The first time I met Rocky was at a fetish sex club in Cologne. Except nobody told me it was a fetish sex club. I was under the impression that I was in a club and wondered why nobody else is on the dancefloor (truth be told, the DJ was so terrible even I only half-heartedly wiggled a bit out of sense of duty). I did wonder how come so many people come in but I actually SEE so few of them around and why is there a gynaecological chair right next to the dancefloor. But hey, Germans are weird. It was probably art, I told myself.
Then this enormous huge man-bear entered. I nudged my friend – the one who neglected to inform me we are at a notorious fetish sex club – and said:
“As if,” he answered. “Something exotic. Venezuela.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I said and went to ask.
The thing with being extremely attractive in some way or other – and for an awful lot of gay men 130 kg of pure beef is considered rather interesting – is that there are very few people who dare to talk to you. Most of them immediately assume you’re out of their league and ignore you the same way you’d ignore Mona Lisa because there’s such a huge crowd of Chinese tourists in front of her that you’re not even sure which wall she hangs on. Except the tourists aren’t actually there, but you’re ignoring the room anyway. That’s what being a giant bodybuilder at a Cologne club must have felt. So I went, asked and found out that Rocky not only IS Dutch, but also lives in Amsterdam. And so, having met in Cologne, we became friends.
He left rather fast, saying it wasn’t really his ambience. Perhaps he also expected a dance party. I stayed longer, partly because bartenders gave me free drinks (what is it with me and bartenders? I swear I never had sex with any of them. I might have made out with two but that was AFTER the free drinks. Oh, wait…) and partly because at some point I went to a leather-clad gentleman to ask him whether full-on leather gear means that the man has a small pee-pee and then interesting things happened. But back in Amsterdam – once bruises left by the leather-clad gentleman faded – I gave Rocky a call and we met up for drinks and stuff.
He was in a relationship at that time. It wasn’t a massive success. It ended. He met someone new. We all do. We are single for five minutes, bump into someone attractive, hit it off right away, spend three months together, fuck five times a day, discover we have nothing else in common, split more or less amicably, the end. It’s called a rebound. Except those two got married and have now been together so long I actually lost count. The special thing about Rocky’s partner is that as you probably guessed his name is Ricky, and the two of them weigh over quarter of a ton. We once met up at my favourite watering hole (yes, I got free drinks there, but that’s not why I went) (okay, that’s not the only reason why I went) (every time I say “free drinks” you have to take a shot of kale juice), took a picture together and for the first time since I turned 13 I was the tiniest person on the photo.
ANYWAY. Ricky and Rocky like to party. Before they met, Rocky’s idea of a party – which might explain the lack of success in Cologne – was what mine is today, by which I mean picking a particularly exciting sort of green tea. Ricky introduced him to other sorts of having fun. Their weekends nowadays start on Friday around 1pm (they are still at work, but everybody knows that’s not really a reason not to start planning) and end three weeks later on a Tuesday afternoon in Tijuana. They held a birthday party recently in three instalments, because not even a person who really loves crowds can fit that many bodybuilders in one apartment. (Speaking of which, a tangent: they bought an iron bed frame with a fifth leg welded in the middle – just to be on the safe side. After the mattress started oddly sagging they thought the mattress wasn’t very good, but they lifted it up and found out the fifth leg bent. So they put a pile of bricks under the frame and that, so far, works. But one day their neighbours downstairs, at least the surviving ones, will be surprised to discover a new bed full of bodybuilders in the middle of their house and a huge hole in the ceiling.)
So the problem is that Ricky and Rocky invited us for New Year’s Eve with no more than vague hints of what is going to happen. We were asked if our passports are still current though. As you know, I am not a big fan of surprises. Also I am not sure whether I would like to find myself in Tijuana – or, since they’ve done it already, Tchernobyl. Not drinking is also going to make the experience different, partly because Husby and me will be the only people remembering it, and then everybody will want us to tell them what happened. And we’ll have to sit, write it down, compare notes and edit out the, uhmmm, controversial bits. And then nobody will believe the trip was so short.
I actually already have plans for New Year’s Eve. I have the same plan every year. No, it does not involve going to sleep at 10pm. How dare you! We wait until 11pm. No, actually we’re going to see what is called vreugdevuur, the fire of celebration, which is basically a giant enormous incredible bonfire.
(I’m in this movie which I didn’t know was even made until I just looked it up.)
Since I found out that existed I realised I never need to make any NYE plans ever again. The worrying thought, though is that Ricky and Rocky might find out and want to join, and then I will find myself either in the fire (because they like throwing things for fun) or, together with the fire and 300 people around it, in Tschernobyl. While tripping on whatever drugs make you high when you burn them at very high temperature in open air. I don’t know what sort of drugs that would be, but if someone does know that, it’s The Beefy Boys.
Send help. I’ll text you around January 2 to let you know which country to send help to.
PS. Homophobes really develop mentally at rapid pace when seeing Ricky & Rocky holding hands in public. It’s very amusing to see a group of six teenagers trying to find a polite and non-offensive way to explain to two Godzilla-sized men that they shouldn’t kiss on the street because it’s disgusting and against God’s will.