LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR Xand

Just the other day I had a conversation with a guy who, despite having pretty major relationship problems and a long-suffering boyfriend with trust issues, had suggested to his other half that they open up their relationship. At that moment a quote came to mind which goes like this. “Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity!”. And it got me thinking about times in my life when my schlong dong led me astray and that naughty purpled headed warrior and his rampant appetite for peaches and cream caused me to throw all caution and common sense aside and end up making some rather catastrophic mistakes.

Picture the scene. Barcelona, June, 2018. Having left my cheating boyfriend 500km behind me in the sprawling concrete jungle that is Benidorm filled with tattoos, tits, Tequila, theme parks, thugs, and more than a few twats, I found myself alone in a youth hostel sharing a room with 11 other people. At first, I had a fabulous fuckin’ time getting thoroughly shit-faced and singing songs in the basement of the building every other night with a deeply stoned, super sexy, blond-haired, Russian named Alex, or fucking my way through most of the rich shaggable neighbours who lived in grand Gaudi inspired apartments near to the Sagrada Familia whilst I was as high as a Ryanair Boeing 737 packed full of shit faced larger louts on their way to a weekend Faliraki fuck fest on a cocktail of MDMA, Ketamine, Speed, GHB, and Tina. If you’re not sure who Tina is just google her and fisting and all shall be explained!

Yes, ok, I confess I used to dabble in Class A’s.. just a bit! Now, much as I enjoyed losing myself in this crazy Catalonian cock convention I decided after three months of debauchery it was high time I found myself a room to rent. My work as a night-time legal secretary necessitated the need for privacy and I got fed up lugging my heavy massage table, eh I mean typewriter, around the city so I decided to peruse the local immobiiliaria (try saying that after 10 vodkas) or letting agents to you and I, in search of a cheap yet spacious room to rent.

Turns out Barcelona is a lot more expensive than Benidorm when it comes to renting and after several days I was getting nowhere. And so I did what any desperate, broke, stupid, single, gay dude would do and I turned on

Grindr. Within 22 minutes of posting my shirtless photo showing off my toned tits and chiselled torso, I received a message from a charming Italian named Alfonso who told me he had a large room to rent not far from where I was staying. “Great!”, I told him and he sent me his address. I was thrilled but not as happy as he seemed to be the next night when he opened the door to his charming two-bedroom apartment wearing only a pair of Aussie Bum underpants and cradling a bottle of white wine and a tub of ice cream.

“Welcome to the underwear party!”, he cried out and led me by the hand into his bedroom which was the larger of the two rooms and which had a charming little balcony overlooking the streets of Gracia. “Take your clothes off and have some ice cream!”, he said pouring me an extra large glass of crisp, cool, white wine. Not thinking about the weirdness of the scenario and more than happy to relieve myself of my rather sweaty t-shirt I stripped off all of my clothes and breathed in the smell of the warm summer night.

Several glasses, two tokes on a joint, four large scoops of melting caramel ice cream, and a good deal of knob twitching later, my naked, hairy, soon-to-be landlord handed me a handwritten tenancy agreement which I had in my inebriated state managed to bargain up to the total of 600 euros a month to rent his old bedroom complete with my own private balcony and no en suite bathroom. Whilst I can’t quite remember signing it that drunken night I do remember waking up inside him the next morning.

A few days later I moved in and opened my wankatorium for business. At night we drank wine, ate pasta, and on more than one occasion engaged in a spot of mutual masturbation. All of this seemed quite normal to me being rather bohemian and so naturally after a few weeks, we opened up our tenant/landlord relationship and enjoyed many a drug-fuelled midnight threesome and all the while he happily collected his 600 euros each month telling me how excited he was about his forthcoming trip to India.

Of course one can only sustain that sort of lifestyle so long before everything comes crashing back down to the ground and later that year my client list and my bank balance began to dry up. I nervously asked him one night if I could negotiate the rent and he agreed to pay the electricity bill himself for one month. Every little helps as they say. It was at that point I realised I had never actually asked him how much the entire rent on the apartment was and so I did. I was expecting him to say around 1000 euros and so I was shocked to discover the rent was 750. “So you’ve been paying 150 euros a month for your bedroom and I’ve been paying 600?” I exclaimed!

I was boiling with rage but managed to contain myself not wanting to get kicked out onto the street. My landlord, though short and rather flamboyant, was of Sicilian descent and I was sure his family had roots in the mafia. Three months in a youth hostel is enough for one lifetime believe me!

A month later having completely run out of money I was on a Ryanair flight back to the UK. Gone was my bohemian lifestyle in Barcelona and instead, I found myself sleeping on a fold-up bed in my parents’ dining room for four months which was about as much fun as a sandpaper dildo. These days I avoid Grindr and Class A’s and try at all times to think with my head and not my dinkle. He’s caused me far too much trouble over the years! I don’t even like the taste of ice cream anymore but at least I have some tales to tell…