Friday, April 29, 2005

On losing my virginity

I just realized, I can't remember the name of the girl to whom I lost my virginity. She was quite pretty, great hair, and the smallest nipples I've ever seen.
It all started at a frat party. The vodka had been burning its way through my veins in search of my loins. I was bored, and I was looking for a fight.
Someone pointed her out to me and mentioned that she had just broken off with her boyfriend. I stepped up to her, smiled the million dollar smile and said: "Hi, you don't know me, but I hear you just broke off with your boyfriend. So how about you and me having sex together tonight." She calmly looked me up and down, smiled and said: "Ok."
The world froze. Time stood still. This woman was supposed to slap me. This woman was supposed to call for back up. This woman was at the very least supposed to give me a sarcastic come-back that would crush my infantile ego. Instead, I stood there, looking at this beautiful young woman as two awful truths dawned on me. First, this woman was not playing by the rules and second, I was going to get laid.
And so I did what every other red-blooded male on the planet would do. I panicked. I cannot exactly recall my carefully-crafted reply, but it might have sounded something like: "Urgh.. pflt...sstyyou do?" And so I asked her to come get me when she was ready to leave the party and returned to my friends. (Just because I was going to have sex with her, didn't mean I'd have to forego the more pleasurable company of my mates.) What followed was a desperate search for a condom. Which had the pleasant side-effect that all my buddies knew that I was finally going to get laid.

A few hours later, the woman who was soon to be my sexual mentrix, and me, were riding her bike home. As far as I can remember we actually managed to have a decent conversation about absolutely nothing, both carefully avoiding the sexual smorgasbord that was lying in wait for us. But as those who know me well know, things never go smoothly for me. So in the middle of the moonlit Kalverstraat, she jumped off the bike, sat on the side-walk and started to shake her head. I carefully enquired as to the reason of this sudden, and ill-timed jest. Her exact words were: "I am not ready for this." Who the fuck cares whether she was ready or not! I was! I mean my hormones had been ready for a goddamn decade. I was carrying a loaded gun and had no one to shoot. But, ever the gentleman, I told her that it was okay, and I walked away towards an imaginary sunset. My long coat was flapping in the wind, and I remember Frank Sinatra bursting into "Strangers in the Night", inside my head. The walk home took me a little over four hours.

But it didn't end there. A week or so later, she called me, and invited me to a party. Now I can remember absolutely nothing about the party anymore, which either means it was boring as hell, or one of the best parties I ever went to. All I remember is her sitting on the side-walk, a good six hours later, shaking her head and mumbling something that sounded like: "I am not ready for this."

But it didn't end there. It was time for action. I bought a bottle of good wine. I think I actually showered, and one evening I unexpectedly showed up on her doorstep. Half a bottle later, she was sitting on a cushion opposite me on her bed, crying her eyes out with some schoolgirl sob story about being dumped by her boyfriend. Blahblahblah trying suicide with birthcontrol pills blahblahblah getting her stomach pumped blahblahblah just needing a nice man to take care of her blahblahblah and finally we got to the sex thing.
She disappeared into the bathroom and came out dressed in god-awful red flannel pajamas. On enquiry I was notified that she believed in dressing well during daytime as much as during nighttime. But who cares, they came off.
The next morning I woke up to find her crying again. Ever the gentleman I extended her the courtesy of listening to her blab again about her fucked up life. Until finally she said: "You better go, and not come back." I tried to kiss her but she turned her cheeck towards my face.
And so I did what every red-blooded male in the world would do. I found myself a telephone booth and spent a fortune in quarters, telling all my mates about the experience. I never saw her again. And however much I rack my brain, I still cannot remember her name.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005


You May Be a Bit Antisocial ...

Antisocial? That may be a bit of an understatement.
You think rules are meant to be broken - and with gusto!
Having no fear, you don't even think about consequences.
But people love you anyway... you've got a boatload of charm.

That is such bullshit. I'm an incredibly nice person. Everybody loves me. I love everybody. (Except for that asshole Kev who keeps posting apologies for some imaginary wrongdoing. God I hate that motherfucker. Have you seen his site? Crapola all the way.) I couldn't harm a fly. And if you don't believe that. FUCK YOU asshole. I know where you live!

You Will Die at Age 49


Not bad, considering your super wild lifestyle
Want to live longer? Try losing a few bad habits.

Ehm......... I knew that!

Your Inner European is Irish!

Sprited and boisterous!
You drink everyone under the table.

There might be some truth in that.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

My fantasies

My Inner Hero - Warrior!

I'm a Warrior!

I'm courageous, straightforward, and charismatic. I'm a born leader, but I'm also not afraid to face danger on my own. Nothing stands between me and victory... nothing that lives to tell the tale, anyway. If you need someone to charge into battle for you, call on me.

How about you? Click here to find your own inner hero.

When I was a small boy, my heroes were Tarzan and El Zorro. I had this recurring fantasy of me being the leader of a great legion of superheroes, aided by these two characters as my two loyal lieutenants. I had two uniforms, one consisting of a black cape and mask and one consisting of underwear. It never occurred to me that it would be kind of strange for hundreds of superheroes to choose a 4 year old as their leader. In this fantasy, women were naked by default. There was a group of "a hundred naked women", with nothing better to do than hang around a 4 year old dressed as Zorro. It wasn't a sexual thing. I just enjoyed being around naked women. In fact, I still do. Once in a while my sister and my mother would show up in my fantasy and they too would have to be naked, once again proving that Freud indeed, was a genius.
As I grew a little older I upgraded to Conan the Barbarian and James Bond. I ravenously devoured all of Ian Flemmings books. I had this little stint with Sherlock Holmes, but as much as I appreciated his investigative skills, I just couldn't picture him brandishing a heavy machinegun, or beheading multiple enemies in one stroke with his mighty two-handed sword. My fantasies changed like-wise. In my dreams, I started running around deserts and forests brandishing a hughe variety of swords and heavy caliber guns. Women were no longer naked, but mostly dressed in a tasteful Victoria's secret outfit. And all this I did immaculately dressed in my dinnerjacket or ..... well.... underwear.
Nowadays, my heroes are Carl Gustav Jung, Ali Sina and Theo van Gogh (a grimy Dutch filmmaker and columnist shot, stabbed and beheaded to death for criticizing islam.) But in my fantasies...... let's just say that women are still in danger of hypothermia. And for the guys out there: We know what we fantasize about. Things don't change much do they? Let's just keep it our little secret.

Monday, April 25, 2005

Growing Old

My 36th birthday is rapidly approaching and I'm growing old and I'm going to die.
Since with my current life-style, living beyond 72 would be an impossibility, I guess it's save to assume I've passed the mid-point in life. I'm not as quick as I used to be, my body needs more time to recuperate. I cannot study for 18 hours a day anymore. My childhood dreams of becoming either a priest, a professional hitman, a gigollo or a world-reknowned scientist have turned to ashes.
I'm growing old and I'm going to die. And boy, do I love it!
First off, I don't have to compulsively sleep with every woman I meet. Which is a great relief! The lines in my face are setting and when I look in the mirror a grown man stares back at me. I never felt so goddamn sexy in my life, and in some inexplicable way a woman's character, intelligence and zest for life have become more important to me than her breast size, and willingness to sleep with me. Women get wilder as they grow older. The: "Don't do that.", and "Ouch you are hurting me.", seems to have been replaced with: "Oh baby fill it up!", and "That hurts so good!"
Finally at 35 I got my act together.
If I were to die today, it would have been good. My worse enemies, and my greatest friends would die with me. The boy-who-didn't-want-to-go-to-college; The boy-who-refused-to-fit-in; the man-that-could-not-sleep-with-the-woman-he-did-not-love; the-boy-that-wanted-to-save-the-world; but perhaps most of all the little-crying-boy. We'll stand side by side facing the final loving judgment. And we might look a little defiant, for guys, they aint got shit on us.
As far as material possessions go, I don't think my inheritance will amount to anything. My house will go back to the bank. Mickey will be taken care of by friends. My car might be worth something but not enough to cover the funeral bill. I'd like to have a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of vodka in my coffin. Just for the road, you know. I would also appreciate it if someone told my mother that the vibrators and lingerie she found while snooping through my cupboards, were not for my personal use.
I might die. But I also might live. As far as I can see it now, things can only get better. I might lose my house and possessions, but who the hell cares? The world is a big place.
Maybe what is really important is that tomorrow, on my birthday, I will be spending the day with the people I love. Not my blood, but maybe my soul nonetheless.