Sunday, April 18, 2004
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When I went to movies with Eran and Jade last week, one of the babes who joined the group was Stacey, a frisky little actress with very tiny breasts.
We all saw TAKING LIVES, a diabolically clumsy wannabe-thriller that gets a solid 2 out of 10 on the Roy-o-meter. Predictable. A tepid manipulator of emotion. I do admit to one scream moment, in which I shouted, "Aaaaaa! Fuck!!!" and jumped onto the seat. But that was it.
I asked Eran for Stacey's number, but didn't have a chance to use it. That's cos she used my Coffee-Shop Schmuck business card first. So today was a date. We had lunch at Europa in Parkhurst. I had my predictable chicken salad. Stacey had a salad with fried haloumi. Looked amazing, aside from the mushrooms.
My editor at Memar, the Ethiopian educational tv project I'm working on arrives at 2pm to work on his CV with me. So Stacey heads off to the blue skies of Melville, leaving Steve and me to play with my laptop in Europa. "I'm heading out to the Heart Centre later to see Chris Tokalon play sax," she saiys. "Join me?"
So Steve and I get down to the business of getting him a top-notch CV, pay the bill, and I head off to see Chris play. I've done his sound journey workshop before, and it was superb. I have his cd, DANCING IN DA LIGHT. Lush and lovely.
I reach the Heart Centre in time for the last song. Stacey is sitting on a blanket on the lawn, as are a hundred hippy folk, including Jennifer Ferguson, one of South Africa's most under-rated musical treasures. She's sitting on her own blanket with some buddies. "Hey Jennifer," I say, and go and greet her. "Roy Blumenthal," I say, holding her hand.
"I know," she says. But I don't expect her to remember my name, so it's always safer to pre-empt any embarrassment by saying it first regardless. I first met her through her sister Melinda in about 1990, when I was active as a performer in Yeoville's Black Sun. In around 1993 or 94 I started a busking project in Joubert Park under the auspices of the Johannesburg Art Gallery and COSAW, the Congress of South African Writers. Jennifer was gracious enough to consent to playing as a busker in the park for my project. What a generous and loving woman. Her song "Dickie Baby" makes me cry every time.
I sit with Stacey, and Chris plays an encore. Yay! He's a very lekker chap. Good man. Good music. Highest integrity.
It's getting chilly, and the sun has just set in a puff of orange. When Chris finishes, he invites us all to stay for the fire later.
Stacey and I schmooze a bit. Cathy van Rensburg's here. Henning Pieterse is here. Ray Perkel's here. Then we go and sit at the fire for about ten minutes.
"I'm STARVING!" I say.
"Me too," says Stacey.
Which is why we're now sitting in Melville's Sakura Sushi, helping ourselves to maki rolls from the conveyor belt. Tobie Cronje and William Pretorius walk in. "Hullo William," I say. "Roy Blumenthal."
"Yes, I know," he says. "How are you?"
"I promise I'll send you Aria as soon as we have a copy," I tell him. "Hullo Tobie."
"Excellent," he says, and he and Tobie take a seat on the opposite side.
"He's a brilliant movie critic," I tell Stacey.
"And Tobie's such a humble man," she says. "Such a lovely actor. He's in a play that Karen's in." Karen is her housemate, someone I know from SABC days. She plays Maggie in Isidingo. "Karen says howzit, by the way."
"Cool!" I say. "Please offer her a squeeze from me."
Jamie Jupiter joins us. He's a musician. Stacey says, "What do you think of Barrie Ronge as a film critic?"
"Hehehehe," I say. "I used to be his sound controller for about two years on his radio show at 702. He's a good middle-of-the-road critic, I think. Knows his audience. I think if he were more cutting, he'd lose them."
"But," I say, "he went through a phase of praising any film that had a gay character in it, no matter how good the film was."
"Hmmmmm," says Stacey, raising an eyebrow. She has an extremely mobile face. Uses it in comedy routines when she does standup. "Are you homophobic, Roy?"
"No, not at all. Two of my best friends are gay. And I've considered whether or not I may be. But I just don't find the hardness of a male body a turnon. I just can't picture a dick prodding against me and into me to be erotic. I like women's bodies."
"But," I say, "gay men give way better blowjobs."
"How do you KNOW that?" says Jamie.
I smile mysteriously. Then admit that I'm talking nonsense.
"Well," says Stacey, "it makes sense. Similar to why women give better muff dives. They know their bodies better."
"Not necessarily true," I say. "I've had two girlfriends who turned out to be gay, and they both said I was moderately up there on the giving head scale."
"I've got a horrid blowjob story," says Jamie. "Some friends of mine went out for supper in Cape Town. One thing led to another, and they went down to the beach. And she gave him a blow job. Problem is that she didn't wash her mouth properly after the meal. It was loaded with chili, and she transferred it to his dick. He says he's never had such pain!"
A moment's silence out of respect for the poor guy's member.
And I'm hoping that Stacey might wanna try out her chili technique with me.