Erotic Flash Fiction, February 2015: Overheard at the Gents of a pub in Brixton

I hear a voice with a Cockney accent coming from inside the cubicle: "I'm gay but I don't take it up the arse," followed by a muffled reply that I fail to decipher. The Cockney voice again: "Come on. I'm queer; you're queer. Get your fucking knickers off and bend over." Another muffled reply, heavy breathing, rustling noises. Losing his patience, the man with the Cockney accent raises his voice: "I fancy you. You fancy me, don't you? Now then... bend over!" The panting gets louder. I wash my hands… and leave.

Erotic Flash Fiction, January 2015: On a London bus

I thought I was the only person sitting on the top floor of the double-decker. But a muffled sound behind me made me wonder. It was a night bus. I was immersed in the mysteries of the crime novel I was reading. I heard the sound again. It was a gasp, a rustle. Like the sudden sprint of a frightened mouse across the carpet. Distracted, I turned my head to find out indeed that I was not on my own. There were two other passengers on the upper deck. A young woman sat on one of the back seats with her legs spread out in the air. She was wearing leopard print stilettos. In front of her, on his knees, a man was pulling to the side the front of the woman’s panties, showing under her tight mini-skirt. He was smartly dressed. He pushed his head towards her, sticking his tongue out. Neither of them made eye contact with me but it was obvious that they were aware I was looking. The woman gasped again arching her head backwards.  When I saw the young man’s tongue reaching the woman’s exposed vulva, I turned my head and returned to my book. What happened next was very quick. The bell for a bus stop rang and the couple dashed past me.  As they went down the stairs, the man looked down coyly, visibly flustered. Behind him, the woman kept her chin up. Half-glancing at me, she fixed her hair, pushing her fingers through her big afro. Defiant. 

#FreedomTo? @LondonLGBTPride

#FreedomTo join the #PrideLDNParade at any point without having to be part of a pre-registered group @LondonLGBTPride #undemocratic

#FreedomTo be part of LGBT+ Pride celebrations which are not tightly controlled by the hierarchies of a Tory Government: @LondonLGBTPride

#FreedomTo celebrate “LGBT+ Pride” & NOT @LondonLGBTPride’s “Tory Pride” ruled by non-inclusive corporate capitalism & consumerism 

#FreedomTo truly be oneself with real freedom of expression & NOT being coerced by the #PrideLDNParade stewards from @LondonLGBTPride

#FreedomTo join LGBT Pride celebrations without pandering to @LondonLGBTPride’s ill-conceived & restrictive “family-friendly” constraints

#FreedomTo be free in an LGBT Pride which is truly inclusive & truly respects all life styles & individualities - unlike @LondonLGBTPride

Formentera

(under construction)

grindr poetry

chain wanking

"Chain masturbating" (or "chain wanking") is equivalent to "chain smoking", only instead of having a fag after another, one has a wank after another (wank-orgasm-wank-orgasm-wank-orgasm-wank... until exhaustion)




(oh, those were the days)

August 2012 (reminiscing... ongoing ruminations)

August 2012:

(Comments on Lisbon coming soon...)

Thursday, 23 Aug 2012, Larrabasterra beach: 

On the day after my birthday, it was “big cock day” at Larrabasterra beach (aka Barinatxe, La Salvaje, Sopelana) near Bilbao. I was standing by my towel, at the nakeder section of the beach, when this short man in his 40s/50s approached me and asked: “Can you speak English?” I said  "yes." “Are you sarezale on flickr?” I nodded again. “I follow your photostream on flickr. I’m one of your contacts.” He was from Florida living in Pamplona with his wife, while having an affair with a local boy. “I thought it was you,” he insisted, “you’ve got a look.” Whatever he meant.

Caños de Meca: 

I must admit that the whole hippy vibe started to grate towards the end… Especially the mock hippy vibe: Blackberries, iPhones, iPads by the beach, champagne (or mojito) socialists sitting on cushions at cocktail bars decorated as Bedouin tents, dearer-than-average accommodation and food at exclusive venues, fancy cars and cameras, designer beachwear in nudist beaches, itinerant merchants with their business URLs on their belt, over-priced sarongs at handicraft flea markets, VISA and Mastercard,…  & of course, plenty of tattoos and earrings, uneven haircuts and rasta dreadlocks, ubiquitous hash, ubiquitous dogs (and their shit), baggy cotton trousers, waitresses with loose leopard print tops, old hippies singing flamenco to the strumming of Spanish guitars played by naked young men by the beach, a refusal to use deodorant,… and not a single bank in the whole resort! In any case: a beautiful, wonderfully relaxing place to spend a sunny week at the end of August. Very laid back and open minded.

Sevilla: 
Tanta Dolorosa, tanto Nazareno, tanta Macarena, tanto santo, tanta santa, tanto Crucificado, tantos pasos de Semana Santa… No me extraña que los hombres se santigüen cuando se arrodillan… para comerse una polla.  

(google-translate at your own risk)