Staring contest

Two days ago, I was standing next to my mother waiting in line at the check-out at a grocery store. I was just loafing about when I noticed that the couple standing before me had a toddler sitting in their shopping trolley. He (or she, I couldn't tell) was staring at me. Right between the eyes. I started thinking about people having eye contact with each other.

In the individualistic society we live in, staring at each other without a reason is strange and awkward. Just like we prefer the invisible bubble of personal space around us only to be entered by people we really like, we feel that it's really uncomfortable to be stared at. Visual molestation, as I like to call it.

Most Hollywood movies portray the crossing of eyes as an indicator of an oncoming relationship. When eyes meet and the staring lasts more than approximately 4 seconds, we know that a passionate kiss is nearby. When someone stares at me, I will soon feel an awkward sensation. I probably won't feel strong enough to keep my gaze focused on the other person's eyes. I guess it's because I'm afraid that the person I'm looking at will get the wrong message. Eye-fucking can be a very dangerous thing to do, especially when your not willing to do the same in a sexual way. Consequently, I avoid it.

Since the toddler in the shopping trolley before me wasn't looking away, I decided to persevere. He didn't stop looking at me. But neither did I. For one second, I was doubtful; should I let him win this staring contest? Then I smiled a little, trying to put the little fellow off, restoring the power balance by showing that I was the one holding the confidence here. Mr. Toddler, clearly unaware of the underlying values, dodged my attempt to win by returning the call. I got one of the purest, teethless smiles I saw in a long, long time. Incredibly cute and disarming as it was, it made my day. I returned the smile. Then, still smiling and seemingly fully amazed, he looked at my mother, initiating a second competition. My mother lost. I don't think she really cared too much about it, though.

My advice for a happy 2010: stare at toddlers!


X!

The Erasmus Experience - Madrid Edition: The Ranking

It all started off as an innocent joke. That's where it always begins, right?

You know how everyone always says that their Erasmus must be an unforgettable experience? How everyone is always determent to have kissed at least one person they met at an Erasmus party? Well, that is where this story began.

It's actually still a pending story, but it's been going on for months now, that I thought I'd finally talk about it. It began in late september, when two friends of mine kissed for the first time at an Erasmus party. I won't be disclosing names of the involved parties, but it concerned a girl and a guy friend. One straight, one gay (to make it more interesting).
It didn't take long before they both were heading for their second victory and soon after the bickering began about who was 'winning' their little contest of victories. So our group of friends decided to create 'the Ranking', a ranking system that keeps track of who has 'scored' most.

After the first person went to - let's say - third base, there was a ranking crisis.
Was this going to be classified on the same level as kissing or maybe we could award extra credits for scoring third base?
Oh, but if you think that that is where it ended, you are wrong. After this incident, problems kept surfacing after every new conquest (by this time other people, including me, started being in the running for the 'championship'). Was twice the same person also worth more credits, or would this count as just one? Would kissing a straight guy be awarded with twice the number of credits? And what if a gay guy kissed a straight girl, is that eligible?

So just to give you an idea of what drunk erasmus people are up to these days.
As a summary, what is the recipe to create a ranking:
At least 5 Erasmus students:
- under the influence of A LOT of alcohol
- not afraid to get dirty
- that are promiscuous enough to embark on this mission
- accompanied by at least 2 prudes (they are necessary to keep the counterbalance in check)
- who are :
A. capable of flirting
B. or extremely hot, therefore not in need of this skill
- if none of both requirements are fulfilled go for option A by giving them a crash course in flirting

There, I think that should do the trick to have a very drunk Erasmus Ranking Experience.
Have fun with it. After all, what happens on Erasmus, stays on Erasmus.

First gay party

Yesterday I experienced my first real gay party. I was kind of excited. Not only because I was going to meet a lot of new people, but also because I expected it to be quite a liberation compared to a regular "straight" party.
Things started of with a pre-party at a friend's place. The people I met are all awesome. The group consisted of a mere twelve or so people, and due to the fact that they already knew each other I was a bit quieter than I normally am. Anyways, after some drinks we left for my big entree in the gay scene.

My first impressions didn't quite exactly live up to the expectations I cherished. I expected a room full of guys, some hot, some not. All dancing of course, since nobody would care if their dancing moves were feminine. People had warned me that the party wasn't going to be good, so I had to be drunk on arrival. But I wasn't. And chances are high that I never will be completely wasted.
What a letdown. Upon arrival, the music was bad. From that point on, the musical taste plummeted and hit rock bottom during half an hour of ballad songs, on which is was impossible to dance. Consequently, the room (which wasn't crowded at all) was mainly static, with people just standing about. Around 2 AM most of the party people started to leave, so a lot of smoke was blown into the room to cover up the fact that the room was half empty. Feeble attempt.
As if this was not enough, I happened to be part of a group that mainly consisted of couples. Don't get me wrong: I totally think love is a great thing, and I'm very happy for these awesome people to have boyfriends, but when your single, and you don't have any other friends to talk to when the rest is snogging, things can get quite awkward.
To top this all of, there were virtually no hot guys present. And I'm not even going to start talking about all the old men standing by the side checking out every twenty-something ass that passed by.

Someone please defrost the party meter! This might just have been the worst party I ever attended. This poor excuse for a party seemed like a meeting that guys attended to kiss with each other without having to be frowned upon. There's just one silver lining: the next time I go, it's bound to better than yesterday. I'm very happy about that.

Peace out!

The urban safari

It's been so long! I hereby officially apologize for being absent too long! I'm sorry you had to miss me!

Last Friday, I took the plane and visited B. in Madrid. It was my first time flying alone, but everything went pretty smoothly, I expected the airport to be more complicated. Madrid is cool, lot's of things to see there, the food is cheap but great, and Spanish people should definitely learn how to speak English without a horrible accent. So far for the boring stuff. Let's skip to the interesting business: guys.
Madrid is perhaps the gayest city I have ever visited. Homosexuality is pretty visible, even outside Chueca. To be honest, Spanish guys own Belgian guys when concerning looks. It's a personal opinion, I know, but seriously: there was eye candy EVERYWHERE.
We thought it would have been a waste not to capture this beauty, so we invented a new variation on the well known African safari. Just replace the savanna with the city, and try to spot hot guys instead of wildlife. The urban safari is born! Locating the hottie is pretty easy, but the hard part lies in the discrete handling of the camera, so nobody notices what you are doing. I present you a quick round-up of our (soon to be patented) urban safari.

This guy we encountered in Chueca, and was also one of the first captures of the day. He crossed our path two times. The first time I discovered myself to be a headturner, the second time I could not stop staring at him, so I decided to quickly take a shot. If I had seen him for a third time, I would have jumped him. The fact that he was taller than me kinda did the trick. Not sure if this specimen was gay. He was walking around in Chueca, so that's a step in the right direction.

God. I can't stop watching at this photo.
If this is you, contact me. This is not a question.

This guy is B.'s finest shot. I never actually saw the guy in real life, I discovered him on the memory of my Panasonic Lumix. Apparently, this hottie was present in the Mercado de San Miguel. Since I never saw him in real life, I cannot tell if he is gay or not, but looking at the picture I'm guessing that he is straight. But who cares, really.

Ironically, this one we DID spot in a jungle. The train station of Madrid is basically a greenhouse where trains pass by. There's even a pond with turtles in it. Through the banana- and palmtrees we spotted this George of the jungle. The backpack looks a little wrong, but at least he's literate. Phew.





The subway is the ideal place to take a picture without having to be discrete. It's not like the guy on the other side of the rails is going to come and bash you. I was actually a bit disappointed that the picture was a bit blurry. I tried to take a second picture, but the sad lady with the red jacket obstructed the view only seconds after I took this picture. Thank you very much for that, Spanish woman. Oh well, he even looks fine in a blurry picture.

A-'men' to that.

Whaaaaat a long time ago! I am very sorry for not posting any blog entries the past month, but I have been busy like a crazy person.

As I mentioned in my last entry, I currently reside in the beautiful city of Madrid. The past two months have been off the hook, seriously, I am reconsidering my future over this.
What else happened is that my boyfriend and I recently -well, about a month ago- broke up. It seems so crazy that it's already been more than a month, but time just really doesn't stand still in the vibrant capital of Spain. But, on the other hand.. I guess this gives me the opportunity to have more input in this blog. Because you can say whatever you want.. Listening to the stories of a person in a relationship aren't néarly as interesting as the ones he can tell you when he is single.

The story continues as follows.. I am in Madrid, you can also hear people call it 'Gay Paradise', because everywhere you look and everywhere you go you find gay people.. It is even getting to a point of being ridiculous. On my university I can easily swing my net around and trap 10 gays within a 20 feet radius.. -Yes, it is THAT crazy-.
Of course for a person that recently updated his facebook status to 'single' this is absolute valhalla.. so I am absolutely not complaining, even if I wasn't interested, it is much more interesting to be surrounded by people that actually check out your ass, than to be around people that feel insulted when you check out theirs.

Now, to get to the point of this post.. - I wouldn't want to bore the hell out of you - . Yesterday night I went out with my Belgian friends.. And a lifelong (or at least since I have been gay) dream finally came through!
I actually kissed a straight boy.. and no it wasn't as part of a bet..
He came partying with us another night before yesterday and he gave me the strangest vibes ever. I could definitely notice he wasn't gay.. but it wasn't perfectly clear if he was straight either. He just dealt too.. loosely with the gays ( well.. me actually).. I could so easily just hit on him.. of course without crossing the line between gay and straight guys.. but I actually felt attracted to him, because I knéw he was straight, but I could still enjoy attention from him, in a weird, twisted kind of way.
So yesterday it was the same story as that other night and I had been talking to him about - of course - 'the gay experimenting for straights' and he was being all coy about it and saying he wouldn't be scared of kissing guys, but it just wouldn't "do" anything for him.. blahblahblah.. guess you all know the drill.. But well, I guess he was wrong.. it only took him a small business transaction to go for it.

Let me explain:
At this club you received a plastic cup at the entrance.. that cup was only valuable during happy hour, to obtain free drinks. Afterwards the cup is of no use whatsoever. It was an hour after happy hour, so evidently the cup was no longer of any value and I stole it from him. Then he came up to me and was like : "Hey, give me back my cup".. I have to remind you at all times that the cup was no longer needed.. "Well, what do I get in return?".. "I don't know, what do you have in mind?" .. well, I have to disappoint you now, because I don't réally remember what exactly made it happen, but after that, he allowed me to kiss him.. I myself didn't even expect that something that easy was going to push him over the edge, but I guess it did.

So long story short, maybe it wasn't super exciting, but hey.. I was drunk, I got my way.. I am happy!


Until my next story..


X

I wish I were Trinny or Susannah.

This afternoon I was waiting at the check out of the local super market. It's always the same old story: I never manage to pick the right queue. It's something I simply suck at, because for some reason or another I always go standing in the line where it takes over 15 minutes for the old and mostly cripple grandmothers to find the right change. Yesterday an Asian couple was standing before me with at least thirty boxes of Jules Destrooper biscuits (these cookies are tha bomb yo, for real). No kidding. I'm bad at picking the right queue.
While I stand in the line waiting, I always notice the rather hideous employees sitting behind the check out.
Today was no different. Before me sat a woman, somewhere begin thirties. I later learned from the receipt that her name is Sara. Sara looked like she had just cleaned a frying pan with her hair, and her eyebrows were so bushy that I bet at least two squirrels were living there. Her moustache gave the finishing touch to what I like to call the "Neanderthal look". Maybe, if she keeps up with it, it'll become a trend. But I reckon she will be dead and buried before that happens. I seriously felt like grabbing her a pack of Gillette Fusion razorblades. Even Mario would be ashamed of his moustache if he were standing next to Neanderthal girl.
In the hope to spot something better, I turned around to check out the other personnel. Things didn't exactly start to look up.
A woman with bright red spiky hair was sitting behind her desk. Let's call her Linda. She was wearing goggles, which, to my big surprise, were quite fashionable. But even a blind guy with no cane could tell that Linda didn't know shit about how to apply make-up. From what I could see, this is how I think her morning goes. Linda gets out of bed, and stumbles into the bathroom. She applies the gel in her hair while sitting on the toilet, whereafter she faces the mirror. Then she wakes up. Linda then pulls open the drawer, takes two inkpots with blue ink in them and pushes the pots against her eyes. Linda tilts her head back, and now she is ready to go.
I don't get that nobody ever told Linda to use less make-up. Seriously girl, you look like your husband has beaten you up badly after a night of boozing with the pals in the local strip club.
At times like these, I wish I could be like Trinny or Susannah and just tell them what is wrong with the way they look, and improve the way they treat themselves and how others will treat them after a much-needed make-over. To be honest, I am not surprised that they work at the department store. There's very few employers who want to hire a woman who looks like she goes hunting for mammoths with a spear in her spare time. And who would hire a Tina Turner who looks like she has just been rolled down the river? I'm just sayin', I'm just sayin'.

x, L.

F*cking priceless

(click to enlarge)

Basket et maths

I don't exactly know where I found this. I guess it found me. This short, called "Basket et maths" is part of a campaign against homophobia, which was featured on the Canal+ website and consisted of five short films. You can find the other four shorts below. I couldn't find any versions with English subtitles (except the first), so French it is. I reckon you can still get what's going on. They're all pretty nice, but I consider Basket et maths the best. Enjoy (and comment which one you like best)!

Happy anniversary to myself!

Exactly 365 days ago, around this time of the day, I was sitting in the car and did the most difficult thing I have ever done in my entire life. I came out to my mom. So today I celebrate my coming-out's first anniversary (YAY!), and I figured it would be the excellent time to tell you that story.
I actually had no particular intention to come out, that 26th of September. It just happened upon me. I had been thinking about it a lot, but as I already said before, these thoughts didn't exactly help me. I tried to imagine what would be the perfect setting. This setting basically included my mom and me, together in a situation where we didn't have to make direct eye-contact (looking into her eyes when telling her gave me the shivers). This description boiled down to two options: us doing the dishes together, or us sitting in the car (with me behind the steering wheel, I didn't want her to crash into a tree due to the shock).
Without me fully knowing it at the time, option two became reality. My mom and I were in the car, and I was driving. We were headed for a clothing store. Halfway there, my mom started to talk about someone she knew that was gay. "It must be so hard to be gay, to struggle with it, you know."
From the moment she started talking, I could feel the direction she was heading. From that point on, my heartbeat started going up. Nerves and time have caused me to not remember exactly what my mom was talking about. All I could think was "OMG SHE'S GOING TO FIND OUT" and "OMG SHE'S GOING TO FIND OUT". The conversation went on, and all of a sudden the urge came up to tell her. I could not resist, it was time, finally time.

"Erm, mom? I'm like that."

I didn't dare to watch anywhere else than the road. My breath stopped for a moment, and a hot rush of heat pulsed out from my heart to every single tip of my fingers. Goosebumps. My hands clenched to the steer. My palms started to sweat. I was shaking.

"Yes?" my mom said, after a brief pause.
"Yes."
"Yes..." she replied hesistantly, still putting every mental jigsaw in place, adjusting the image she had in her mind. She said "yes" for another two or three times (until the last piece of the puzzle fell in place, and probably also because she was speechless). My tight grip loosened. The steering wheel could breath once again.
It was out in the open. I was out in the open. To be honest, I felt like a deer on an open plain during the open season. My biggest secret was not a secret anymore. I could no longer hide behind my mask of straight. This vulnerability soon made place for euphoria though.
As the conversation went on, the inevitable question appeared: "When are you going to tell dad?"
We both knew that my dad wasn't going to react positively. I didn't feel like telling him. Luckily, my mom was there to support me. She informed him as soon as I was back in Leuven. I didn't want to be at home. I wasn't up for it.
My dad actually cried. He called me as soon as he could, surprised that I sounded just the same as I did before, as if nothing had happened. He visited me in Leuven that week. I can still vividly picture him breaking down again, when we started talking. Being very stereotypically influenced by various factors throughout his life, he was very scared and worried. But I remember that day as the day on which I had a very grown-up conversation with my father. It was the first time we ever did that, and it felt excellent.

It has been one year. A lot has happened. I have basically come out to everyone around me, and most importantly: I am happier than ever before.

I love you!
L.

The self-acclaimed gaydar

Okay, I admit it. I like Project Runway. I like the clothes, I like the contestants (I totally fell in love with Daniel Vosovic during season two), I like Heidi Klum, I like Tim Gunn. Because of the rather odd airing time, my dad is sometimes forced to watch the show with me. He doesn't like Project Runway. I bet he likes Heidi Klum alright, but he expressively dislikes the show on itself ("Do we have to watch this shit again?"). I believe the show on itself isn't really the issue. It's the openly gay and eccentric males on the show that he finds rather appalling.
My father is the proud owner of what I like to call the "self-acclaimed gaydar". I don't think he has a gaydar. He, on the other hand, is absolutely convinced that he can distinguish the fruit from the so to speak vegetables.
Project Runway proved to me that I am right, but unfortunately my father is the only one I need to convince, and he happens to be resistant to my constatations. We had been watching the show together for around twenty minutes. In this timespan, he regurarly outed his disapproval.
First, he made his comments rather general.
"This designer kind, it's like, always special people." he said sighing, emphasizing the word 'special' as if it were some kind of illness that was inherent to a fashion designer.

I immediately picked up that his comments were pointing at Christian Siriano (I know, season four, damn you Belgian broadcasters, I want season five!). I think I don't need to explain why.

"Especially the one with the glasses." he continued.
-"What's wrong with him?" I asked, trying to lure his anti-gay side out of its den.
"He's just over the top. And his hair, what's up with that, you don't like that, do you?"
-"Don't be so dissapproving. You don't know him, and besides, I think he's a very funny guy. And his hair, well, I know, it's eccentric. Then again, so is he, and I don't see why his hair should not be the way it is. He wants it fierce like that."

Then it went silent. To my surprise, no word was spoken about the fact that Christian was gay. Then, five minutes before the show ended, Christian's made some stereotypical gay hand movements.
"Oh my God" my dad started, "this guy is gay, isn't it?" he said, still desperately seeking confirmation. I laughed, and then said that Christians homosexuality was something to be smelled from fifty kilometres away. I wonder what had happened if I told him that he wasn't gay. Seriously, dad, you ain't got no gaydar, a'ight?