Saturday, January 4, 2014

A view on conducting "foreign affairs" *wink*


I had lunch with Russell Chatsworth Davenport Tradehorn III or, as I referred to 
him when we were a couple, my Rusty Trade. Quite a mouthful huh.  

He’s British of course.  The name gives it away? I often wondered if British names 
got longer as their empire got shorter. Interesting topic for an intellectual discussion 
on the theoretical overcompensation of former colonial powers in relation to naming 
their male citizens. But again why digress on such weighty matters. I mean if you 
want intelligence why are you here reading this? 

Now where was I. Oh yes Rusty. If one had any doubt of his Englishness one need 
only listen as he waxed lyrical on British food especially a dish called “Chip Butte”(no 
I won’t use a  wisecrack here for some things just speak for themselves don’t you think). 
Now we, as in everyone who is NOT English, are all aware of the horrors of their home 
cooking. 

(Hello the Crusaders brought spices back with them in1100A. D. So let’s try using 
some honey!) 

But Rusty loved his Butte and I loved his cute...er...well why use the same 
sounding word thrice in a sentence right. Anyway, so off I’d go with him to explore 
the culinary worlds of down home English style fare. Ah the English; ah my poor taste 
buds! But we are not conducting a special on food so onto my point. 

Foreign affairs: 

Everyone should have at least one. There are some that insist a smoldering Latin 
American man is sex personified though frankly my experience with a Brazilian left 
me cool. Those boys are, to put it succinctly, somewhat oversold on campus. The one 
I met kept insisting he had a girlfriend and was shocked when I didn’t claim likewise. 
In the end however let us say that  “smoldering” was the only thing he could do. No 
flair or imagination. It must be in the blood because my friends who’ve tried the same 
nationality report similar results. 

Scandinavians are, sorry guys, a one trick pony. I chalk it up to this being probably 
due to the cold climate up there. After all, it’s freezing in those countries so you have 
only scant time to enjoy being nude. Their national motto must be: it is best to get 
in and out fast! 

As for the French let us be honest. Even when it is just the two of you in bed their 
inflated egos make it  a constant ménage à trois.  Italians, well being one myself it 
would be too much like incest to date one. Besides half the fun of being of  Italian 
descent is tossing guilt around to get your way. No fun getting it tossed back. A true 
recipe for stalemate.  

Germans I will admit have a certain flair for uniforms and leather but how many 
times  can one play Poland  for them! If they are Russian they insist you be every Baltic 
state! 

My point is:

The British my dear are the great hidden secret of the gay world. That cool look. 
A genetic pool in its final flower. All pale skin and liquid eyes.  Orlando Bloom and 
Hugh Jackman (a gay fantasy porno name if ever I heard one) come to mind. yes the 
later is Australian & not technically a Brit but come on genetically he is really just a 
Brit who lives elsewhere. 

Lastly, that  English accent! Ah sex with an accented lover that  you can not only  
understand but also create fantasies around. Picture “Masterpiece Theater” with you 
in an ever-changing role-play of ingénue scenes from those old movies. 
Show me a gay boy who doesn’t love role-playing, old movies or, creating 
dramatic diva  ‘scenes’ and I’ll show you boy in need of enrollment in a class on remedial 
homosexuality. 

So, as I just said, think of the roles you can assume in sex play with that British 
buck:  the vile lord of the manner with you as the heroic serf defending your honor 
in vain( I always lost my honor*wink*) or   the young traveler waylaid ( see how hot 
English words are!!) by the crazed  highwayman who performs on you a variety of 
unspeakable acts(we’ll speak of them later in private I promise)! Ah the  fantasy joys 
which only hearing a British accent can stimulate! 

So, next time you feel a bit frisky go for that Cockney. Imagine a country that 
christens a dish after a man named Chip’s rear or labels one of its accents for a part of 
male anatomy (see the first line in this paragraph honey if you didn’t get that reference 
by now). Enough said. 


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