As sexy as it gets December 20, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: sex, wrong
Roll up, roll up. It’s the BiB pre-Christmas, last-minute, almost Weihnachtsmarkt-like, but more sort of indoor and cosy, sextravaganza. But only a BiB sextravaganza, so not very sexy at all, and we don’t really DO sex on this blog, as I like to think I’m appealing to any potential 95-year-old English ladies who might be reading, so it’s sex-lite. Sort of Channel 5.
But it’s in honour of Christmas. It could be in honour of anything, really. It being Wednesday, for example. Or Easter. Or New Year. Or The Queen’s birthday (real or official). But Christmas will do just as well, and I suppose, with the calendar nudging us relentlessly ever forward, it’s time to get into the swing of things.
Of course, being an exiled homosexualist, suffering cruel banishment in the snowy steppes of the Great North European Plain, I get to largely ignore Christmas. Not in a majorly humbuggy way. And I wouldn’t mind people remembering to be a bit nicer to each other than usual once a year and eating tolerably tasty food if youngsters didn’t have to get in on the act and ruin it for us grown-ups. But being here, and living with a Russian, for whom Christmas means precisely zilch (though he’s heroically managed to cotton on to the present angle), means we can mostly just nicely ignore it.
Now ours is quite a good ruse for getting out of Christmas. Working like a dog and forgetting all about it isn’t bad either. And I’ve seen some other good ones out there too, should you wish to follow suit. I’ve seen Valerie play the atheist Jew card (but can’t remember where), which is pretty watertight. Whereas this atheist Jew actually wants to celebrate Christmas, and in Denmark of all places – last ever mention of Denmark, I promise – but is being thwarted from doing so by bureaucracy. But we atheist goyim can hold our own on the Christmas-avoiding front too if we have to, and I’ve plumped for the very simple but honest, “Mum, sorry, I don’t think I can be bothered,” which she took like a man. Or woman.
Yet let it not all be non-festive. We banished Berlin bloggers are pulling our fingers out and doing our best to give a nod in Yule’s direction and shore each other up should loneliness pangs set in. This gent (goy, no idea whether theist or not) has very kindly offered to rustle up a Christmassy dinner for us. And who knows how many other foreigners abandoned in Berlin – bloggers or otherwise – might not put out a Christmassy electronic SOS over the festive period? After all, the Russian and I overdid the ignoring last year and then had Christmas-envy and went out looking for the last glimmers of the thing…
So, the sex bit. Well, when I did used to celebrate Christmas, i.e. when I lived in England, one of the good things, or devices for keeping people who might otherwise want to drink themselves to death rather than spend a goodly number of hours in the same room as certain relatives, was games. My sort of in-laws were very good for games. And they kept us going till oblivion finally hit on a wave of tears and raised voices later in the day.
So what game can we play? Well, sticking a billion photos of vague celebs onto a big bit of card and then people having to name them would take ages on a blog. Well, no longer, actually, than doing it physically, but I can’t be bothered with that. And as it’s the shortest day of the year tomorrow and stress levels might be going through the roof for the hostly amongst you, I thought a bit of sex-lite might be just the thing to give you a fillip.
The game is, if it can really be called a game at all, to name me, erm, 3? – well, or 1. Or as many as you like – people you fancy of the wrong sex. Of course fancy is not quite the right word, because you don’t really fancy people of the wrong sex. But I’m sure you know what I mean. Lezzers, het males, name the men you sort of fancy but wouldn’t actually want to play hide the sausage with. Poofs, het girls, name the ladies who shiver your timbers but whom you don’t actually want to get into the vagina business with. Bisexuals are barred. Or can play twice.
Now I know straight males pretend they can’t tell if another man’s good-looking, but everyone knows you’re pretending, so just play along. (And they also secretly worry that every gay men they ever meet is going to ravage them. Boys, they never ravage me, and I’m virtually irresistible, so just calm yourselves.)
I’d thought of saying name the ugliest person you fancy too – Gazza is mine – but I think the wrong-sex version is better. Stick in your ugly fancyees too, if you feel like it.
OK, that’s your lot.