Dont you hate those nights when you go out with every intention of at least getting mildly tipsy and end up back home stone cold sober? 
But at least I did get to meet Bateman (charming even when pissed) and Rainwolfkin (gorgeous). Anaphalaxis cried off. Something to do with being in bed. Although he didnt say with whom.
Please go and sympathise withBateman. Not only did he have to spend the whole evening in the company of two people with no interest in football but he had to listen to us discussing genital piercings and then got bummed by some guy selling knock off fags in the Moon and Sixpence. Not to mention the fact that we told everyone within earshot on Wardour Street that he'd once got his cock out on the internet. I've never felt sorry for those guys handing out club flyers before. But at least he's intimately acquainted with the location of his perineum now. I didnt touch it! I swear to God!!!
Between the conversations, which ranged from American politics, boring sports, at least an hour on incidents involving vomit, torn foreskin accidents, bemoaning the lack of nipple shields on SG, bum sex and the best places to piss in public, I think a good night was had by all.
And I made it home in one piece. Which is something of a relief after Bateman got a bit excited on the tube home and came within a hairs breadth of decking someone's grandma.
~~~~~~~~~~
Updated to add:
Some hopeless romantic has been sending me snippets of Pablo Neruda poetry.
Thanks for sending them in Spanish so I had to translate them.
I Googled the rest of his poetry, found this one and fell in love with it on first reading.
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands; how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you.
I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting stars, falling objects.
But at least I did get to meet Bateman (charming even when pissed) and Rainwolfkin (gorgeous). Anaphalaxis cried off. Something to do with being in bed. Although he didnt say with whom.
Please go and sympathise withBateman. Not only did he have to spend the whole evening in the company of two people with no interest in football but he had to listen to us discussing genital piercings and then got bummed by some guy selling knock off fags in the Moon and Sixpence. Not to mention the fact that we told everyone within earshot on Wardour Street that he'd once got his cock out on the internet. I've never felt sorry for those guys handing out club flyers before. But at least he's intimately acquainted with the location of his perineum now.
I didnt touch it! I swear to God!!!
Between the conversations, which ranged from American politics, boring sports, at least an hour on incidents involving vomit, torn foreskin accidents, bemoaning the lack of nipple shields on SG, bum sex and the best places to piss in public, I think a good night was had by all.
And I made it home in one piece. Which is something of a relief after Bateman got a bit excited on the tube home and came within a hairs breadth of decking someone's grandma.
~~~~~~~~~~
Updated to add:
Some hopeless romantic has been sending me snippets of Pablo Neruda poetry.
Thanks for sending them in Spanish so I had to translate them.
I Googled the rest of his poetry, found this one and fell in love with it on first reading.
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands; how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you.
I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting stars, falling objects.
VIEW 25 of 28 COMMENTS
Wow, great poem. I may to look up some more.
That sounds like some great conversation. It reminds me of my typical coffeehouse conversations. Well, except the torn foreskins--I have never heard of this before and it sounds owie owie owie.