with all of them.

 

White lies, dark truth is a book I found and ordered today, about mental patterns and why we have them.

Top three kissers

A man’s kiss is like his penis; the owner is usually clueless how it rates. Whether he’s good or bad. If you are aroused by it, or disappointed. If it’s inviting you to surrender, or forcing it’s way in. Even if he has missed 24 dental appointments and had his penis broken in three different places, he will still think his kiss and cock are the stuff that dreams are made of.

We all know what bad kisses are. So I dived into the Google to find out why it is that some men kiss so lovely. What makes them so special? The first thing I stumbled upon was the Kama Sutra, sharing with us 8 different kisses. I read it, conclusion being that what good kissers don’t do, is read the Kama Sutra. Applying even one of these eight, is sufficient to banish a man from the female Universe for life. That the Kama Sutra is an Indian marriage manual (not a dating manual) makes it even more cruel. Don’t get married in India, unless you like getting your face sucked off.

I tried reading another article on kissing but stranded on page 2. You can read it here, if you like. It does indicate that sucking of someones face is a bad idea, as is forceful kissing. Things most women will agree on.

Here’s my personal top three.

3. Valentino

From the moment he walked into my yoga class, to the moment we kissed in his student room;  1,5 year. He wasn’t 19 anymore, he wasn’t seeing someone else anymore. Valentino had more experience, than I hoped to get in life time, and I expected him to take initiative. He didn’t. When I finally laid my head to his shoulder, and we kissed, I expected him to be passionate or pushy. He wasn’t.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sweet, feminine, kisses he gave.
“ Your kisses are so soft!’ I ruined the moment. “ I m sure you hear that all the time.”
He smiled and said: “Every now and then.”

The rest of his sexual behavior was less puppy like. More like a war where he conquered,  I defended, and he brought out the heavy artillery. Some of his tricks even worked and I did lose more territory than I wanted.

Gentle feminine kisses do not mean that someone is of outstanding character, nor that he has the best intentions. Yet you will always remember him, as if he did.

2. Mc. Dreamy

Just like Valentino, McDreamy was half Indonesian. Once a doctor, and now a performing artist, he had an ability to bring out emotions. It was in a bar on our first date. He ordered the same drink I did, twice, as if he was a bit shy. I leaned over and kissed him, and he responded. Silken, loving, without a hint of aggression or lust. I seldom cried tears that were so pure. Free from grief.
I still don’t know what happened.

 

 

1.  Jonathan

You’re 16. So is he. You kind of like him. And then he kisses you.
[pause] [pause] [pause]
Wow.

No, I wasn’t inexperienced, yet I don’t consider myself kissed, until I met Jonathan. I didn’t fondle, didn’t have oral sex, didn’t give head, until I met Jonathan. His patience, his gentleness, his commitment. That boy could seduce whole convents to give up their marriage to Jesus for a night with him.

My hunger to experience his tender, healing lovemaking again, has pushed me on an immoral kissing spree, kissing every man that remotely reminds me of him. Only to show up empty hearted. It is never Jonathan.

But ever since then, every time I kiss, something happens to the man. Some smile in silence. Some verbalize their admiration. And some stand spellbound, and utter just a simple wow.

 

 

Winter fairy tale:
click here for a letter that includes both my time with Jonathan and Valentino
Or select their names on the right side bar.

 

 

Love interest

 
 
 
Who am I kidding? I miss you.

After a silent evening your DM popped up. A stormy Saturday, I was alone, writing. Our week long Twitter affair had filled me with a warmth that sustained in your absence. You were probably in a bar with friends, or out meeting girls like I suggested you should.  Soon after your miss-you, we were back to fifty Twitter messages per hour, waving back and forth. Around midnight I went to bed, ritually hugging the phone close to me for our final messages. You spooning up behind me, virtually. Your fingers were exploring every part of me, and I pressed my thighs together. My hands kept typing on the small cell phone.
“ I consider writing you a long email, explaining why I don’t want sex,”
Real life was closing in around us.

You’re not getting a kiss out of me, you man-eater!
But you laughed when I kissed a married man, the same day you and I met online.
You can recognize me by my funny hat.
The most unlikely banker in whole Amsterdam.
Half an hour early? Great! More time for sex!
Your flirting was infectious. For reasons I cannot remember I showed you a small can with two emergency condoms (you insisted that we would now have to use them) and we talked about pubic hair. You didn’t know shaving it was an Islamic habit.
“ But does it stop growing, at some point?” you asked.

I was firm when I concluded there was no physical attraction. Rude when I said I liked smooth-young not  beard-young.  You hugged me goodbye, and gave me three kisses, the way we Dutch do. I asked if I could still sex-text you at night.
“ I was kind of hoping you would.”
The man I had not been physically attracted to, stayed in my email inbox, on Twitter DM, and we  sms-texted that stormy Saturday.
“ Go to the city and meet some real women,”  I said. “ I have nothing more to offer than a hug.”
There was no jealousy when you took my advice.

No I don’t know why you’re not attracted to me.  I just know that I like to wake up with your DM. I like sharing exciting/funny/scary things with you the moment it happens. Okay that sounds lame right?

No Berke, it doesn’t sound lame. Because that’s exactly how I feel when I wake up, and what I share. It’s because of you, that I am completely comfortable being alone on a Saturday night. And I’m enjoying our affair, even though I can see how it’s crippled by my lack of feelings.

God is cruel. Allah is cruel. Or maybe I’m just a self-centered person who has physically shared herself with one man too many when she wasn’t in love. Not really in love.

It’s hug day! I m going to have to hug you all day! Shall I come over?

Your DM. Just now. I delete a paragraph of this blog, erase all written proof why you and I are never going to happen. I remove the honesty that could make you take back your proposal, or otherwise turn you away from me.

“ I would completely love that!” I reply.

Yes it is me. I am a cruel person.

 

Made my bed

Someone suggested talcum powder; to rub it on the two squeaking planks, that were supporting my antique bed. I didn’t expect it to work, yet my boisterous white bed, that I would have kept even if the whole street could give me an alibi for every hour I tossed, turned or tingled with pleasure, became quiet. Now I really had the perfect bed. Enjoying the new-found silence I mused on how much luck this bed had brought me. It really had been years since I had slept with the wrong men.

Nathan. I ran into him again a few days ago. For the first time, dating back to 2007 Anno Domini, the American didn’t even bother to pretend he liked seeing me and only said hi after I cornered him and his suitcase with my bike. I didn’t get a kiss. Nor did I find out, in those hasty two minutes of formalities, where his hostility came from. Were the rumours true and was he back with my ex-best friend Lara? Or had he heard that I had spent a whole night drinking with the girl he had betrayed for over 5 years?  She was an expat from the Middle East, and I met her at a party last December. I affectionately nicknamed her Cleopatra.

Nathan and I had initially broken things up after a few months. I cried an afternoon, but the tears dried up. I stopped talking about Nathan and signed up for a dating site. And it was in this treacherous, year long interbellum of our relationship, that I dated two other questionable men.

Luca. The Italian photographer. I’m not in love with you. We’ re not having a relationship. For someone baptized a Catholic, he was remarkably truthful and rude. But maybe that was because he had become a Buddhist. The hedonistic pallet of wooing and courting, which would have served us so well in our afternoons of lovemaking and wine drinking, had been replaced with telling the truth. A habit I despised. Along with his beer drinking in bed.

M50 aka “the spy”. I don’t recommend dating 50 year olds. Especially not when they have a belly, still smoke, and you yourself are a 35 year old Yoga Goddess. I really don’t. But if you have to, then please check his kitchen cabinets for herbs, if his profile claims he likes to cook;  root the dishwasher for double wine glasses; verify the bedroom for long hairs that do not match your colour. And get the fuck out of his camera surrounded apartment (“Those are for the jewelry store below”) when his insurance agent insists that your British boyfriend is an Israeli. Do not postpone your departure until after you have located the armory.

January 2009. Despite the labyrinth of unpacked boxes, my new house oozed happiness. It had not been my choice to physically separate, my ex and I had been good housemates, but now that I had my own place I loved it. Even the trauma of Nathan finalizing things, for good this time, was wearing off its sharpest edges. Cleopatra described her break-up with Nathan as the worst thing she had ever experienced. It had taken her a year before she started dating again. For me it would be 9 months, including the loss of the friendship with Lara when she started dating Nathan behind my back. But in July 2009, with a new house, new best friend and an antique bed that I had painted myself, I was ready. That same month I had sex with South American surfer/rockstar A.

Kissing a linguist, stripped down to my waist under the streetlight.
Spooning up to a runner, cold, hard and bony.
Considering sex with a closet case gay.
A car salesman.
Yes, I made mistakes since my come-back to the dating market. But they never made it to my bed and we never had sex. Those faux pas were frozen in that comfortable zone where they make good anecdotes, not tragedies.

Tonight I’m going out on a date. He’s closer to 50 than 35. More belly than bony. He’s married, mischievous and could very well be a spy. Yet I’m confident that whatever happens, my bed will repel any foul play. I am safeguarded from the Nathans, Lucas and spies of this world, for as long as my bed remains.

Your gaze wanders back to the part where I was stripped down…. Hey, it was Summer, okay!

 

 

Voor hen die ringen dragen

Pakistaans? Arabisch? De vrouw met de volle lokken en olijfgetinte huid sprak in elk geval Engels, en bombardeerde mij onder de vuile blikken. Ook haar boomlange gay-best friend, met wie ik aan het begin van de avond nog erotische fantasieen over Ian Somerhalder had gedeeld, negeerde mij aan het einde van de potluck party inmiddels vakkundig. Vanaf de Tiramusu, was de buffer tussen ons  vijf meter en een clubje pratende expats. Ik sloot mij zwijgend aan bij een conversatie, om de  gastvrouw te zeggen dat ik naar huis ging, toen de Egyptische schone het woord tot mij richtte.
“ You know Nathan and Lara right?”
Mijn laatste slok witte wijn proestte in de gootsteen van het kookeiland. En dat was nog voor ik wist waar deze Cleopatra mijn ex-minnaar en ex-beste vriendin van kende.
“ I heard they’re back together again,”  zei ze toen ik mijn mond afveegde.

Nathan had tijdens onze affaire een relatie, naar nu bleek dus met deze Cleopatra. Hij bedroog haar met mij en willekeurig 37 andere zakelijke contacten, kroegmaatjes en exen. Cleopatra vindt een sms, smijt Nathan eruit, ik kom erachter dat hij aan het pimpampetten is met mijn beste vriendin. Het was allemaal jaren geleden maar de pijn droop ook op deze avond, na therapie, nieuwe vriendjes, en eindeloos vallen en weer opstaan, tussen onze verwensingen en vloeken.  Buitenechtelijke relaties blinken zelden uit in openheid, slurpen tijd, veroorzaken bergen verdriet en eindigen er meestal mee dat iedereen elkaar hoer noemt. Dat doe ik tenminste.

Cleopatra en ik sloten de gelederen. In een stille hoek van de keuken hieven wij het glas. To us. To love. May Nathan rot in hell. May Lara give him herpes.
Deze dingen verzin ik nu, want in werkelijkheid ging er zoveel drank doorheen dat ik geen idee heb waar we allemaal op hebben getoast. Ook alle geheimen die ze mij vertelde over Nathan ben ik goeddeels vergeten, hoewel ik mij nog herinner dat ik bepaalde dingen nipt voor haar wist te verzwijgen omdat ze haar zouden kwetsen. “ Had ik u maar eerder gekend, Hellenistische Heerseres, nooit zou ik u hebben bedrogen!” Ook dat wist ik voor mij te houden, dit keer om haar niet de stuipen op het lijf te jagen.

Het was aan die keukentafel dat ik mijzelf beloofde dat dit de eerste en de laatste keer was, dat ik mij moest schamen voor wat ik had gedaan.  Nathan’s excuus kwam nooit verder dan “ It’s complicated”  maar ook “ Mijn vrouw weet ervan.” , “ Wij liggen in scheiding.” Of “ Wij hebben een open relatie,” zou voortaan niet genoeg zijn om mijn stringetje uit te doen. Ook dat soort dingen wil ik uit haar mond horen.

Voor wie dat wil kan ik een stuk schrijven, over hoe wij (alleenstaande vrouwen) echt niet altijd zitten te vlassen op je echtgenoot. Wij hebben onze verplichtingen, carrieres, vriendinnen waar we elke mogelijke intimiteit mee delen. Zelfs vakanties, donkere kerstdagen en de druilerige zondagmiddag hebben we naar volle tevredenheid van onszelf ingevuld.  We zitten niet te wachten op een vent. En al helemaal niet op een single die naast ons nog vier andere kippetjes bespringt. Dan hebben we liever een getrouwde man, die het gewoon met zijn vrouw doet.

En jullie hebben een huis in een buitenwijk, deeltijdfuncties, een ivf tweeling en een zoontje met adhd. Dat is een investering die beschermd moet worden. Zodra één van jullie hele dubbellevens aanlegt op Twitter, Secondlove of de cruisingstrook van de A2, waait dat kaartenhuis om voordat de hypotheek is betaald.

Als je een vaste minnares zoekt voor jouw echtgenoot of vaste vriend, neem dan contact met mij op. Met pasfoto & aanbevelingsbrief altijd antwoord. Ik wil maar één relatie, maar bi-seksuele mannen mogen ook samen.

Verder ben ik straight as a doornail dus ik stap niet in jullie echtelijke sponde.
Al ben je de Koningin van Panama.