✮ FASH Report ✮

CONFIRMED: I LOOK LIKE A WHORE

While I was in Paris I had the chance to experience that beautiful moment every little girl dreams about: being offered prostitution. Again. In my hometown it was sort of to be expected cause I in fact reside right in Whora Felatio Street with Tranny Latino Boulevard, but c'mon, in chic Paris?

In my defense I'll disclose that the amount was five hundred euros... and a limousine home. Now that's class, innit? By the pre-proposition chatter with the guy, I got that apparently he had quite the moneys, traveling from Australia all the time because he worked in a company that blah blah marketing blah blah name dropping of household brands blah. Most of the time he was just telling me that I was "fucking gaw-jaz" (that's gorgeous in Australian). That was in the meantime of him buying me a drink, which I grudgingly accepted because I figured being honest never got anyone much far, and as my budget was comfortably spilling out from restrain I decided I could use some help from my pretty face to get some help for my wallet.

When the big bald spicy-breathed sir suggested he wanted to pay for something more than a drink that night, I pulled my best aw I shouldn't've accepted the drink performance. I have to say, I'm good at it. With my refusal he went from three hundred, to four, to five, that's for just half to one hour in his hotel and then the car home, he said "limousine", I'm gonna assume it'd be more like a car with a driver. I'm just too modest to believe that. The reason why I believe he had the moneys is because as good tacky money person, he had a stack of bills on hand, and well, I think I saw all the five hundred euro bills I had to see in this life, I'm done.

So in the end, me and my catholic apostolic fucking romanic values went home with a French Poor to a thirteen square meters 'apartment'. I'm telling you, being respectable sucks. But I'm lying like the whore I am, it's not values that stopped me, it's apprehension. If he had been Richard Gere I would be now the star of Pretty Woman: Havanna Nights, where the movie ends with a sky view of me driving my Hummer through a San Francisco-like bridge, having two iPhones as earrings, listening to Daft Punk featuring Ciara, very loud, moving my arms up with a big smile.

THE DAY PARIS AND I MET

OK so I haven't blogged in almost two months, get over it I always do this! Anyway moving on. Last week I was in Paris, and well, gawd. I mean, Paris!!

It was my first time there as an adult and I always had wanted to go (duh) so I finally booked a cheap-ass flight from my current swedish whereabouts and went by myself. Yep, all alone. I know, but as I like to say 'if you wait for someone to be ready to go with you to Paris you will end up a pregnat teenager addicted to glue'. That saying sounds much wiser in chinese really. Everytime I told someone I was going alone I would end up saying that I knew people there, not to be embarrassed and get the 'you're a freak' look.

But the truth is all on my own it was such a magical experience. In general it was so Carrie in the Sex And The City finale, just wandering around, going to museums, etc. But then in the weekend even though I thought I wouldn't go out (cause going out alone was a little too freaky even for me), I realized that gay people is so friendly that just by asking someone where some bar was I would automatically be invited to go out. That was in my naive little mind, and well, in reality... that's exactly what happened! I'm telling you, being gay is sometimes a blessing. Can you imagine that happening in the hetero world?

So just the first couple of gays that I stopped turned out to be so funny and open and we went to this place called CUD, which was your standard tacky gay night bar, with a floor downstairs to dance and stuff. It was loads of fun. When they decided to go I was drunk enough to stay on my own, and then I run into some friend of a friend of a friend from my hometown back in Hot España Olé (for realz), and he introduced me to his group of friends. I bonded with one of them, Pablo, who's the sweetest thing I have ever seen in my life. Sweet sweet sweet pie. Doll. 29 years old. Refreshing. So I was with them until some french guy came and stole me and we ended up putting on the most dismal show one can put on in one's life: the sexual dancing in a night club.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Okay I'm sowy! I was drunk and he kissed well! Lame excuse I know, there's no excuse for doing the 'porn show'. Well at least we weren't in the middle, I took it to the privacy of the place next to a table agaist the wall. At least one side of the baby-making live-documentary was censored. You gotta give me some credit for that. That's lame excuse number two. So when I decided frolicking was one thing, getting fingered in public was crossing the line, he suggested we took it to his home. And so we did. And the rest is what happened in Paris and stayed in Paris.

The next day we said goodbye and though we later talked and he said I could go out with him and friends, I thought I'd be better off going to a club with Pablo and friends, and so I did, and so I discovered that Paris is a great place for being single and gay, because even though I didn't hook up with anyone, the amount of people and the vibe in that place (called Bataclan) were really uplifting. Pablo was his doll self and I liked him even more, I wanted to hug the fuck out of him.

Next day was coming back to reality day. By noon I'd be back in Nyköping (Sweden) once again, working and having claustrophobia attacks here and there. And even though Paris' weather had been incredibly gentle my whole stay, it'd be gray and sad in my leave. That's how I imagined it, in reality... that's exactly how it happened. It had all been a cotton-candy musical dream and I suddenly woke up from it with the cold of the scandinavian snow in my face.