Why I Don’t Get Laid Much

When I came to Amsterdam ten years ago, I was basically Cinderella up for a rude awakening. One of the first times I went on a date the guy told me he’d like to have an open relationship. “Ooh,” I exclaimed, “how unusual and exciting!” He gave me a look. “Everybody has an open relationship in Amsterdam.” This was a rather novel concept for someone who comes from a country in which in 2006 you could essentially be Madonna (i.e. in monogamous relationship where you lived happily ever after) or a whoreslut (hanging in darkrooms and online trying to do the squelchy with as many other humans as possible).

In my head an open relationship meant that obviously we are spending 99% of the time with each other, but in case I bump into Idris Elba (or, more accurately in 2006, Denzel Washington) I am allowed to flirt with him. Imagine my surprise when I asked my beau “what have you been up to last night?” and he said “oh I was bored, so I went to Cockring and fucked some Portuguese guy”. First of all, you would never see me near a place called Cockring, because I have standards. (It later changed to Club Fuxxx which made things even worse, but not as bad as Dirty Dicks. JESUS WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE. I may not be a virgin anymore but that does not mean I am ready to bump into my ex-boss while leaving a place called Dirty Dicks.) Second, some Portuguese guy that was not even Denzel Washington? Is my boyfriend like a whoreslut or something?

This didn’t last long and neither did my innocence, although you still wouldn’t find me in a darkroom even if it was called Club Of Posh Opulent Luxury And Refined Elegance, because the only thing I can think of when imagining myself in a darkroom is STD germs crawling all over me. I don’t know how often those places are cleaned but unless the answer is “non-stop” I am not touching anything there. Or anybody. I am not judging people who go there and I am sure they are lovely, smart and funny STD GERM COVERED human beings. But I did indulge into occasional threesome, might have seen a drug from very large distance once and there is a possibility I was to be found with my jewels out in more than one bar, while its patrons continued on their chats and drinks. (Of course I always did it with maximum class and sophistication.) But every time I went into a relationship, regardless of its length, it was monogamous. I was accused of cheating a few times, but I never did it. One of the few moral virtues I can still flaunt is having never cheated on anybody. We’d set the rules, and then regardless of what the other party did, I would follow them. It just so happened that the rules Husby and me set were different than ones I knew before.

When I met him I was convinced I was a broken man, or simply too fucked up to ever have a relationship. Therefore I told him that I had no interest in having a boyfriend at all. A month later I announced to him I now had a boyfriend. Yes, this is confusing and I am going to go into more detail sometime soon. But then new boyfriend and me split up and my harem, as I called the regular lover deliveries, slowly disbanded. I discovered I would rather spend time in bed, on the kitchen counter, bathroom floor, in the hallway and on the roof – but also in a cafe, on the sofa or in a museum with Husby. Regardless, since none of us ever promised the other one monogamy, we didn’t really see the point of doing it now. Which gave me opportunities to read gems like those:

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Obviously, this led to a long-lasting friendship with numerous benefits. I still don’t know what he looks like though.

Unfortunately though being with each other made us extremely choosy. I used to be rather indiscriminate when it came to men I would perform the boinking with. Basically they had to have facial hair, not smell bad, not be children (i.e. below the age of 30) and not be scared of me. Which still eliminated 80% of Amsterdam. But it’s got an unusually high representation of gay men, so I didn’t complain about loneliness too much. Husby ruined dating for me though, because now I expect the following (I can’t speak for him, but I shall immediately let you know when he starts a blog):

  • Facial hair (there is no such thing as a man too hairy and I just know that the Duck Dynasty guys pretend to be homophobic because they haven’t met the right man, i.e. me yet).
Photo credits: this picture of slightly scruffy gentlemen is promotional material by A&E Network
Photo credits: this picture of slightly scruffy gentlemen slowly growing out their beards is promotional material by A&E Network. I am only interested in three of them because I have standards.
  • Not smelling bad (my definition of smelling bad is probably somewhat particular, so you still don’t know if you have a chance).
  • No children (i.e. below the age of 30).
  • Not being scared of me (more on that topic later).
  • Use full sentences (“hi sexy” will NOT work as well as “dear Sir, I would like to express my sincere appreciation of your exceptional wit and ethereal beauty”). For mine and Idris Elba’s sake USE PROPER GRAMMAR and not more than one typo per 100 characters of message.
  • Compatible sense of humour, which I test by making a weird joke in second message, which causes 80% of people to block me and 15% to respond “eehh???”.
  • Not an arsehole (not in physical sense, although a loose arsehole does scare me too).
  • Must own a face (you’d be surprised how many gay men on dating sites ARE loose arseholes, elbows, toes or other body parts – this is something I associate with horror movies and it does not turn me on).
  • Speaking of physical requirements, if your legs are thinner than your arms (this is called Abercrombie & Fitch workout and the premise is basically that you can always wear loose pants and nobody will notice until you’re already naked and then it’s too late) I am going to make fun of you until you start crying and run away.
  • Non-fucked-up profile name (I still remember “2cool4u” to which I reacted with “alright then” and block) and text (if you have to write “I am a handsome man who is a great kisser” there is a very big chance you look like the back of a bus and would slobber all over my neck while simultaneously bruising me with your nail-like tongue).
  • Not racist, antisemitic, right-wing, homophobic, transphobic, queerphobic and generally a slimy human being (if your profile says “no femmes no fat no blacks” you have absolutely zero chance of meeting me, unless we bump into each other in a bar and I don’t recognise your face).
  • Not a horny ophthalmologist:
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WHAT does he want to do with my lenses? Actually hang on – I don’t want to know. AAH MY EYES (literally)

The hardest requirement on the list is “not an arsehole”. This is in particular true for BDSM scene, where an awful lot of people confuse being a master with being a demanding, unpleasant dick. Once a very handsome gentleman whose wardrobe seemed to consist solely of leather tried to get me over for some elaborate torture.

“I don’t think so,” I responded, “because I’m in my pyjamas and it’s raining.”

“I’m a master and you have to do what I tell you,” he wrote back.

“Bitch, I don’t think so,” I responded, which proved to be a bit of conversation killer.

A real master doesn’t have to TELL me that he is one. A real handsome man doesn’t have to TELL me that he’s handsome, especially when his head is suspiciously missing from the murder scene profile. A real cool guy knows that you don’t TELL people you are cool any more than Edina Monsoon screaming “I am thin and gorgeous”.

And this is why I spend most of the nights on the sofa either alone or with Husby, pretending outside world does not exist and watching Chip & Joanna. Having high expectations is a great thing for your self esteem and allows you to give your friends with terrible taste really good pep talks. It does not, however, get you laid an awful lot, similarly to vowing to never eat caviar that is not of highest quality when you’re on minimum wage.

PS. Between the writing and publishing of this post the following happened:

Hi bud, it’s Jake, a hot bottom aged 45. Do you perhaps have very long fingernails or do you know another (homo/bi) man who does? I want to be pinched and scratched really hard during foreplay and sex.

 

I am glad right now that I didn’t start on the upcoming “ten weirdest fetishes I’ve ever heard of” post yet, because I’d have to either rewrite it or rename it to “eleven weirdest fetishes I’ve ever heard of”. I also wonder if there’s an official name for fingernails-o-philia but I am not curious enough to look it up.

Also this is yet another person I am not going to get laid by. The list of possibilities is getting shorter every day.

5 thoughts on “Why I Don’t Get Laid Much

  1. Hi.

    It’s weird to comment here, when I know the author talks my horrible, too-many-consonants-per-word language.

    So, having 1.5 partner in my life, I’m not too experienced in dating (my partner love to remind me how our relationship started and I think there is some BDSM in that), so I don’t know if these criteria are strict or not. Also, you know that my vision of human anatomy is the hair place is on the top of the head, not the bottom. Sheesh, I probably won’t understand that beard fetish, like, ever (funny fact: my new cat understand it perfectly though. So we must sometimes remove her from some of our guests).

    Scratching is ok though, unless that subject talked about, IDK, Edward Scissorhands. I was also a happy intelligent being (I signed out from humanity on the short notice some time ago) who didn’t knew what a ophthalmologist is, until your post. But I attended to sexuology lectures and I heard about much more weird fetishes…

    1. You DO realise I thought you meant an actual hairy bottom and then got very odd ideas about what your pussy cat does to your guests…

      Also I am delighted to see you here! <3

      1. I realized it can be understand that way. But I left it for a confusion value.

        Cat is fortunately attracted only to hair on the head. For now at least. She is clearly not exactly sane and I’m in fear what she will do next week.

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