Quelques Jours a Birmingham

After a dry spell, a dark spell and a curse, I was finally ready to disconnect, and impose a state of self-exile upon my self and leave Cairo for a while.
I was ready to get displaced physically once more!
Bad idea! (who could have thought flying could be such a traumatic event?)
I'll get to that later.
Arriving in Birmingham cloaked in secrecy and only telling very few friends, my trip was still jinxed and the 20 pages of functioning men on Gaydar seem to have lost their way to my room!
Bitches!
I mean really, what is there to envy?
I went to Birmingham, not London, I went in February which is the worst weather by far, and men in the UK are not kosher.
I am a Semitic girl to the core and I like my men circumcised.
So why on earth jinx it you bitches??

Birmingham is not the most glamorous city on earth. Its a little shabby and the scene here is a little odd.
So in a nutshell, one could not get up, one I couldn't get it going, and only a drag queen managed to get it up and running!!
The irony....
This gives you an idea of the gay scene in Birmingham.
To the scene's credit, I did enjoy an exceptionally wonderful date with one local gentleman, who happened to be half-German (leave it to the Germans to fix things!).
He was sweet enough to show me around, take me to all the hot gay spots (the gay village) and he remained very well-mannered through it all.
Three cheers to Anglo-Deustch lads!

The real adventure did not come from Birmingham, it came all the way from Rome.
Tall, tousled hair, playful eyes, and stunning eye lashes.
And he sat right next to me, and his cologne, lemon and frankincense filled my senses and he looked at me, "there you are", he says, smiling.
And I answered, "serendipity. It must be fate".
I was in love.
The man just oozed charm and sex appeal.
And he knew it, and he was not at the very least, shy or modest about it.
He flirted shamelessly, I only laughed and playfully hit his arm, but all I could think of was how it would feel to get my arms around him.
Days pass, and I see him, and he always winks at me, sits next to me, always flirting, always saying, "I knew you would be here".
Then one day, walking down the street, a little distraught, he comes along, and I tell him, "what are you doing here?", to this he answers, "why, I came for you of course".
He invites me to his hotel room, so secure in the power of his seduction, me so enamorada, sur le charm, I say, "sure, why not?".
I end up in his arms, and he is more beautiful out of his clothes than in them, and being me, I don't hold anything back, I gush, and gush, the emotional slut that I am.
He figures me out in a second.
And he holds back and assesses how to work around this.
And he already has a plan.
A very intricate choreography of how this "meeting" should be like.
So while I fantasized endlessly about this moment in my head, and the flying sparks and the sizzling passion (you read one bodice ripper of historical romance and it haunts you for the rest of your life), it was way better in my head.
Here I was in the arms of one the most influential individuals in the world of art in Rome, and I deny him the pleasure of performing fellatio on him.
And he resented me for it.
He was so rigid, and his moves were so scripted.
But I was living the fantasy in my head, and I didn't care that he spurnt my advances, and told me, "its better if we just cuddle".
The man could not get me out of his room fast enough.

Not at all affected by this sudden turn of events, I was still on cloud number nine.
In my fantasy, he is well endowed (in reality he is average), he is circumcised (he is not), and he is a great kisser (he is not a bad kisser, but don't hold your breath).
I was still intoxicated, and I was enjoying every second of it.
The randomness, the audacity, my own complete lack of inhibition, and the way he batted his eyelashes when he spoke.
I wanted to savour the moment, before the very masculine scent of his cologne wears off my skin.