the constant nymph

thursday i very easily convinced atif and marky to brave the freezing london cold and enjoy some warm sweaty .discotec mojo. .discotec is a loverly funky house club which allows kids like me to start my weekend one day early. of course we had to walk around for like a half hour looking for an atm machine, since mark -always- forgets to bring cash. i swear to god that boy never takes out more than £20 at a time.

the woman on the door is always so bitchy to me. i’m all like, hi i’m eric from xy magazine and she’s like ummm whose list are you on and i’m like ummm laurent [pronounced low-rent] and she’s all like who? what? i zon’t zee your name here. this happens every week, and sometimes she even refuses to let me in for free. the problem, of course, is that the owner’s name is pronounced la-raunt’ and not low’-rent. i mean, fer real, don’t you know who i think i am?!

we celebrated our arrival [???] with champagne, and very triumphantly mounted our leather throwns in the phucked up lounge. within moments the paparazzi descended, asking us to pose for pictures, sign autographs, etc. as per usual, atif and i immediately formulated some complex lies. i said that he was the pakistani midwife from holby city [a role i immediately made up, having never even seen the show], and he claimed i was his american agent or something. check next month’s attitude or refresh or some other gay magazine for the full interview.

anyway, i got seduced by a lovely south african lad named gray, who strongarmed me into a date. it’s like, we exchanged numbers rather than exchanging fluids. what a novel concept, this idea of dating.

after work on friday, then, i made myself all purdy, and nervously met my date. although i’ve been in like 600 relationships with 580 boys [don't ask], i’ve only had a handful of first dates [as in, a date with someone you hadn't already slept with]. and, yes dear fan, even eric gets a bit nervous on a date.

we nervously smooched hello before traipsing over to the nft to see a film. i was hoping for something foreign, something edgy, something which might provide some stimulating fodder for dinner conversation. instead, we sat through nearly two hours of a silent film from 1928 called the constant nymph. the cinema was packed with people who were probably alive in 1928, as i guess the prints for the flick had just been re-discovered and re-restored and this was the first showing of this award-winning film in some 10 years. i know, i was excited too!

the film moved in slow motion, with all of the actors drastically overacting, and the incredibly tame plot dragging along—worse than any panto. at least there was a skilled pianist banging away in corner, otherwise i surely would’ve dozed off. the date went very well, thankyouverymuch.

thought you said we were going to a tropical island?!

check it, even better than word on the street:

the best disc to listen to is probably volume three, which travels from manor house [around the corner from chez evijhserf], down green lanes towards turnpike lane. the project is so fascinating, but i think the interviewer could do a much better job… perhaps asking some personal questions would connect the listener to the setting, scene, person and music much better: what do you do for a living? where are you going right now? how was your day? what does this song mean to you?

what did you call me?

my apologies for the lack of updates… it’s been a madcap weekend [starting last wednesday], and, for some unknown reason my left hand is sorta paralyzed, presumbably a pinched nerve of some sort, making typing a bit difficult. bring out da gimp!

wednesday i found myself having a sober and innocent night out with flatmate mitch to .heaven. grooved for a few hours to some sweaty r’n'b [as per usual], but no seducing of breakdancers, snogging of bartenders, or pulling of brazilians.

thursday was marky’s twenty-seven-teenth birthday, and we glammed it up as only marky knows how. by the time we exchanged prezzies, finished dinner, and hit up friendly society, all of the usual crew were in attendence—.gregiño, atif, andrew, karl, darian—with the notable exception of mark the birthday boy. he disappeared around 9pm as maria was preparing him a special birthday cocktail…

ignoring his mobile as we searched around soho for him, eventually the rest of us decided to head over to .discotec, where we all got a little bit too wild, several of us getting chucked out, and yours truly being naughty naughty naughty in ways i’d never been before. mark resurfaced in the early morning in vauxhall, sans mobile, sans wallet, sans birthday gifts. this was after he had his car stolen last saturday and got the sack last friday. i’ve done my best to convince my friend that a fresh start at london life is in order.

friday i woke up without the use of my left hand… it’s same sensation as when one falls asleep on one’s arm… tingling numbness. and, no, it’s not what you’re thinking—i use my right hand for that. had a productive day at the office, and after work i took a nap at the cinema before meeting atif for drinkies at friendly which was teeming with cute laddies… it was if the runways of fashion week had trapdoors dropping models into the damp back-alley dungeon of friendly.

entering .popstarz, it was like tiptoeing through a landmine… exes left, right and center. i carefully navigated the cloakroom queue to avoid french sid, the lovely lad whose heart i apprently broke last autumn, then hid in the r’n'b room from grand theft auto gerry the cocky scally lad who i’d last romanced on the beach at brighton pride. i spent most of the evening juggling several scottish lads… the first was jamie, a shy moppy floppy student with an overprotective fag hag. working every angle, i eventually made it past her defenses and dragged him onto the dance floor. as we pogoed around to ladytron, he says, ooh, look, it’s that actor, that cute one from holby city! i feign ignorance as i glance over to see the two davids, one the lovely star-trek-loving, pet-shop-boys-admiring, gay-politico blogger, the other the lovely tinseltown-starring, holby-city-midwife, freshly-back-from-brazil actor. actor david sees me, runs over and mounts me, shocking not only me but of course my pull jamie. actor david and i swing around in drunken slow-motion, and i think he was trying to climb onto my shoulders when we toppled to the [sticky, red stripe-covered] floor.

we snogged for a good few minutes [fireworks! wedding bells!] before i remembered that jamie was still there. well, his fag hag came over and beat me up, jamie stormed off, and i resumed catching up with actor david. i proposed marriage to him [or maybe just a honeymoon] as blogger david looked on with mock horror. i think actor david and i make a lovely couple, and our grandkids would be amused with the story of how grandpa and grandpa first met.

saturday met up with flatmate mitch & chris, darian & duncan, .gregiño and atif at ku bar, where we started off valentines day with blowjobs from the twinkalicious cast of the eurocreme porn spy boy. the boys were even friendlier than during the premiere, and we sat and flirted and chatted. some of the porn boys were very much up-their-own-asses, some were surprisingly down-to-earth and intelligent. it was most amusing to watch the usual 16yo bulgarian/spanish/brazilian/polish bar staff getting angry at the porn boys for stealing their limelight.

afterwards we swam over to the very swank great eastern hotel for a very posh cocktail party with marky. we entered the giant marble-floored aurora bar, picked up some rose-petal martinis and settled into a plush valentine-heart-shaped-pillow-adorned corner table, we sat in silence, the lovely rumble of 100 cocktail conversations echoing around with some sultry house music licking underneath—each of us beaming with glee at this sex in the city moment. the party was intended as a gay professionals networking event, but it was more of a gay mafia cruising event. there was new money, old money, £85 haircuts, freshly dry-cleaned tee-shirts, proper handling of martini glasses and lots of expensive snorting in the toilets.

i wish we stayed longer, but, after shmoozing with just a handful of wealthy interesting cuties, alas we decided we needed to dance with some unemployed non-english-speaking students. we swam into .heaven, once again convincing .heaven-hating .gregiño to join the mayhem. quite trolleyed at this point, i spent most of the evening toying with the rent boys, catching up with manchester rory and having 430-in-the-morning conversations with student ian snuggled up in the r’n'b room. it went something like this, what’s your name again? when did i meet you tonight? where are you from again? are you a student? followed by a half-hour snog. lather, rinse, repeat.

tonight i had a menage et trois dinner party with the two scottish davids. oh, such wit, such humor, such good cooking. even with my gimp hand i gobbled up lots of good eatin’. we enjoyed some brazian desserts and caipirinhas as we overanalyzed some pet shop boys videos and gossiped about neil and chris. it seems i saw more of the davids when they lived back in scotland than now that they’re just down the road. typical big city living, i suppose.

i’ve become addicted to socializing—not the drinking, the clubbing, the pulling, the gossip—the blissful combination of it all. staying in for just one night in london means missing out on a possibly amazing night—meeting amazing people, sharing conversations with friends, finding romance, absorbing a very unique slice of culture and society. and blogging it all is one of the only ways i can ensure that i remember this wicked week.

you put your hands up on my hip, when i dip, you dip, we dip

andy fouldes is an incredibly talented flash application designer, winning flashforward awards nearly every year. he has loads of amazing, addictive flash toys, but his recenty foray into political commentary is just plain brilliant. check ‘em all out [little squares at the bottom].

you can say it in a letter

over the holidaze, i regretfully became addicted to the american drama queer as folk. i adored the original [british] version—lusting after nathan [justin], sympathizing with vince [mikey] and picking up tips from stuart [brian]—and watched it a dozen times at least. i still get chills when i hear hold that sucker down, the show’s anthem.

after buring my head under the trendy cultural bandwagon sands for years, i dove in head first after christmas, and since then i’ve watched the entire first three seasons.

in the same way that scally mancurians identify with coronation street, vacant californian bimbos [aherm] sympathize with, say, sunset beach, queer as folk provides characters, storylines, situations, dialogue which echoes my queer core, or, at the very least, the social life dripping out of it.

i wish i could blame the show for my recent brazenness, hedonism and decadence. the show is filled with incredible drama and in-fighting, the boys seem to go out to babylon every night of the week, everyone does drugs and has tons of casual sex, and life is generally peachy keen for all of the gay boys as they bounce around toronto manchester pittsburgh.

chris is this crazy cropped-hair wannabe breakdancer, who i found building-a-box in the middle of the heaving bootylicious r’n'b masses of .heaven on wednesday. we had an old-fashioned dance off before retiring to a comfy couch and having a heart-to-heart. within minutes we were pouring out our hearts, getting to the nitty-gritty, what’s been your longest relationship and i’m the type of guy who doesn’t wait two days to call you and no, i’m not innocent, but i do have a good heart. none of the usual b.s.—just honest talk. didn’t sleep a wink wednesday night.

friday i met up with marky for our usual balans/friendly society routine, before checking out playtime at egg. blagged our way in, only to discover that i had cum across promoter steven and deejay grant at an afterparty in islington last month. the gay mafia does exist, and it would appear that i’m part of it.

the bloke who ran infamous hedonistic afterhours party trade took his millions and opened egg, but it hasn’t really been catching on with the rebellious discerning polysexual clubbing masses. perhaps because it’s located in out-of-the-way-oh-my-gawd-i’ll-get-murdered kings cross, perhaps because it’s shiny and new and people fear that that equates to pretentious and expensive. the other time i’d been there it was ridiculously pricey, empty and i found the staff to be amazingly unfriendly/miserable.

stepping into the club am freitag, though, it was obvious it was going to be a great evening. playtime tagline is jacking house! and, well, that what it was. i felt like i was back at 111 minna in san francisco, dancing to some wicked breaks with allison and stacy on the podium. bumped into long-lost val and a few familiar boys… by the end of the night, though, it seemed everyone was annoyed with me commenting matter-of-factly after each track, man, that’s some jackin’ house! or wow, that’s some jackin’ house! or do you know what this is? jackin’ house! god i drive jokes into the ground, no wonder i have to bribe my friends to play with me.

one by one all the lightweights retired, and i found myself strolling over to fiction around 5am, before enjoying a decliously scenic yet entirely too long taxi journey from kings cross down to vauxhall, for a:m at fire. afterhours clubs are fun when you’re with friends, but dreadful when you’re alone. in a normal club, it’s easy to fend off the advances of boys on the pull. body language, moving away, looking away—these are all signs for them to back off. in a drug-fuelled den of sin like fire, the only way to get rid of the scary man humping your leg is to beat him off with a stick. bad word choice—you know what i mean.

ran into my delicious brazillian boy from a few weeks ago, joao, who declined my advances, proudly introducing me to his boyfriend. spent part of the evening chatting with some cracked-out 16yos, having a fascinating history lecture from stuart, a shirtless silver-haired 60yo clubkid, and left after i realized i’d spent a good £12 in the toilets, buying gum, lollies, cologne and, well, just washing my hands. no jiggy jiggy!