Tirana, Albania

Wish I had something fun to write about but I’m in the middle of planning for a few hundred people to meet up and talk tech and comms in Albania.

I’ll be here next week and it’ll be my second time this year.

For anyone that’s been for work or play, have any good suggestions? I have a great friend and personal tour guide in my friend Tonin but I always love extra suggestions.

Let me know where you’ve played while visiting Albania….

PS. No bars with showers. I’m still beat…

Part II: Didn’t I just see you in the shower?

As promised, here is part two of our two part Paris Storytelling edition.

If you remember correctly, last time you read about me in Paris I had just encountered a psycho that any Scientologist would be proud to call a friend who blabbed away and forced me to leave a fine enough bar to go drink off the crazy he put in my head WITHOUT ME ASKING HIM TO. This story picks up where the last story ended,

And then I saw it. Blue lights pulsating in the windows, techno music flowing out into the streets and lasers. There was a goddamned laser show and black lights.

โ€œThis is it,โ€ I told the boys and we all walked in.

And as I looked around, I found myself in a dream. And by dream I mean a sea of hot and topless and hungry men.

Part II.

So there I was, all wide-eyed, wine buzzed and hot in the pants in seeing 100 delicious French men hanging about in this fantastic little spot called RAIDD. Now let’s be clear. I know they all enjoy cock, want nothing to do with The Jage, and don’t care that I’m there but I CARE because girl needs a little eye candy once in a while and I just got handed 100 pieces of candy by walking in one door.

“They’re ALL gay?” I asked the boys.

“Yes, Rhonda. They’re all gay.” Rhonda was my lesbian name. The boys told me on numerous occasions that I look like a lesbian, that I was acting like a lesbian or sometimes it was just, “DO YOU REALLY WANT TO LOOK LIKE A LESBIAN???”

Not that I care one bit about lesbians but gay men hiss over lesbians like straight girls hiss over…hmmm….other straight girls? Maybe really annoying and loud and tacky ones? I’m not sure what to compare this hatred to. Maybe I’ll have to ask some lesbians who THEY hate and then I’ll understand this all better.

In any case. So we’re standing by the bar, leaning up against the wall, previewing the selection we have before us while drinking rum and cokes. The boys are going on and on about how sexy everyone is and how there aren’t that many old perverts there to get angry with and how sexier the French men are then say, any other country in the world (which I will not weigh in on. this was their club, their night) and how mmmm, mmmmm, MMMMM, they would just do x, y and z trillion nasty, dirty things to him, him and oh yes, most definitely HIM.

At first I was amused and mesmerized by all the beauty and yummy smelling men around me. No one was particularly sleezy, no one pushing, no one violating my personal space, no one paying attention to me.

Wait. That was the problem.

NO ONE IS PAYING ATTENTION TO ME. Then I started pouting. Then I looked down to check and make sure my tits were still there. Then I flipped my hair. Then I put lipstick on. Then I made eye contact with a pretty young fellow and kind of cocked my head which I don’t know if that look I was going for ever worked in the past but it must be something I’ve done before because it was my go to, Look at me and smile back like you just pictured me naked or stare at my boobs or DO SOMETHING LIKE WINK EVEN IF YOUR EYES ARE DRY.

But nothing. Every time I made eye contact, it was over within .001 seconds, by THEIR CHOICE and I was left standing there slamming back rum (in a classy way, obviously), casually brushing my side boob with my hand without staring down to make sure my boobs really were still there. What was going on, dammit? Men love boobs. Any boobs. RIGHT?

Now I’m not trying to be a self-absorbed, arrogant fuck. I’m not even trying to say I’m attractive. But I will say this. Any amount of top boob showing or smiling usually gets someone to at least smile back. Once upon a time I could get taken home even on nights I wore a turtleneck BUT NOT IN THIS FUCKING HELL FOR VAGINAS.

Point of this straight girl in a gay world sob story is that 100 men, all clearly hungry for The Sex, had the ability to make me feel like I did not exist and my vagina not only could not sway any of them into even talking to me but it seemingly was a carrier of anthrax, or so you’d think with the distance all the men kept from me.

I’ll tell you what. This attention whore didn’t like that feeling ONE BIT.

Then it happened. The screens along the wall that had previously been playing clips of men dancing in chaps, men being led on chains, men getting their goodies photographed, all these TVs switched to a scene with an empty shower.

That’s weird, I thought. And then a young lad entered the shower wearing black skivs only meant to be worn by Italians and Olympic swimmers. Well that’s even more weird, I thought, until the boys pointed to the part of the wall I assumed was just a mirror or something but no, it was the shower. It was kind of like standing in front of a door (placed not where it should be by the floor but in the middle of a wall about five feet up) in any red light district with a half-naked woman posing in lingerie, giving you the, come to me and pay me for my snatch, motion with her pointer finger, except this time there was a hot guy and he was about to turn on the shower.

That was probably when I decided to not care that he liked cock and my mouth dropped open. I was so impressed by the start of this shower show that I had to lean back against the wall to make sure I was comfortable enough and also that I didn’t pass out from my surprise at the public showering aspect.

“You look like a dirty old man,” Kyle said to me. “Stop making sex eyes at him. He doesn’t like you.”

The showering went a little like this:
Water all over body
Be sure to rub the water all over your body
Kind of pull your joy stick out of your fancy underwear
Push yourself up against the steamy glass and make sex eyes at me, I mean every guy in the place
Put yourself back in your pants and then rub more water on you
Pull your pants down but be sideways so I can’t see everything I’m now standing on my toes and leaning over like a protractor to see cock
Bend over
Rub yourself more
Peak show more
Look exhausted from showering
Stop shower
Towel off
Disappear

Well, that was something. If he was exhausted by that, I was more so just by watching. I’m sorry but I have the great ability to block out other people and so as far as I was concerned, it was just me and naked shower boy sharing a moment.

“I’m going out for a cigarette,” I told the boys because it was either that or a diddle and I didn’t feel like getting arrested in Paris for public diddling, and I’m quite positive there’s such a thing.

After being told I had to go downstairs to the smoking room, off I went to have an after you watch someone showering drag. In said smoking room, though, it was only me and two men and no one was making eye contact. Either no one AGAIN wanted to talk to me or they were far too interested in the porn playing on the tv in the smoke room. I too began to watch the TV and lean against the wall alone because no one wanted to talk to the American fag hag and FINE, I can be quiet once in a while.

Just as I was finishing my cigarette and porn, someone else came in and I heard a him light his cigarette. Not trying to be nosey, I looked up because staring at the floor I’m sure just made me either look like a creep or desperate or both.

Holy FUCK. This couldn’t be happening. MY GOD, Mr. I WAS JUST PULLING MY COCK AROUND IN THE SHOWER was standing one foot from me. I tried to look back down but then he caught my eye and I didn’t want to seem rude since he gave me such a nice show five minutes earlier for not even a dime and so I decided to chat him up at bit, of course as classy as possible.

“I’m sorry but haven’t I seen you,” I made a circling motion with my finger around towards his junk and then just pointed and cocked my head, somewhere? You were just in the shower five minutes ago…weren’t you?”

He smiled, said yes and asked me what my name was.

“It’s Heather. More important question. So. Do you like to sleep with men or do you like to torment men that want to sleep with you but you secretly like to sleep with women? Just throwing it out there.” I bet I just reeked of desperation but COME ON, someone in this fucking building had to like a little pea pod now and then.

“I’m (something that wasn’t Jean Pierre or Jean Luc or Francois or Gerard whats his face so basically I wasn’t interested) and I’m from New York and I like sleeping with men.”

I think I actually HMPH-ed.

“Well GEt OUT OF HERE. The guys I’m with are from New York. Let’s go see them!” I blacked out for a minute and forgot I was upset he didn’t like pink taco and figured I had probably just found my newest gay best friend, WHO WAS A SHOWER DANCER, and so I paraded his ass right up the stairs, across the bar and straight over to the boys.

They caught my eye as I was walking Mr. Wet and Wild over to them with “Gurrrrrrlllll, NO.YOU.D’NT,” look on their faces, which I JUST LOVED.

“Boys,” I said, “Meet so and so. I do believe you just saw him in the shower.”

And that was the best fucking gay club experience I’ve had to date. Beat that, gays. I dare you.

The one time I support Germans kidnapping the French

So I started to write this post just about the naked showering part but then totally got lost in the crazier part of it which is the back story and so this is going to have to be a two-part series.

Part I. Meeting the Crazy the Germans Should Have Kept (or sent to camp)

Here we go.

It was our second day in Paris and we were in our fourth watering hole of the afternoon/evening, regrouping after two other friends we had just been with left when the boys and I starting discussing the potential of our exotic looking French waitress.

“She’s beautiful,” we all raved, blatantly staring and smiling like creeps, much like you would at a petting zoo if you were all starry-eyed over a deer or something. Except that most people don’t get starry-eyed over deer but whatever.

“She should be a runway model.” The boys were still gazing. I suggested we tell her. She came over to refill our drinks and so I asked her, “Has anyone ever told you that you should be a model?” I imagined this type of compliment would be fantastic, but she looked confused which really just meant she didn’t speak English. Obviously I broke into my best German charades and walked two fingers down and back on the palm of my hand while circling my face with my pointer finger while saying slowly, “Mooooooooodeeeellllll.” Nothing. The girl just half smiled like, right, whackjob, and walked away.

“I’ll tell her if you want,” said the quiet man at the end of the line of booths we were sitting in. He had been reading a book and hadn’t bothered us once and now that was obviously going to change.

“Yes, please do,” we offered and he countered with, “She is beautiful. I come in once a week to watch her and she doesn’t know it.” Well, isn’t that the creepiest thing I had heard all day. Nice. Now one of us might die tonight, I thought.

“Can I talk to you,” he carried on and I should have known better to say yes but he seemed genuinely happy to be speaking to Americans, something I rarely encounter.

Then he launched into a whole bunch of bullshit that made my ears bleed. First he started to tell me some story about how the Germans kidnapped him when he was four and at first I was excited like, OH YESSSSS PERFECT! German kidnappings, love it. What sort of evil shit were they up to in this story but then I was bored because who haven’t they kidnapped? Plus that story included no violence or things involving torture so I was all, YEAH RIGHT, crazy man, MOVE ON.

Then the story moved on to his first out-of-body experience which didn’t include enough about actual death or being too close to the light and so again, I hated the story, so I started texting and gazing off longingly at the half filled booze bottles.

From there he carried on with how he’s had people fill his body and he can see through their eyes and it’s truly an amazing blabbity fucking psycho experience and at this point all I was thinking was YOU ARE LYING and I just sighed loudly and turned to the boys only to notice that both young saps were leaning forward with their hands on their chins and mouths open, nodding like they believe every mother fucking word that was being shit out of this man’s mouth.

I wanted to smash something and so I texted the Mr. and demanded he call me and after accepting said phone call I took a ten minute break from crazyville outside only to return to hear more of this nonsense continuing so I finally just announced that we had to go re-meet the friend that had left now two hours before because that makes no sense but I needed to get the fuck out of the psych ward before my head exploded.

Not before I kindly offered, “Sir. You look quite normal and you seem very nice but has anyone ever told you that you sound out of your fucking mind crazy? No offense.” Because that obviously made my question much nicer.

“Yes, some people have, but I don’t mind. I care about the experience, the energy, how things work in the world, the mixing of beings…” I stopped listening at mixing of beings, stood up abruptly, put on my coat and announced loudly, “Wrap it up, it’s really time for us to be going.” And unapologetically, I pushed out the door. I should note that was AFTER an email exchange which would hopefully go NOWHERE because I would rather not have that man pollute Kyle and Bryan’s brains with his shit talk anymore. They have enough fun stuff swimming around in those brains of theirs. They did not need his world energy nonsense, though it did sound like stuff someone would enjoy say if they believe in all that hippie nonsense.

Not that I know anyone like that. Moving on.

After leaving that bar, I was beyond agitated because while I am slightly touched myself, I cannot be bothered to entertain people who belong in homes, unless I am provoking them, which I tend to only do in my own country where I understand the laws and the language about abusing people.

“I need a fucking drink,” I announced as I looked for the next suitable establishment because surely the twelve white wines I had just consumed were clearly not enough.

And then I saw it. Blue lights pulsating in the windows, techno music flowing out into the streets and lasers. There was a goddamned laser show and black lights.

“This is it,” I told the boys and we all walked in.

And as I looked around, I found myself in a dream. And by dream I mean a sea of hot and topless and hungry men.

Well la dee da.

TO.BE.CONTINUED.

I’m changing professions

So this is why I’m not writing much lately:
1. I’ve been with random gay French men that do not wear clothes in public
2. Spending time with family
3. Working on wrapping up conference details
4. Being the opposite of sober
5. All of the above minus number 3 which isn’t a good enough excuse to take a break from writing

If you didn’t pick number 5, we are NOT FRIENDS. Obviously number 5.

So. That leaves me harassing gay men (a new personal hobby), traveling with family and drinking the adult juice. And by God it has been FUN.

Because giving out free sparklers with each bottle of gin ordered at the club makes sense. So does shoving it in your mouth.


I’ve had so much fun lately that my body is shutting down. Honestly. For the past two days straight (while not drinking adult juice) I have woken up feeling like a goddamned train just smashed me in the face while elves are stabbing my throat with escargot forks while my organs have all joined forces and are trying to escape out of my jage. If you’ve never woke up feeling like that, you are 1. missing out and 2. fucking boring.

So. While I draft tomorrow’s story about my new topless experiences in gay bars (gay bars with SHOWERS IN THEM OH.MY.GOD), here’s what I thought was a wicked good first draft of my new web design for The Heather Chronicles.

new-heather-chronicles-preview

Sorry about the fact that you have to rotate this picture I drew but spoiler alert, I am a fucking pdf magician as well. Bonus!

As you can see from the above, my drawing skills (and scanning and pdfing) are at an all-time high, as is my creative productivity.

So should I be a web designer or an artist? OR BOTH.

Both? I thought so.

Heading to Paris

With 40 grams of fat in each croque, how many do you think I'll still eat?

I’m off to Paris for a few days with no chance to write. I’ll be too busy eating and picture taking and harassing the French.

I’ll write and post pics when I return. If we’re all lucky, I’ll have my What Not To Wear video ready for viewing. ๐Ÿ™‚

Until next week…

Blasting nips out at the Green Lantern

My countdown to our group rainbow parade through Paris is getting smaller and smaller and I am getting more and more excited to take the French by storm.

Currently I have one friend making me a list of acceptable gay clubs to frequent while Kyle and Brian plan ahead on what I’ll be wearing to such an event.

I have another friend who is joining us and it’s her job to handle the flask situation and decide if she’s bringing her famous red slut dress and white pumps. Sounds completely appropriate and I will be jealous if I don’t get to wear something similar.

Oh. I should note this is only for the gay *events we do in Paris. The rest of the time I hope we look as put together as the rest of the French, which I think means black skinny jeans and a scarf. So.

Today I was going to write about how I’m going to turn this four day glitter event into my own personal hunt for the perfect croque monsieur but I can write about that tomorrow because the minute I typed something about a gay club in Paris I remembered the time I ended up topless in a gay club drinking free gin and that is a much better story.

It was DC, probably 2005 or 2006. I don’t quite remember but it was during The Trainwreck Years so I’ll bet it was summer of 2006. I was over my friend’s house in some transitional neighborhood on U, right near Cafe Saint-Ex, and we were casually binging on who knows what drink, most likely smoking and watching neighbors from her concrete stoop. I remember she roped me into going with her to meet a friend at a bar who was apparently mending a very severely broken heart and it was our duty that evening to cheer him up. She did not tell me Mr. Heartbroken loved penis and in turn, we would be going on the hunt for new penis at a bar filled with an abundance of hot penis, all of which wanted nothing to do with my vagina. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We met Mr. Heartbroken on the corner and headed to the bar, a bar called Green Lantern, which everyone apparently knew about but me. As we stood in line, I remember assuming it must be quite popular because the line was long, the music was loud and I could feel the steam coming out the doors. As we approached the bouncer collecting money, I realized that
1. We were at a male gay bar.
2. No one was wearing a shirt. No one. I looked up two floors and a hundred yards back and nope, not a damned shirt in sight.

Ryan Reynolds was not there the night I was or there would have been a full on attack. On him, by me.

We made it to the front of the line.

Doesn't seem sketchy at all, right?

“That’ll be $5 each and you’re not getting in with your shirts.” I think I saw a flyer that said something about topless Thursday.

“Shirts off?” We stood there while a sea of sweaty men stared at us like we were filthy shirt wearing trolls. We were having a summer filled with booze and bad decisions and more booze and I would not be outdone by a bunch of insanely pretty and topless boys. Especially when they were giving me the GRRRRRRL, GET IN THERE OR GET OUT OF MY WAY, look.

Off went the shirts. How liberating yet awful the minute I realized I was wearing one of my least flattering bras. WELL NO ONE TOLD ME I’D BE IN ONLY A BRA ALL NIGHT. We did our best to slink past all the cock loving, judgy stares.

“They’ll either love you or hate you and no in-between,” the heartbroken one offered flatly. He wasn’t kidding. One minute I’d get brush of the tit and a, “oooh, girl, good for you” with an approving look of my rack and then I’d look up again and two twinks would be giving me the evil eye and hissing at me. As in REAL HISSING.

We made it to the very back, to the second bar where the bartender was delectable and underwear hung from the ceiling. After perching ourselves on the high-top cocktail table in the corner, we proudly sat up straight to avoid inner-tube jean gut, tossed our hair around and ordered lots of gin. I am magic on gin. I am pretty on gin and goddamnit, that night I would be titalicious on gin.

Except I was getting really drunk due to my excessive excitement due to all my new gay friends that kept swinging by to touch real boobs. I don’t know. Something about all sorts of yummy men swinging by to poke my boobs and ask about them was just fantastic. Between that and watching all the filthy sexy things going on everywhere, it was best I kept up with the gin.

And then I was made an offer.

“Hey, bra off for the rest of happy hour and you and your friend drink free.” Well, well, the yummy bartender with the pretty abs was making deals now, was he? I never turn down good deal.

“Can I touch you?” I asked him, as though that might sweeten the deal. I can’t remember if I inappropriately stroked his chest in a pushy manner or not but I’ll guess yes and just assume he was used to it.

“I won’t do it. You do it. It’s free gin.” My friend was (slightly) a bit more reserved than say I was but not more sober. Either way, I was thrilled for the offer of free gin and so off came the bra. I rationalized that I was not only saving money but my bra was ugly anyway and no one, and I mean NO ONE, was looking at my boobs and then wondering how many more gins it would take my pants off, which I’ll admit was slightly disappointing, especially since gin gets me all DANCE OFF PANTS OFF.

Anyway.

With one quick and secret pinch of both nipples, I slammed back more gin and proudly sat in my high-top chair, giggling with my new set of penis loving friends, avoiding eye contact with my friend that had the only other vagina in the building and thinking, Yep. This topless shit is where it’s at.

Wait, what? Like you wouldn’t force a hard nipple situation if you knew a bunch of people were looking. No one likes soft nipples. No one. Except maybe milk sucking babies and to be honest, I don’t even know what the rule is about that.

God, I miss DC sometimes.

*I have no idea what a gay event is.

**Check out Green Lantern if you don’t believe me about topless Thursday. It’s not just MY idea of fun. They made it up first.

Teaching yourself German

In case anyone wants to know how I plan to teach myself German as quick as humanly possible (out of paranoia primarily), here’s just an example of the songs Moxie and I have been singing tonight up in the office.

You would not believe how fast I can count backwards from ten now. Who said a girl can’t teach herself?

Ugly Hair Update, the frosted edition

So today I went over to have lunch with some lovely ladies and before and after eating, I made them touch hair, lift up different pieces, spin me around and discuss my hair.

“It’s awful, right? Say it’s awful.” I needed more people to agree with me.

“Yes, it’s…well, it’s unnatural. And the red is still everywhere. And it starts in funny places.” They were both still trying to be nice.

“And it is awful. Like white trash.” I have lived in a trailer before. I can say white trash whenever the hell I want, especially in describing myself.

This is how it looks.

No rhyme or reason with the blonde.

Before you get all, it’s NOT THAT BAD, HEATHER, I’ll have you know that what appears to be brown in the photo is actually a pinkish. And there’s plenty of that deep red hiding underneath that platinum peppered mess.

Now up close you will be able to see that not only does the coloring make no fucking sense but highlights start inches away from my scalp and sometimes come in chunks and other times are just streaks which the hairdresser claimed was her “natural” look for me.

What in the hell is natural about this again?

It’s frosted. Frosted like old women do. Frosted like I pulled my hair out of a damned cap and tossed some dye on it and who even does that cap thing anymore? Worst of all, I googled “frosted hair” to see what pictures I could find to accurately compare myself to and found this.

This is exactly what I feel like I look like.

Frosted pube hair. Scrumptious.