21 | June | 2011 | the.applied.process.

21.06.2011

Grind Date No. 4: Twentyeight.

On my last day in Amsterdam, I woke up somewhat early. I had lots of things to accomplish that day. The previous days I had partied, rested, and dilly dallied and not really gotten anything done that should be done when you first visit a city. I fought my usual hang over the same way I usually do: juice, water, pastry.

The day consisted of the Anne Frank house, Stedelijk Museum (contemporary and modern art), the Van Gogh museum, Rijskmuseum (Dutch history and heritage), a bike ride through the park, and eating some raw herring. I accomplished 66% of my goal. Anne Frank’s house was emotional. Stedelijk Museum was closed for renovation… or so I thought… Later I found the actual museum, not the annex, and it was quite nice. Van Gogh was overpriced, but a must when visiting Amsterdam. Rijskmuseum was educational. Back to the hostel I went. There was no bike ride or raw herring.

I logged onto grindr and started talking to a few boys. I ended up making plans with one who worked really close to my place: ‘Twentyeight’. He suggested I go eat at a place not too far away from where he lived. He said he’d meet me for a drink after I ate and after he got off work. I googled the place and it sounded decent: a nice little vegetarian Indian place.

After my decent dinner (I’d been eating home made Indian food in Birmingham, this place stood no chance), we decided on meeting across the street at a place called ‘mustache bar’. ‘Twentyeight’ arrived promptly. First impression: he’s different and cute. He spoke really good English, unlike my previous encounter. We ordered a few rounds and had a very nice conversation.

After, he suggested we went to a karaoke place since we both didn’t feel like going out raging all night. We walked for about ten minutes to his place of choice. He’d warn me it was quite unique and with a very mixed crowd. This man spoke the truth. Unique is an understatement. Upon entering the bar I spotted two very grungy drag queens behind the bar, a few older drunk straight men, a couple of fags with their respective hags, and some average looking people. The karaoke was hilarious. We ordered drinks and chatted a bit more. It turns out his birthday is the day after mine, and his favorite number is 28. What are the fucking odds! I was starting to like this guy… not in the way that “I want to marry you”, but in the way that “yes, maybe I’ll come home with you”. After a few more rounds, I did.

He’d told me his friend signed him up for one of those “home makeover” shows, so I was intrigued to see the final result. His place was a bit messy. I didn’t mind. It was nice for being my second Dutch apartment I’d ever seen. We listened to music, drank some more wine, and started kissing. The kissing continued downstairs in his bedroom. As i was kissing him I felt bumps on his back. I was a bit concerned, but also a bit drunk and horny. The clothes came off. Another nice (although bent), big Dutch dick. Either I’m lucky or Dutch men are packing. We discussed “gay roles”. Turns out we’re both tops. ‘Twentyeight’ asked if I’d ever done poppers. I said yes. He offered. We sniffed. Smart move. Not. Fooled around some more. Oral sex. This time I did suck. He wanted me to fuck him, he claimed poppers turned him into a bottom, but to be honest, those bumps had my usual paranoia augmented. We ended up just jacking off. He bit my nipple very hard, and then came on my chest. I came on my chest as well. He rubbed my nipple after with the cum. Crazy old me started thinking the worst case scenario: he bit my nipple, I must have a minuscule cut, he rubbed semen on it, I will get HIV. He laid on my chest for a second. He asked if I’d spend the night but both my paranoia and the fact that I was leaving next morning convinced me to leave. I got dressed. We said goodbye and I started walking back.

On my way home, I texted Geordie-mo. He managed to calm me down superbly. To quote him: “unsafe sex is like fear of flying – when I get scared on the plane I just think of the trolly dollies who do it everyday”. I didn’t have unsafe sex, but the thought was comforting. I dozed off with minimal thoughts about the evening and a nice, post orgasm smile on my face.

21.06.2011

Grind Date No. 3: Silver Fox.

Hung over. Again. My youthful body is starting to betray me. I wasn’t feeling much like doing anything so I laid in bed and went online. I managed to score a date with a 44 year old Dutch man. I didn’t have much time till my rendez vous so I got up, got dressed, bought juice, and walked to Nieuwmarkt to meet him. He asked “how will I know it’s you?”. I said “you’ll notice the beard”. He did.

We had lunch on the ‘tourist side’, as he stated, of Nieuwmarkt. I asked him for some insider tips on Amsterdam. He recommended a few spots to check out and offered to walk with me towards them since it was on the way to his place. Sly silver fox.

First impression: very handsome, despite his slimmy aura which was only enhanced by the mismatched track suit he was wearing.

We finished our food and I followed him as instructed. We got to his door step and he asked if I wanted to see what a Dutch apartment looks like. Despite my slight fear of walking into the unknown and potentially getting gang raped by a few men twice my age, or possibly ending up in a bathtub missing a kidney and having to dial 112 (that’s Dutch for 911), I obliged.

He had a beautiful apartment overlooking a quaint canal. I could tell he had money. He mentioned he had some high position at KLM (that’s Delta Air Lines in Dutch). To my surprise, although I don’t know why, ‘Silver Fox’ played some gaga. He offered a tour of his sleeping quarters. He asked to touch my, and I quote, “hairy chest”. I let him. He kept asking me to relax. I probably looked/acted a bit tense. We kissed. He felt my dick. I felt his. More kissing. Some nipple nibbling. More compliments to my hairy physique.

We got in bed. Through it all he was respectful, constantly asking me if I was ok and only doing what I wanted to do. We jacked off. He had a significantly big dick. We came and laid there for a second. He showered. We got dressed, and walked towards his gym.

He kept mentioning how “good looking” I was and what a “nice hairy body I had”. I told him he was extremely handsome, which he didn’t seem to believe. What is it about older men not being able to take compliments from us twentysomethings? It’s not the first time this has happened to me. I feel as if they think we’re mocking them when, in fact, call me crazy but I find handsome, mature men extremely arousing.

His gym was next to Rembrandthuis. He pointed the way to some photography museum I should check out. I vaguely paid attention because, really, it doesn’t make a difference. I’ll promptly forget the route given. We said goodbye and I slowly started walking towards my destination stalling so that he’d go into his gym. I wanted to take a picture of Rembrandthuis for when I’m older and I actually care about these touristy things, but I didn’t want to seem touristy in front of him (or anyone else for that matter). He dilly dallied as well so I gave up and just left.

I found FOAM (the photography museum). It was under remodelling and only half of it was open, and thus, half price. I saw some photos of an LA artist I briefly met a while ago called Luke Gilford. It was a nice surprise.

I walked back to the hostel and stopped by a tattoo shop for my mandatory ‘coordinates’ ink. I picked up a pita and some wine and ate at the ‘lobby’. That night I did the red light district pub crawl with ‘Finland’. I was supposed to go with some Canadian staying in my room, but he seemed like quite the inferior life form. Later on I discovered my first impression was on point. I had heard not much goes on on Monday nights so I figured the pub crawl would probably be my best bet at drinking myself to sleep that night, and also seeing a part of the city tourists are ‘supposed to see’. I could elaborate on the crawl, but I don’t want to give such things more importance than deserved. It was as much fun as such things can be.

21.06.2011

BeNe(Lux)

After what one could barely called a decent nap, I woke up. I have to mention I don’t sleep much, but I’m also not as resilient as I was in my early twenties. Each time it gets progressively harder and takes progressively longer to spring back from the previous drunken night.

I went downstairs and jotted down the finishing touches to my Antwerpenian bucket list. I walked to the corner store, bought a classic backpacker’s breakfast (a pastry from the local offerings, a juice, and a bottle of water), and started walking to my destinations.

It was an eventful day. First accidental stop: Dries Van Noten, where I left my first few hundred euros and came out with an overpriced canvas and leather tote. Off I went to find a tattoo shop. The one on my list didn’t have time, but they instructed me to go around the corner to this other shop. The new shop told me to come back in two hours. I headed to MoMu (mode museum). They had a wonderful exhibition on the history of knits. At first I wasn’t as excited about it, but they did a superb job, and it turned out significantly better than I’d expected. My love for Antwerp grew.

Having 20 minutes to spare before my tattoo appointment, I went next door to a clothing store. I saw a few potential purchases, but this shopaholic is getting wiser, so I left with the intention to come back if the items were still on my mind after the tattoo. They were. Fail.

I got my tattoo. It was not executed to my steep expectations (as I assume anything permanent on your body should be), but also, I’ve learned to appreciate the slight nuances that come with getting a similar tattoo done repeatedly by different tattoo artist all over the world. Like most of my others, I’ve grown to love it.

I left the shop, shopped a bit more, and tried to find a famously good fish restaurant that, unbeknownst to me, had closed a year and a half ago. I walked back to my hostel hoping they could host me for the last night. They were completely booked. Being really exhausted and craving a place of my own where I could shit, shave, shower, sleep comfortably, and walk around with my damn balls hanging if I pleased to, I forked 150 USD for a night at a Radisson across Stadspark. Best. Fucking. Money. Spent. In. Antwerp.

I left the hostel and went to my haven. I bought a bottle of J&B and a coke, showered, grindrd, made plans to meet random strangers at random bars, made a road soda, headed out. The bar was nowhere to be found. The club sucked. My night was a fail.

The next morning, I went to MuKHA, the museum of modern art. Antwerp, I love you even more. I walked back to my hotel, picked up my bag, and stumbled to centra station. I say stumble because my bag was really heavy which hindered my walking. Off to Amsterdam I went.

Finding my way in Amsterdam was an easy task. I checked in at the hostel, and ‘climbed’ the steep stairs up to my room. No lockers again! note to self: leave iPads and Rick Owens at home next time. My roommates were friendly. I immediately started talking to a girl from Chicago and a Finnish man. “Chicago” and I went for dinner at a tapas place next door. She seemed hypnotised by my persona (which is always nice), and kept asking me about my life. It was entertaining.

Eighty euros later, we went back to the room and coerced “Finland” to join us for a beer. Grindr hadn’t proved to be too helpful this time, so we walked to a touristy spot around the corner. I drank whiskey, they drank beer. We left. They went home, I ventured to a nearby gay bar. Nothing special to report. I did, however, meet a lovely expat lesbian from New York with whom I conversed the whole night. The bar closed. I went home. I grindr’d, facebook’d, and lonely planet’d till I passed out.