Archive for September, 2011

29th September
2011
written by Dame Suzy

I just bought Chasing Papi, a cute film from the last decade starring the bombshell Sofia Vergara and the stunning Rosalyn Sanchez but featuring arguably, at one point, the sexiest man on earth, Eduardo Verástegui.

When I last had visited Verástegui’s website, he had just ended a round of celebration on the film Bella. He went through a weird period of time where he sent mixed messages. Among his causes were celibacy before marriage – in his case, born-again celibacy. Another was trying to promote California Proposition 8, which would denounce gay marriage. But his main cause was the protection of the unborn, especially since so many Latino babies were victims of abortion. Visiting his website again last week, I am happy to say that he’s abandoned causes that simply distract from his objective and make him sound crazy.

He is now committed to the protection of the unborn, for which he spearheaded a Los Angeles-based clinic that offers free prenatal services to those in need. It opened recently.

Am I pro-life or pro-choice? I am BOTH. How is this possible?

What this means is that I believe a woman ultimately makes the decision to end the life of the unborn child, BUT I don’t believe it has to be easy. That is to say, go ahead and use whatever treatment necessary, but make them see videos representing both sides of the story, even a video of the procedure, even if they’re early enough to use the RU-?? drug. It’s not pretty business and they shouldn’t be blind to it. And even if they do have an abortion this time, this may serve as a nice deterrent for the future. And I recommend a requirement to see an ultrasound.

When I myself saw the ultrasound of my child at three months, I was amazed at how awesome she was, swirling around, how developed, how human. And years later, she’s still awesome and I get to be a hot mom, not someone worrying about trying to have kids before it’s too late.

The video Eduardo showed at one point on his site was a gruesome few minutes of aborted fetuses in a trashbag, the same video I think I was shown as a teenager. This by itself would be unseemly torture to a potential mother. But showing all sides to the story is just that; there are reasons to keep the baby and reasons not to, and we don’t have to paint over the truth just to make them feel better now. Because many or possibly most won’t always feel that way. Better to be fully informed.

And this, by the way, from Dame Suzy, an atheistic, gay-friendly, libertine, conscientious hedonist.

Would Eduardo Verástegui have been as successful in his march against abortion without his moviestar/dream god good looks? I don’t think so. It’s his sex appeal that makes people pay attention and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I for one am happy that he has bestowed upon the world so many images of his striking beauty, charm, and otherworldliness and gotten so many hearts pumping. Many good wishes to him, except stop gay-bashing, sweetheart.

16th September
2011
written by Dame Suzy

Okay, actually it was Basque-born, San Sebastian to be exact. I must make that distinction because seriously, I haven’t seen a perfect tool come out of Spain proper. And though, other than Basque-by-name-only Gonzalo Higuaín and heartthrob Eduardo Verasteguí, Basque boys typically are too bland/blond/pretty to turn me on. And in this case this guy, we’ll call him Inyaki, didn’t really turn me on, he just impressed me as cool and yes, pretty – very good-looking in fact.

He invited me and my just-friend Mario to hang out at his home. And even when the bisexual (mostly gay) Mario giddily couldn’t suppress his attraction, saying, “But dude, you’re great-looking,” a few too many times, the Basque kept his cool. There was no rush – I don’t know if the guy was just that confident or whether he didn’t actually care either way.

Alas, we don’t know where things could have gone because Mario had to work at 10am and left at 9. I asked if I should go with him, but he insisted I stay.

Let the games begin.

Oh, what a pretty penis, with a gentle but noticeable curve upwards, a nicely-defined head, a smooth uniform girth and a perfect length. And though Inyaki himself was on the thin side, his chest rather narrow with pockets of hair here and there, his legs were shapely and the overall package was pleasing. And he felt awesome inside for a little while until I spontaneously dried up. I tried adding saliva, but guess what? All those shots and drinks (about 7 drinks worth) in my pursuit of a buzz that I had failed to get the night before meant I was dry as a bone. Fuck! So guys could get limp from too much drink, and girls dry – equally annoying, especially since it had felt sooo good. Argh! Grrr. And I hadn’t packed lube because it was persistently leaky in my luggage, and knowing how wet I normally I am, I didn’t think I’d need it. In fact I’d packed panties so I wouldn’t leak onto the club floor and make someone slip and die.

So that time with the adorable out-of-shape Nacho who looked like my old crush – I hadn’t been dry from lack of interest; I’d been dry because I was dehydrated. Fuck! That wasn’t the only consequence of my drinking with Inyaki. I actually blacked out for about twenty minutes from the time we left the club, went by taxi and actually were sitting down on his couch. And that wasn’t the only other consequence. The following day I’d have a total fucking disaster that I will never talk about on this blog.

Afterwards, he asked if I wanted to sleep so we did. He did that close-sleeping thing that I tolerate and thankfully he didn’t cut off the circulation in any of my limbs.

At 2pm, he pointed out where the shower was. I offered to take a shower together and he said he felt uncomfortable. I said, “You’re timid? Or modest?” And he said he was shy, so I showered alone. I said I wanted to watch him take a shower and he was equally like No please.

And so I told him, I’ll go then. And he said, “You don’t want to have lunch?” And I said, “You don’t want me to go?” I mean really. I don’t want to wear out my welcome, plus it was liberating to meet a guy I wasn’t gaga over whom I could happily leave instead of my being kicked out.

And when he came out of his solo shower, he said he thought I’d have left while he’d been in the bath. And I said I’m not a rude person. And we went to lunch, during which he asked what my name was. Ha. I’d remembered his since I’d written it down because Basque names are unusual. This what’s your name thing I believe was a first for me, especially for a guy being so polite the next day.

We left each other with his asking for my facebook info, and offered himself as someone I could visit again the next time I came to Madrid. Though I’m not sure that will happen, I certainly wouldn’t mind trying out that deluxe tool again, this time with me wet like I was born to be.

14th September
2011
written by Dame Suzy

Okay, so it’s no secret that I love Spanish guys. The first one I met had a very surprised me up against the wall wrapped around him and had he not been wearing braces, my entire Spanish romantic future would have been completely different.

The Spaniard expresses how he digs you, and then backs off, letting you chat with his friends without jealousy, without possessiveness.

By contrast, the North American tries to prove how useful he is, practical, level-headed, and well-behaved. In other words, he presents a very boring vanilla persona with body language to match. One American guy this trip would act too polite, having me go first and not budge even when I tried to usher him through. Go with the flow, man. Don’t be so stubborn.

Another guy, though, managed to cock-block himself and his whole group of mostly good-looking, muscled friends. He did this by not taking my answer at face value. No – I said with a smile – I don’t want a drink, thanks. I have a big hangover and I don’t need a drink, just water. He claimed his insisting on getting me a drink was politeness. No, dude, it’s being pushy and obnoxious. And it makes you look desperate like a chick isn’t going to like you without beer goggles.

Then came the final blow. He asked me what I did and I said I acted mostly as a hobby but my true desire was to be a screenwriter. I’d had some scripts looked at but no further contact. He said I had to move to L.A. I said, “That would great, but I’m happy where I am and that’s where my family is.” “But you have to be there.” “I’m in no rush.” “Girl, you HAVE to move to L.A. What’s holding you back? Don’t be afraid, just do it.” “I’m happy to wait for the kids to grow up.” That stumped him for a total of 2 seconds, but he kept at it.

I was like, DUDE, it’s four in the morning in Madrid, I am enjoying the music and how people are having a good time, back the fuck off.

But he wouldn’t. And he even had the gall to flex his muscles and say, “Okay, let’s make up. Give me a hug.” What the fuck? Seriously? What idiot-filled planet did you come from? Then he stuck out his cheek. “A kiss then.” And it took a lot of self-control on my part not to just punch him in the face. Because I really do like an excuse to fight. Instead, I told his smoking but dumb Latin-American friend, “Enjoy the rest of your night,” and got the hell out of there. Not even the possibility of knocking boots with his friend could salvage this GRAND OLD NORTH AMERICAN COCK BLOCK.

Why don’t I just say American cock block? Because it happened with a hot young Rafael Marquez look-alike from Canada too. He was just too normal, nice, polite, intelligent, and thus boring for me to want to just grab him and pull down his pants. Had he said fewer words and given me a few sexy “I want to do you badly” looks, he would’ve have a much better time and so might have I.

12th September
2011
written by Dame Suzy

For some background read Taking turns – calling dibs on a girl

Layman, my Canadian friend with dark Andalusian features asked me what I thought his origins were. I told him Brazilian first, and he responded with, “But they’re white.” He told me he’s been told he looks Italian – I say nay – or Greek –but I say they’re white too, just hairy.

After a while he was itching to tell me, so he started dropping hints like, “I’m the enemy,” to which I involuntarily thought, “Sexy.” Only because he was already sexy and being forbidden was just an added bonus. Later he said, “I also speak Farsi,” in addition to his perfect North American English accent to which he added no hint of Canadian.

“Ah,” I said. “Persian?” And I say Persian because he and Rafa Jr. were too good-looking to be called a name that sounds like a mean-and-nasty person to my jaded ears, and though Persian brings to mind not dark, hairy manly hotties but cuddly girly kitties, it’s still far better than saying Iranian, especially in a Texas accent EYE-RAIN-EE-IN.

So yes, I brought him to my hotel room and we opened up to each other and it was fabulous. Except that he gave me a sample of his cock and WOW it felt awesome, and I was like YES, YES, and then came the disappointment way too quickly, what I name the alcohol-induced cock coma. And he told me that’s what happened when he drank too much. Damn it, then if you want to hook up, don’t drink so much. Ahhh, I wanted him to fuck me senseless. *Sigh*

The real enemy isn’t a nationality that sounds like a kitten or an evil magician, it’s the cock coma.

10th September
2011
written by Dame Suzy

So there I was, hanging out at the pub crawl, which combined six hostels in Madrid into a potentially massive gang of party-goers, instantly turning a bar into a hotspot, at least for the forty-five minutes we’d be there. Tonight, maybe there were forty, the overwhelming majority dudes, many vying for a shot at the girl (me) wearing a hot-pink, tight, curvy one-shouldered dress. I hugged Dan when I saw him, the host I’d met a year previously, now without the pubic-hair-looking soul patch. Good-looking guy with a neato British accent.

The guy I was most-interested in was a tall, built, dark and handsome guy, who accompanied a more refined young Rafael Marquez-look-a-like (definitely worth checking out) and a beauty-challenged friend. But they didn’t pay attention to me, so I figured they were the typical dark dudes salivating for blond chicks.

A short, in-shape polite American – meaning he needed to up his game and not just be the nice guy – chatted me up for awhile before setting his eyes on easier prey, some giggly Spanish chicks who were merely 5’s.

The beauty-challenged dark guy chatted me up, danced right up to me with me looking the other way, and asked to dance with me. To which I responded, “I don’t dance with people.” I could have continued and said, “Be more original, actually learn to dance, and pick someone in your league.”

He finally went away. Shortly thereafter Rafa Marquez Jr. came up and talked with me. Very good-looking obviously, but I thought he was still trying for a blond fix but I might be his third or fourth choice so he was taking a shot. As I don’t like being anyone’s second choice, that wasn’t going anywhere. He was also in many ways, too North American, meaning lacking charisma.

Then went Rafa.

Then came the guy I liked, the big guy. But man did he come on strong. First, taking my hand as if he were waving a magic wand and I was to follow his lead. I hate that. I HATE that. It’s like taking ownership of a horse when you don’t know how to ride. And you can tell immediately with how they take your hand. From above your head, usually they take your left hand, which means they don’t know shit. No social dance has that hand hold. I’m a dancer, so don’t give me this lame shit.


There has only been one time when a guy taking my hand started and ended fantastically. An Israeli guy who looked and dressed Italian with his longish black hair and who was trained in Latin dance. But he took my hand expertly – in fact, both hands, his palms up and low. YES! Thank you! Man that fucker could dance. He managed to dip me, holding me over his leg and lifting my entire body off the floor with grace.

Back at the pub crawl, the big guy stuck to me like glue, so much so that I needed to escape to breathe. And I went to the bar and indicated I wanted to mingle. But there he was still by my side. He was cock-blocking himself, which I will talk about in another post called The North American cock-block.

It was only when we started a somewhat heated debate about socialized healthcare that he started to interest me. Ah, the brains have it. Then the tides turned, he backed off, and I was like, yes, I like this guy.

It was later when he told me the ugly friend had called dibs on me, so the others weren’t supposed to express interest in me at all. The big guy purposely ignored me and I felt it. Then when ugly bombed, Rafa Jr. called dibs. And finally came the big guy – I’ll call him Layman pronounced Laymahn. I mean, it all worked out, but weird.

It just goes to show you that just because a guy doesn’t express interest doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. My own man when we met treated me like nothing. He told me later he thought he didn’t have a chance in hell so he didn’t even try. But geez, he could have cracked a smile when he met me. I think he gave me a 1/100-second glance and mumbled, “Hi.”

Let me say dibs is stupid. Had that not been in place, Rafa Jr. AND Laymahn might have been able to take turns, in a much more provocative way.

2nd September
2011
written by Dame Suzy

I left home thinking I’d probably not have sex with anyone on my short trip because I was disillusioned with my friends and lovers being unavailable or retarded, and I had pretty strict rules about hooking up. Like I couldn’t be second best – the guy had to be set on me, not trolling for the next best thing, like how he couldn’t be too young, too drunk, like how he had to be worthy and shit. And it was only going to be six days so I didn’t have to risk having bad sex because I could wait until I got home to have guaranteed great drama-free safe and loving sex.

Then I thought, why not be a little more daring? I’m always talking about being adventurous and yet I have these restrictions. And my man mentioned that I didn’t always know if I’d have bad sex just because I wasn’t a guy’s first choice. And maybe it wasn’t that I was his second choice, it was just I was the choice for another moment.

So then I thought, maybe my goal of meeting a guy I could potentially have a romance with – which I’ve been fortunate to have at least five times – was ill-advised and was inhibiting my chances of having great sex.

I mean, the last time I was at La Posada de Animas, a guy who attracted me – good-looking James Dean-type with style, ended up making me weak in the knees from kissing my lips and devouring my neck, and because he had been looking at other girls in the meantime and had been very drunk, I decided nevermind. And in the processing of trying to sneak out of the club to avoid him, a guy grabs my arm and I turn and look at this tall, gorgeous guy and he asks where I’m going and I said I’d had my fun and I was done. And within seven seconds, I was out the door and in a taxi, happy from having had a lovely night, but very un-fucked.

So had I won? Or could I have had some pretty fabulous but short-lived drunken sex before I got kicked out of the guy’s apartment? Or could I have just gone with the tall guy, who could have thought I was fabulous or not, I hadn’t had time to determine that. I may have missed out. So what if I get kicked out? So what if the sex is bad – the sex can be bad with the sweetest guys who only want me, who aren’t drunk, who are the right age.

It’s a sheer matter of mathematics. If I want to have more GREAT sex, I’ve got to have a lot more SEX, which also means I’ve got to have a lot more BAD sex. A worthwhile trade-off? Maybe I should just see instead of staying locked up in my apartment lamenting my being lonely and unfucked. I’ll keep you posted.