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Monthly Archives: December 2016

Vakantieflirt/ Summer flirt

Ik was op vakantie bij (een) Vriendin. Dat wil zeggen: zij werkte in Frankrijk op een camping (ze deed het entertainment en sporten voor de kinderen) en had een caravan waar ik ook nog wel bij in paste.

Na een klotsende busrit van ruim tien uur, spoedde ik me naar het toilet waar ik mijn record ‘plassen-na-een-lange-rit’ verbrak: vijf minuten aan een stuk torpedeerde ik het witte porselein. Een orgastische fontein, mag ik wel zeggen.
De camping lag aan een schattig meertje dat na mijn actie uit z’n oevers dreigde te treden (ja, overdrijven is ook een vak..)

Maar: ik was er!

In de stralende zon.
Vriendin was ‘s ochtends aan het douchen voordat ze aan het werk moest, en ik ging eens lekker languit op m’n gat zitten. Had ik nog niet gedaan in die bus. Ik had vrijwel rechtop moeten zitten, omdat m’n benen nogal lang zijn. Opgevouwen als een harmonica, dat werk.
In bikini, Gewapend met een boek, pak koekjes en een glas water (ik kon altijd nog doen of het wodka was, had ik besloten), nam ik plaats op een van de stoeltjes voor de caravan. Alwaar ik al gauw werd begroet door een stoppelige en vriendelijk glimlachende jongeman die zich introduceerde als Olivier. Hij kuste mijn beide wangen en nam plaats op de andere stoel. Begon een heel verhaal.
Ik verstond geen ruk van Olivier. Mijn Frans is nooit zo goed geweest. Ik glimlachte dus maar gewoon vriendelijk. Dat had hij door. Zodoende wachtte hij tot Vriendin was teruggekeerd.
Vriendin stelde ons aan elkaar voor, vertelde dat Olivier een van haar collega’s van de camping was. Olivier bleek de lifeguard bij het meertje te zijn.
Ik zag Olivier elke ochtend terug, nam aan dat dit zijn werkroutine was. Mij op de wangen kussen, Vriendin ophalen en dan samen naar het zwembad lopen.
Nadat enkele dagen, lag ik op een middag ook aan dat meertje. Prima toeven. Olivier kwam af en toe langs, ik leerde nog wat andere mensen kennen, ik vermaakte me wel. Op een goed moment meldde Vriendin me weliswaar dat ze het vermoeden had dat Olivier me leuk vond, maar ik hoorde het niet. Ik luisterde net naar m’n walkman. Dan krijg je dat.

Ik had mijn handen bovendien vol aan een andere fransoos, die mij en Vriendin op een middag zó hebberig had bekeken dat ik in lachen was uitgebarsten. Ik had weleens gelezen -in een of ander stoffig boekje over lichaamstaal dat ik ooit op een tweedehandsboekafdeling had ingekeken- dat mannen, als hanen, hun veren gladstrijken. Meestal met gel. In dit exemplaar zag ik meteen zo’n haan. Vandaar die snotterlach. Oeps.
Enfin. Terwijl Vriendin en Olivier enorm aan het werk waren overdag, vond ik deze flirt weer terug. Het flirten ging lekker, dus waarom stoppen?
Vriendin organiseerde een rugby spelletje, waarbij heel wat geïmproviseerd diende te worden, want nauwelijks materiaal aanwezig.
‘Kom je ook kijken?’ vroeg ze.
Eigenlijk had ik geen zin. Het was echter schuin tegenover de caravan waarin we verbleven. Geen ontkomen aan.
Ook Olivier schoof aan. Het spel was nog niet zo lang bezig, toen Vriendin over me heen kwam hangen van achteren. Prettig visueel vermaak, kennelijk. Vriendin grinnikte toen ze erop werd gewezen door een ander, vertaalde het voor me.
‘He wat?’ vroeg ik onder haar borsten door. Leuk, oorwarmers in juli.
‘We komen spelers tekort, doe je ook mee?’ vroeg ze, haar kin op mijn hoofd rustend.
‘He, nee! Ik ken helemaal geen rugby! Laat staan dat ik het kan!’ riep ik verschrikt uit.
‘Kom op, ik doe ook mee’, spoorde ze aan. Olivier keek ons vragend aan. Vriendin vroeg hem ook maar meteen. Olivier was ogenblikkelijk te porren. Ik zuchtte, stond op. Ik wist wanneer protesteren geen zin meer had
Het zal zo’n tien minuten in het spel zijn geweest, toen Vriendin zei:
‘Jemig, ik zweet me te pletter!’
“Ik ook’, gaf ik toe.
‘Ik wil eigenlijk m’n shirt uittrekken, maar er staan hier bijna alleen maar mannen, dat wordt dan, denk ik, toch verkeerd uitgelegd’, zei ze toen.
‘Niet als we het tegelijkertijd doen’, stelde ik voor. Ik had het ook snikheet.
Dus hop, allebei shirt uit. Bikini’s die tevoorschijn kwamen. Gefluit van de zijkanten. Vriendin en ik die hen daarop keihard uitlachten.
Toen vervolgens Olivier de ene na de andere wilde manoeuvre maakte, waardoor eerst een stapel kleine jochies (tussen de 8 en 10 jaar) als een rij dominosteentjes omvielen en even later ik en Olivier zelf, werd het helemaal een dolle bende.
Toen ik opkeek, zag ik m’n flirt ineens tussen de struiken staan. Ik was meteen afgeleid, maar ook gedrevener. Ging meer in het spel op. Toen er een bal uitgenomen moest worden, keek hij me zo doordringend aan, dat ik hem het liefst terplekke een tent/ caravan /zwembad /douchehok in had gesleurd.
Helaas. Het spel was nog niet teneinde. Het werd steeds gezelliger -waarschijnlijk had het feit dat Vriendin en ik gedeeltelijk in onze zwembikini’s stonden te spelen, de ronde gedaan door de camping, zo zwart stond het ineens van de mensen aan de zijlijn. Ik voelde me, in tegenstelling tot wat ik vooraf had gedacht, in m’n element. Olivier kneep een waterfles leeg in m’n gezicht, wat met luid geloei en geschater werd ontvangen door de rest van de menigte. Olivier was wel zo vriendelijk me weer op de been te helpen, m’n hoofd over zijn schouder. Ik keek daarop recht in de ogen van m’n flirt. Grijnzend en wel. Ik beantwoordde de blik.

Mijn flirt en ik belandden, in een fors beschonken bui, (na een spelletje pétanque) in het zwembad. Hint: nooit klotsen met dat water als je al misselijk bent. Het was prima voor een vakantieliefde.

En toen was daar nog de rel met Olivier.
Twee dagen voordat ik vertrok had hij geregeld dat we naar Castellane konden, met zijn motor. Ik moest een lange broek aan (de enige die ik bij me had) en goede schoenen. Ik denk niet dat Olivier had gerekend op een chick met legerlaarzen, maar tadaa… Dus wij op de motor, terwijl Vriendin nog moest werken. Ze wist wel dat we er even uit gingen, maar wist niet waarheen, of hoe laat we weer terug zouden zijn. Ik ook niet.

Castellane was prachtig. Een schattig bergdorpje, zo leek het, met overal kaarslichtjes en gezang, sprookjesachtig mooi gewoon. Kerst in de zomer. Brandende lampionnetjes in spelonken en de liefste en zoetste trappetjes die naar prachtige kasteelachtige torentjes leidden. Ik kocht hier en daar wat kleine dingetjes (portemonneetjes, pennen, sleutelhangers, alles voor de thuisblijvers) en genoot van het prachtige zicht.
Het zal een uur of tien, elf, zijn geweest toen we op de camping arriveerden. Ik ging terug naar de caravan die ik met Vriendin had, na een braaf kusje op m’n wang van Olivier. Ik bedankte hem vriendelijk, zoals je dat gewoonlijk doet als iemand sympathiek voor je is geweest.
Bij de caravan aangekomen trof ik een boze Vriendin.
Die was bezorgd geweest in mijn afwezigheid, maar ook boos. Overtuigd dat ik met Olivier in bed lag. Ziet u, hij gold als de plaatselijke schoonheid. Dat zag ik dan weer niet. Slank, vrolijk, een dagenbaardje, vrijwel altijd een glimlach op z’n gezicht, en altijd even vriendelijk. Zo zag ik hem. Mijn reactie was dusdanig dat Vriendin wel meteen overtuigd was dat er toch niks gebeurd was. Bovendien wist ze dat de route naar Castellane inderdaad lang genoeg was om er lang over te doen. Zelfs per motor.
‘Weet je dat hij, voordat jij kwam, me alleen af en toe kwam halen om naar het werk te gaan? Het is pas sinds jij hier bent, dat hij dat elke dag doet’, zei ze.
‘Oh. Nee, dat wist ik niet’. Ik voelde me lullig dat Vriendin zich genaaid voelde. Ik was echt zo naïef dat ik dacht dat Olivier me mee had genomen om aardig te zijn.

De volgende ochtend bleek pas dat er nogal wat tumult was ontstaan na ons vertrek. Olivier had niemand op voorhand willen vertellen waar hij heen ging. Er waren in onze afwezigheid weddenschappen afgesloten dat we met elkaar in bed lagen.Hij was zelfs door de baas op het matje geroepen: wat hij met me uitgevogeld had?!

Ik moet eerlijk zeggen: ik heb me kapot gelachen toen ik dat hoorde. Een hele camping in oproer, en ik had geen flauw benul!

 

I was on a holiday with (a) Girlfriend of mine. She was actually working at a camping in France (entertainment and sports for the children), but had a caravan to her own in which I could fit aswell without a problem.

After a challenging busride of ten hours I ran to the toilet at the said camping and broke my own record of urinating-after-keeping-it-up-during-trip and torpedoed the white porcelain for a full five minutes. A quite orgastic fountain, it has to be said. The camping was situated next to a cute lake, to which I have undoubtedly contributed. Yes, exaggerting is a profession at times….

But: I was there!

In the radiating sun.
While Girlfriend was taking a shower before work, I was gonna sit down on my arse and do nothing much special for a while, thank you. I hadn’t done so in that bus, as my legs are quite tall and I had been forced to sit folded like a harmonica due to this.
In my bikini. I had found my way to a book, a package of cookies specially reserved for this moment and a glass of water, which I could easily pretend to be vodka, I’d figured. I sat down on one of the plastic lawn chairs in front of the caravan, and was soon greated by a bristly and friendly looking young man, who introduced himself as Oliver. He kissed me on the cheeks as a greet, sat down on the other chair, started a whole story. I didn’t understand a word. My French has never been too good. Oliver noticed. He waited. I had noticed he mentioned Girlfriend, so I figured she would know what to do with him.

Girlfriend introduced us to one another, told me Oliver was one of her colleagues; the lifeguard at the small lake and swimmingpool.

Oliver came to the caravan every morning, which made me assume this was his work routine. Kiss me on the cheeks, wait for Girlfriend, walk to work. 

After a few days I found myself at this lake aswell. Proper spot. I met some nice people and every now and then, Oliver came to check in. I was having quite a good time. At some point Girlfriend mentioned to me she suspected Oliver was developing feelings for me, but I didn’t hear it. I was listening to my walkman. It happens.
Besides, I had my hands full with another Frenchman who I had discovered in the days before even attending the beach. This man had been looking at both me and my Girlfriend in such a way that it had made me snort with laughter. I’d read -in a second hand book of bodylanguage I once happened to gaze into in a second hand shop- that men who intend to lure or seduce a girl/woman, literally make the gesture of ‘preening feathers’. He had done just that. I think even snot came out of my nose. Very charming…oops.
Anyway, when Friend and Oliver were at work during the day, I found back my flirt. Woohoo. We still seemed to enjoy that little game, so why stop now?
Friend organised a rugby game, which demanded quite a bit of improvisation, because there was hardly any material to begin with.
‘You’re gonna come and watch?’ she asked me.
I actually didn’t want to, but the playfield was diagonally opposite our caravan. No real way to escape.
Oliver also joined the sideline. The game hadn’t been played for that long when Friend hung over my shoulders from my back. A pleasant visual image, apparently. Friend giggled when she was informed about this, translated it for me.
‘Eh, what now?’ I asked from underneath her breasts. Nice, earmuffs in July.
‘We’re in short stock of players, are you joining?’ she asked.
‘What?? No! I don’t even know the game!’ I protested in shock.
‘Come on, I’m joining in myself’, she said. Oliver looked at us curiously, so Friend asked him to join aswell. He was in for it immediately. I sighed and caved. I knew when protesting no longer had any point.
After a little while, Friend mentioned:
‘Blimey, I’m sweating like a bastard! I actually wanna take off my shirt, but it’s only men along the sidelines. I’m afraid it will give the wrong message if I do so….’ and I told her:
‘Not if we both do it, I’m sweating like a bastard myself, come on!’ and at ‘three!’ we both removed our shirts. Whistles and clapping from the sidelines. We just laughed right into their faces.
Then Oliver proceeded to make wild manoevre after wild manoevre, leading to a lineup of boys (aged about 7 to 9) fell down like a domino play and short after, Oliver and myself, it became quite a wicked mess.
When I looked up, I suddenly saw my flirt. I was immediately distracted, but somehow also more focused into the game, wanted to show off. A ball had to be thrown in somehow, and during this happening, he looked so straight into my eyes that I really had a hard time not to yank him into the nearest tent/toilet/caravan/ shower cabin.
Unfortunately, the game hadn’t ended yet. The game was becoming more sociable -most likely due to the fact that word got round that Friend and me were playing in our bikinis- it got so very crowded at the sidelines. I got to feel more and more in my element, far more than I expected on first hand. Oliver then proceeded to squeeze a whole bottle of water into my face, which led to the crowd around us cheering and clapping. Oliver was friendly enough to pull me up again. My head over his shoulder, I looked right into the eyes of my flirt. Who was all smiles at me. I answered the smile with my smile.

My flirt and me eventually ended up in the swimmingpool, after some stiff drinks. Note to self: don’t do sloshing if you’re already feeling a bit sick….for a summerlove, it was absolutely fine, however. 

And then there was this small riot around Oliver.
Two days before I was going to leave, Oliver wanted to show me how much he liked me, by taking me on a special trip to Castellane. He had told me to wear long trousers (the only one I actually had with me) and some proper boots. I don’t think he was considering a chick with army boots, but there you had it anyway. Tadaa!
While Friend had to work, Oliver and I went away on his motorcycle. Friend didn’t know where we were going, but I didn’t know either. He hadn’t told me before we went.

The part of Castellane he showed me was incredibly beautiful. A very cute village on a hill, with small stairways and cute little chapels everywhere, lights being shone from every direction by lanterns, small tokens for stupid foreigners like me to buy (my wallet got emptied there from all the gifts I bought for people at home), it was truly amazing. We walked a bit, watched the stars, I enjoyed the beauty of this place so very much.
It must have been about eleven or twelve, when we arrived back at the camping. Oliver gave me a sympathetic peck on the cheek and I thanked him for all of his trouble and showing me a beautiful place. I returned to the caravan.
To find a heavily upset Friend. She had been worried sick and was angry  with me. She had had no idea where we went and had been convinced, by 10 PM ‘you were sleeping with him’. You see, Oliver was locally known as a ‘pretty boy’, the kind of guy that’s so pretty, everyone wants him. To me he was just a friendly, bristly guy. Sure, he was tall and slender, had a good figure and was always friendly, but the thought of looking at him like that hadn’t even crossed my mind! My response to her anger was in such a way that Friend was immediately convinced absolutely nothing had happened. When she heard we went to Castellane, she understood why I had been away for so long.
‘You know, before you arrived, he only came by every now and then to pick me up to go to work’, she told me. I was sorry Friend had been so worried, but I simply was that naive to think Oliver had just taken me on a trip to be nice. I’d seen no other signs.

The next morning it appeared there had been quite a stir after we had left. Oliver had denied anyone information as to where he was taking me. So when we left, people had been betting we were sleeping together. Even the big boss of the camping had called Oliver into his office upon our return, to ask what the hell he had done with me?!

I laughed so hard when I heard that, to be fair. A whole campingside alerted, and I had absolutely no idea! 

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2016 in Daily life, Humour

 

Twelve Years A Slave

The incredible story of Solomon Northup, who became enslaved after living a life as a free an honest man, married and two children.
By the first looks of it, you can’t find a way in which Solomon Northup isn’t an honest guy. He dresses himself and his family well, knows how to provide for them by playing the violin and puts his children to bed himself.
Then, one night, things take an awfully wrong turn. Solomon Northup (excellent play by Chiwetel Ejiofor) is fed drunk by some bastards who promise him golden mountains, and the next morning he wakes up in chains, with nothing else than his shirt and underwear. When he claims to be a free man and is demanded for his papers to proof his statement, this isn’t possible.

The nightmare begins. Without knowing why and how, he is gathered up with some other men who have been taken aswell. They are smuggled by boat to a man who is going to sell them at the market. There it appears, Solomon Northup no longer exists. In the lineup he is pointed to as ‘Pratt’, and he gets beaten when he tells what his name is.
‘Your name is Pratt’, and there’s that.

He has different masters because of all kinds of circumstances. In one case, he is by far one of the favourites of a master, which leads to him nearly getting killed when his master is not there. To protect him from this, his master decides to sell him. Of course, Solomon’s next master is far less pleasant.
It is unbelieveable to see how not only the mental capacity of white people truly used to be ‘you’re black, so you’re mine’ but also it was exceptionally rare to find people who didn’t cling to this incredibly stupid believe. I have seen this in The Help aswell. Some white person could literally state in their Will that their offspring could inherit black persons if they were at the service of these white people. It shocked me so much and makes me more grateful that I was born so much later that this is no longer the case. Then again, for a human race that has developed so many clever mathematician solutions and have put rockets on the moon and other planets, it still seems tremendously stupid that this was done only this century and not at the same time the Bible was created.

But I’m stepping sideways, sorry.

The film has absolutely great acting. Not such a surpris with Chiwetel Ejiofor, Benedict Cumberwatch and Lupita Nyong’o aboard. They really know how to put the proper efford in the characters. Thanks to that, it’s nearly unbearable to watch, but at the same time, such a powerful portrait. Given that this film is based on actually happened events that were, of course, always denied, as Solomon’s name was taken away and switched for Pratt, so that everyone could deny that he ever was there, this film is an absolute Must See.

 
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Posted by on December 22, 2016 in Films, Opinion

 

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Death Penalty

I have to be honest. I’m in favour of death penalty. IF it happened in an honest and clean way. Not the way you see it happening in soaps or read about it in the newspapers. The clean way wouldn’t be to let a jury decide whether a couple of lawyers would have played their deck of cards in such a way that they just won (or lost!) their pokergame.
I’ve been puzzled by how I see these people say: ‘a jury of X people has found him/her/them guilty…..’ etc. So? Because a bunch of people has been convinced someone did it, due to lawyers having their way with the law and objecting against evidence, or not letting people speak because it’s deemed irrelevant to the case or whatever, it should conclude that someone should die?

No.

In my utopic world this kind of court cases wouldn’t exist. It sounds far too much like a certain industry that collects memorabilia for such occasions. Called Oscars. Some people can really act their ass off in court. Some lawyers don’t get along, judges can be convinced of stupid stuff etc.

When I talk about ‘being pro death penalty’, I’m talking about people who have done something so bad to society, that you wonder in what way ever will they be able to be of use to that society. I know lots of psychiatrists would find some of them very interesting, but in that case I’d say: fine, here, your punishment is to be this psychiatrists’ patient until the day you die.
There truly are people who you never want to return to society.

Where I come from (the Netherlands) we’re often accussed of ‘hugging’ our convicted people too much. In some cases I agree.
We have had a child molester, for instance, who raped -and filmed his actions- over seventy (yes, that is 70 children?!). In a few years time. He had done so in Germany previously, and thanks to our nonexisting Judicial Care For Babies and Children. And yes honestly, we don’t (seem to) have that, we only pretend, by some sort of paper that says you’re not convicted for anything. This guy had been able to get that paper, even though he served time in Germany for the same offenses. He got to do it again in the Netherlands, as he wasn’t known in our systems….if only the EU would communicate these bloody things, eh? No, they rather trip over money…
Anyway. He got the paper that said he was a well behaving man, without being one, and got himself a job in Child Care. Got married, tried to adopt a baby. Thankfully, the adoption agencies got cold feet.
He chose his victims well. The ones that couldn’t speak yet. Meaning babies in the ages of about 6 months to 2 years. And yes that was on purpose, he said so. He also babysat at the homes of lots of people, raped their children on the family couch. Said afterwards he had a hard time (yes, seriously!!) to keep his erection clear from sight.
This man only got 20 years jailtime. I would LOVE to see this man shot down, getting a lethal injection or the electric chair. And not even because of his deeds. Because it is so very clear to me that this man will never learn. Will never care. He cooperated in the process, but didn’t apologise once. To any parent, legal advisor or whomever. He simply stated he was a paedophile who needs help and resisted any kind of jailtime, saying he wanted to start his treatment as soon as possible. He bullied the parents of the children by coming up with something new to deny his punishment. He fired his lawyers, so that the process had to be done again, he resisted being observed in a center for behavioral sciences and so on.
Aside that: if you rape over seventy children, how much of a chance is there that any child will EVER be safe around this sorry excuse of a human being? You know the answer: he will never cure from this. He says he wants help, but I have trouble believing this. Also: if you get help in this country, you do get weekends off. As I have stated before: you don’t want this man to ever breath in liberty again. You want him jailed. At all times. You can’t let him go.

So yes, death penalty sounds like a fair option for someone like this.

 
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Posted by on December 19, 2016 in Opinion

 

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