My last feed on the farm consists of about five full plates of mixed meat –including that raw stuff I thought I was used to-, pasta, potato wedges and a cheese board. The farmers developed a serious looking case of gout I’ve been told and I can see how. After a horrible night struggling for sleep due to my bloated stomach, I finally crawl from my pit and prepare for my journey to Catania in Sicily.
Just like the beginning of my time on that farm I feel things catching up on me and while still in Bologna airport I make a mad dash for the toilet dropping those baggy trousers just in the nick of time..or do I? I’m standing upright frozen to the spot. Trousers round my ankles but if I move a muscle it will come out. So I move and it does. But where did it go? That first little jet. This is a very important question and I can’t possibly leave here without knowing the truth. My boots already stink of cow shit from lastnight because I didn’t have time to clean them (couldn’t be bothered), so there’s no clues in that sense. Trousers seem fine, T-shirts ok, floors clean enough. Hmm.. Maybe it did go in but at the awkward maneuverer I made I don’t believe it could have landed on target. Oh well, must fly.
I’m still checking my trousers when met at the airport by Nirav and quite easily the most attractive woman I have ever met in my life –yes I did try (most terrifying experience of my life) and no she wasn’t interested-. Wouldn’t this be one fucker of an arrival gift? “Hey, thanks for letting me stay at your farm. Here, have a dollop of shit on your car seat”!
My half plan was to maybe visit a few different parts of Sicily but I become really attached to the people here and a special kinda vibe that changes a little with every new volunteer but never for the worse. In short, for me Sicily is right here and I don’t really need to go anywhere else.
A kick ass Hungarian couple from Brooch to a yodelling Swiss girl who plays tunes with spoons, I’m never bored, not even for a minute. Especially now we have an America girl here whose sense of humour’s almost as naughty as mine!
The most crazy human ever to grace the planet Earth comes in the form of our lovely neighbour. Crazy in the sweetest Italian way, not in the Scottish way (got punched in the face by a crazy Scottish girl once and had slight but fucking horrible nerve damage from my eye, through my cheek and across my forehead for three months!) and I LOVE her English slips such as “My Mum sleep with you tonight”! What she meant was ‘My Mum will sleep at your house tonight’, but I prefer the way she puts it! Also being offered a plate of pumpkin and asked “Who wants smashed”? Falls quite gently on the ears. Somebody’s been listening the The Smashing Pumpkins!
. . .
The strangest thing has happened here. The Scottish folk song Donald where’s yer troosers has become a huge thing with all the volunteers. Even to the extent where our German girl has learned to play it really well on her accordion. This is fucking surreal now as we spend evenings dancing around a campfire singing this strange song with the upmost enthusiasm while toasting chestnuts and drinking wine. My attempt to introduce whisky to the group didn’t really work out but I’ve certainly started something of a Donald where’s yer troosers movement that looks set to spread like a tartan plague.
In the past it would appear I’ve been a little harsh on what I would call hippies. I believe it’s time for me to rethink my views a little. There are different levels of hippie. Some I like, some I hate and some I love! The German girl and her Italian boyfriend fall into that last category. As if the accordion wasn’t cool enough I’m asked one day if I’d like to come with them to the river for a swim. Sure I say and we grab some bikes and make our way down.
I’m standing at the river edge in my underwear wondering if this is maybe a little inappropriate. Not everyone wants to see me strutting around without my troosers. “Do you mind if we swim naked”? I’m asked. We soon realise two things as the three of us wade butt naked into the river. 1; The water doesn’t even reach our knees and 2; Our house has a great view of us from up there. I’m not going to be a pervert about this, it was just three people in a river being comfortable in our surroundings. I’ve done my fair share of naked waterfall jumps in Costa Rica and a certain naked adventure in a fountain in Portugal so I have no problem with being naked at all. There is a time and a place though and I guess I can see that my drunken stint in Portugal could have led me into deep shit. –Check the blog Go with it..Portugal,Poland,Slovakia –
. . .
Over the course of a few days we’re given the chance to take part in a workshop of sorts set up in our farm. I choose to skip the yoga, painting and dancing but when I hear we have the opportunity to take part in a Tai massage class where the girl to boy ratio favors me nicely I decide on one big fucking yes to that!
My partner happens to be one seriously hot Belgian girl and seeing as I happen to be a fan of massage and seriously hot Belgian girls I can tell I am really going to like this.
I’ve done my part and she seems to have enjoyed it, but as we swap around and I prepare for one lovely massage from one lovely girl, she takes to her feet and fucks off!
I feel like a right tit lying on the floor wondering what I done wrong. Did I touch her bum? A little bit, but that was what we were supposed to do and it was only the very top. I lie on the floor and wonder if I’m still supposed to be here and then eventually after what felt like eternity –maybe five minutes- I’m approached by the healing hands of Mr Masseuse.
Note the usage of the word ‘Mr’ in that sentence.
Sure, the massage is good. He knows what he’s doing because he’s done it for some time but fuck, I wish it was a girl. I’d rather have a shit massage from a girl than a good one from a man. It’s just a guy thing.
It’s all ok though and I can deal with this. I am trying to learn from this so that I can perform it on women in the future. Yeah, a lot of good can come from this and there’s really nothing strange about..hold on a minute..
A vigorous massage is now taking place on my bum cheeks on front of a large, observant crowd watching and waiting for instruction. If my Dad could see me now! I decide just to go with it and take it all in (bad choice of words). Just have to remember it’s all part of the lesson and I could use this in the future and it’s not like I’m getting penetrated or anything!
To go from the expectance of a girls soft sweet hands caressing my body to the hands of a man massaging my ass is a little hard to get over and I’m sure I can hear the occasional giggle of Roberta from over in the corner. Damn sure she won’t let me forget this for a while.
I get the full body treatment from foot, ankle, calf, thigh, under the bum, all over the bum, back and arms and as I finally drift into a relaxed state my mind takes this opportunity to dig up the fact that this is not the first time I’ve received a full body massage from a man!
Explanation?
2006, Poland.
I was visiting a friend in Wrocław during the Christmas holidays and as she had to work on some of these days I decided to go to the gym. Noticing a sign on the wall advertising cheap sports massages I decide that as the girl at the front desk is so cute I will definitely be taking up this offer because of ofcourse the desk girl and the masseuse are going to be one and the same. Enter Mr Masseuse!
Without wax / 
Clickety-clickaroo, Androo, hope ya reach the 4000 and find yer troosers in 2013, happy New Year, man!
Cheers man! Hoping to find ma troosers in Aruba during 2013..and then loose them again.. Hope you had a good Christmas and do everything I wouldn’t do during 2013! Have a good one.
You run into old friends on the road, I do it in the blogosphere. Another of my followers, Seth, sits right beside my *like*. Ahh, it’s been SO many years since I’ve heard, Donald, Where’s Yer Troosers? I don’t know if you’ve been to France. If/when you do, you’ll find that a Mr. is a Masseur.
Not been to France yet but I have promised a few friends from there that I’ll visit some day. If I visit any massage parlours there I will be sure to ask for a masseuse and not masseur! Could be a funny mistake to make!
I could be wrong because last time I studied French was at school but I think Mr is monsieur? Thanks for the views and the comments. I really appreciate it.