Tag archieven: Valentino

Character based on New Benjamin. The mocca coloured mixed race yoga student of Italian descent.

Pandajaar

 



“Wat een rare soep heb jij,” inspecteer ik de kom die naast mijn puntzak frieten staat.
Louka kijkt verlekkerd naar de dikke brei met halve erwten. “Fantastisch he? Niet die gladde troep.”
Al maanden nemen we elkaar mee naar onze favoriete hang-outs. Louka weet inmiddels waar ze de beste bitterballen serveren, en ik waar alle afgestudeerden flirten. Louka is verliefd geworden op de kater van mijn koffiebar, en ik op het fotomodel van zijn koffiehuisje. Een pandajaar is een jaar waarin je geen seks hebt, en Louka is mijn panda vriend. Totdat ik mij, zo waarschuwde Louka “weer ieder weekend door negers laat nemen”.
“Wanneer loopt je panda jaar af?” informeert Louka.
“Negen maart. Ik ben er ook wel aan toe moet ik zeggen.”
“Je hebt inmiddels ook je doel bereikt.”

Valentino vergeten. Done. Benjamin vergeten. Check. En sinds Louka mij erop heeft gewezen dat ik vriendelijke begripvolle mannen, nog niet half zo geil zou vinden, is ook Het Raadsel opgelost waarom de meest vluchtgevaarlijke, bindingsangstige exemplaren in mijn bed terecht zijn gekomen. Of waarom het met de lieverdjes niet werkte.
“Ik heb trouwens nog een reden bedacht waarom ik geen relaties meer heb: Marieke.”

Marieke, mijn grote sterke BFF, een jonge vrouw met een baan in de wetenschap, die ik echter vooral roem om haar stevige armpjes waar ik graag mee knuffel. Ik verzorg haar als ze bij mij slaapt, en zij houdt van mijn katers als “mama een weekend weg is”. We hebben een eigen wereld, een eigen taal, en mijn familie noemt ons bij onze fantasienamen.
“Ik hou onvoorwaardelijk van haar. Van Marieke en van de katten.”
“Je hartje zit vol.”
“Precies. Alleen zuidelijker, daar is wel ruimte.”

Louka krijgt een berichtje. Een meisje wil haar Grieks op hem oefenen.
“Bofferd. Schrijf haar maar terug dat die behoefte geheel wederzijds is.”

We rekenen af en hij bekijkt mijn boodschappenlijstje.
“Hoeslaken? Ik moet nog een nieuw dekbed. En uit interesse – waar koop je zo’n blocnote?”
Het is een roze papiertje met een print van poëzieplaatjes.
“Al het beddengoed is in de aanbieding. Zullen we samen naar de Hema gaan?”
De natte sneeuw snijdt in ons gezicht, maar we weigeren voor die honderd meter een muts op te zetten.

Na een paar minuten Hema staat Louka weer naast me, vier-seizoenen dekbed onder de arm. Ik bestudeer lege vakken.
“Roze….” tik ik de pakketten af. “Alleen eenpersoons. Rood. Alleen eenpersoons. En deze set hebben ze sowieso alleen voor kinderen.”
“Dat is toch veels te lief voor jou,” reikt hij mij een blauw hoeslaken aan in de goede maat.
“Ik hou van lief,” verzucht ik. “Maar in maart ga ik mij gedragen als de hoer van Babylon. Iedereen denkt ’t toch al.”
“Precies. Own the part.

“Zijn we onze date toch nog tussen de lakens geëindigd,” concludeert Louka op de roltrap.
“We doen wie het ’t eerste vies heeft!” roep ik iets te enthousiast. De tegenliggers kijken verstoord naar mij. “Als ik win, is het wel ’t einde van de vriendschap. Echt jammer.”
“Ik heb gezegd negers. Meervoud. En ’t moet wel for real zijn. Ik wil geen verhalen over iets dat de eerste de beste Griek ook nog wel klaar zou spelen.”

Buiten piept zijn telefoon. Het meisje vond het een leuk grapje.

 

 

 

De Junta

Eerder blog in deze serie: de reunie

Famke vindt me bij de kalenders.
“Deze is wel leuk niet?” wapper ik met een Loesje week kalender, “Ik hou altijd alles bij, met jongens enzo.”
“Loesje? Dat is hyper aseksueel.” Famke trekt een onsmakelijk gezicht.
“Ik wil eigenlijk weer een Pluk kalender,” beken ik. “Pluk van de Petteflet. Zeker nog erger.”
“Pluk is in elk geval een jongetje.”
Onderweg van het station naar ons café geeft ze toe dat het ook wel iets voor haar is, een jongenskalender.
“Ik bedacht gisteren nog dat er maar één man was in 2012. Maar toen bleek dat ik allemaal kansloze kerels was vergeten. Dat zou mij met zo’n kalender niet overkomen. Weet jij trouwens hoe die jongen heette?”
“Je 22 jarige? Hoe zou ik dat moeten weten. Heb je hem niet meer gesproken?”
“Als ik de naam niet weet? Hoe sms je dan? Hoi. Komma.”

Geheel in lijn met mijn nieuwe dieet, waar ik mij sinds 1 januari met religieus fanatisme op heb gestort, gun ik mijzelf 1 wijn.
“Dieet?” informeert Famke, als de ober mijn tosti brengt. De kaas druipt tussen de boterhammen uit.
“Alles waar geen 13 oliebollen inpassen is voor mij een dieet.”
“Oh. Ik rook gewoon nog steeds.”

In onze studietijd walmden we ons studentenhuis blauw. Ik stopte halverwege mijn twenties, maar Famke liet de sigaretten alleen staan in de jaren van haar aan-uit-knipperlicht-wat-een-lul – laat ik hem David noemen. In plaats van David een laatste klap in zijn gezicht te gegeven, stak ze weer een sigaret op.
“Ik kwam David laatst tegen en reageerde net zo dramatisch als jij met Valentino. Ik vroeg bijna Met hoeveel vrouwen op dit feest ben je naar bed geweest? Bijna. Met hoeveel ontglipte al.”

“Valentino is finito. Net als Benjamin. Ik ben over ze heen, sinds – ”
Laat ik hem Rafael noemen.
Sinds oktober ben ik verliefd op Rafael van tv, die mijn emotionele huishouding flink heeft opschoond.
“Met wortel en tak uitgeroeid echt. Ik heb geen gevoelens meer voor Ben en Faalentino.”

Famke, die elk seizoen en elke feestdag wel een herinnering aan David koestert, overweegt ook op therapeutische basis verliefd te worden op Rafael.
“Hij schrijft toch? Dat doet het altijd wel goed bij mij. En het is een knappe man. Zo’n beroemdheid is ook lekker onbereikbaar.”
“Precies. En Rafael heeft bovendien een vriendin.”
“Wat? Verdomme, daar begin ik niet aan hoor. Heeft hij geen broer?”
“Nee. Wel een vriend. Die heeft het met half Amsterdam gedaan.”
Famke Googlet – laat ik hem Bas noemen – en klakt goedkeurend met haar tong.
“Zou Bas op ouder vallen?”
Ik verzeker haar dat Bas ongetwijfeld een zeer brede smaak heeft.

“Ik heb laatst ook iets gehad met een barkeeper, Sasha,” voer ik het aantal name dropping incidents nog verder op. “Hemel op aarde, net als Jonathan en Nathan. En niks meer van gehoord. ”
“Ook een cheater dus….” concludeert Famke.
Om Jonathan heb ik tot twee keer toe jaren getreurd, en voor Nathan heb ik mij door een existentiële crisis gesleept, waar iedere vrouw boven de 15 zich kapot voor zou schamen.
“En geen traan om Sasha gelaten,” poch ik. “Knap hè?”
Famke knikt en veegt mijmerend over haar tablet.
“Rafael is net Teflon, niets blijft meer plakken. Ik hoop dat Bas ook zo is.”

 

 

Sex, chocolate and Valentino

 

 

His cock filled my greedy mouth, my eyes closed in concentration and bliss as my lips closed around  the shaft and slid up to the tip. It was sweet and salty, the taste mixed with my saliva. I could hear his moan and feel his fingers playing with my hair. My arms were wrapped around his legs, soft pale skin of the inside of my forearms hugging to the smooth back of his thighs. I massaged his butt cheeks. Gropingly.  Manly. I slid a pinkie down through the crack and drew it back with the other fingers before it reached his asshole. Valentino was finally mine.

When I woke, I wasn’t eager to remember this dream. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t like last Thursday, when you entered that restaurant, with a woman your own age, and me finishing my over-the-top long and chatty lunch with a colleague. You were seated at the only available table, right next to us. I worried whether you would refuse the table, but you stoically started to peel off your coat and smiled. Your cool effectively hid your feelings, and puzzled me.
“Hi, how are you?”
Your voice was still clear. Unharmed by three years of beer drinking, short nights and other crimes of student life. Your skin was smooth, still that remarkable blemish free caramel color. Like a Milan fashion model after Photoshop. I stuttered “I’m fine.” Or “Your hair is different.” Or  “I still love you.” And in response to whatever it was I managed to say, you replied: “Yes, it’s a lot shorter.”
The half long hair was gone, the short black cut was parted to the side. Every hair in place. And your eyes. Darker, darker, darker than I remembered. Your eyebrows black and sharp. This was Bambi with cheekbones. I couldn’t hear the words of my colleague. I watched her mouth moving, and waited for it to stop.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right,”  I reassured her, although I had no idea what she had said, nor remembered what we had been talking about for hours. “But I have to leave now. And I really mean now.”

No matter how much you are in love, or heartbroken, there comes a point where you start to cope. My first lover after Valentino, was unintentional. With the messy break up with Valentino still fresh, I knew dating was pointless. No one would draw out the same feelings, and I wasn’t going to pretend to be okay. I was an emotional wreck, and was gearing up for an old spinster-life, when I met a student who was Valentino inverted. The same age, from the same neighborhood and he even knew Valentino as I later found out. But instead of the double digit numbers Valentino was devouring every year, this boy had a shy virgin-like quality. No bad boy. He didn’t drink a drop when he had to drive home after staying with me. The only thing he had in common with Valentino were the large brown eyes. He left me after a few weeks, for a girl with a hamster. They’re together still. Thrown back into love sickness over Valentino, I just couldn’t make myself see anybody else again.

2011.
A few days short of my “Panda year” celebration, of not having sex for a whole year, I met Samuel. Within half an hour I kissed him. That same night we had sex. And again. And again. And again. And then never again because big black bad Samuel wanted me to take a backseat in his life, presumably to be on call for when he felt like IT. I had not even accepted that from Valentino, let alone that I would settle for these whore-for-free terms with anyone else.

And then? A normal relationship with a nice guy. I love you, you love me. We took holidays together. Met each other’s family. It was my ultimate attempt to have a relationship that existed in the real world, instead of a man who by now only existed in my heart. I didn’t know where Valentino lived, nor who he was seeing, but I knew Valentino had pushed me out. Look Valentino! I have a relationship! And a once in a lifetime ride through dark and dirty sex that I could never have had with someone I had been in love with for years.

2012
Nubian Prince! Sweet, dark and smart. And I remember thinking, all horny, “He’s only 22.” when he was fucking me. Only to realize then, that he was even younger when we were lovers years ago. (For the story it would be good to say “that’s when I came”) Aside from The Southern Region, Nubian Prince also lingers very closely to my heart. But has effectively, and in a gentle manner, made it clear that our perspective is limited. Unfortunately for me, he got a girlfriend shortly after the 2012 edition of our sex liaison had started.

In the lobby of the restaurant I collapse, I squat down, and lean my back to the wall for support. I drop my head, chin to my chest.
“I told you I’ve written a book right?” I pant, trying to explain my speedy exit and chaotic behavior. “About the 19 year old student I fell in love with?”
“No,” she says. “You didn’t, but now you do.”

The fireworks in my belly, the nauseous feeling that I don’t remember having for years. I imagine how I will stop eating, in response to this rendez-vous, and get real thin and turn into a ghost/writer. But I don’t. I get an unstoppable craving for chocolate, the darkest I can find. And salted cashews. I have even started fantasizing about mixing the two together.

Just until the preferred substitutes come along.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

Letter for Valentino

 

 

 

From June 2008 to November 2009 I kept a diary about my crush on a 19yo student (Dutch American Diary, scheduled to be published Summer 2012) . This was my last letter to him. It starts with the Winter he was born.

 

Christmas Eve 2010

Dear Valentino,

I remember that Winter. The icy wind blew through my leather jacket, my New Wave hairdo was squashed under a black beret. The peanut butter on my sandwiches hard and tasteless in the windy school yard.
And I remember the green eyes that enchanted me, in the early days of January. His lovers kiss on a hard bench in the middle of the city. The intimacy of my warm attic room. The smell of fresh croissants my mother brought us.

I remember a warm meadow, the flowers, the cows. The path that we took, and that  he was no longer mine on the way back. It would take me three diaries to get over him, and even that was just because I didn’t write much. At some point you get bored listening to your own grief.

For almost two decades, I was convinced that my past was frozen like the sandwiches. Captured in my diaries for me to re-read when my memory failed. That new lovers would come and go, but that nothing could change the past.

Until the day we met, 2,5 years ago. Suddenly I saw that year in print.
“See, I really am 19,” you insisted, as you waved your student card.
The year, the month, the date. A baby, born from a mixed-race marriage, that opened it’s brown eyes to the world when the green ones enchanted me.

The notorious Winter had changed, for now it was when you were born.

On the crowded days we flirted.  At quiet moments you shared. Your childhood. Your pains. Your traumas. Unnamed secrets that I never told anyone, nor ever wrote them down. With every incident I thought: “Where was I?” The truth being that I knew exactly where I was. Where I lived. With who. What my so-called worries were. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should have been there with you.

Early this year you emailed me care-free: “I would love to see you. Can we meet?” I responded, yet a silence followed. A silence that I knew could last up to eight months. Your impossible behaviour. Never a yes, never a no.

A week after your request it was your birthday, and I sent you a few loving lines. You returned with a few neutral ones, and then you finished it: “I think it’s a little sick you still remember my birthday.” Without any regards, love, or kiss, your name ends the short message.

When I think of you the tears always come before the thought. Still catching me by surprise at night.

This is not an eloquent post. It may not have any value to the world, but you will find it if you ever look for it. And I need this to move on.

The year of your birth will freeze back  to the story my diary tells.
Tonight’s  white Christmas Eve will be the last time I cry for you.
And hopefully my future will be one with green eyes and warm meadows.

Love,

Lauren