By Sigge S. Amdal © 2007
'Twas a good night out last night. A young friend of mine was with us, so we couldn't go to any of the places where they check for ID. Most of the places downtown are twenty plus, except if you're a girl. Besides, he was drawing a lot of attention, being dressed as a mobster from the thirties. All he needed was a Tommy gun and a cigar. Don't ask.
We were withdrawing some cash when this group of youngsters made a hassle outside the kiosk. I went outside for a fag. These girls, they were nice and all, but they couldn't have been more than seventeen. They have this puppy quality to their skin, and their eyes reflect the streetlights. Looking seventeen, they were probably around fifteen, sixteen maybe, making it a no-no for me. Too much emotion.
I remember being baffled at myself, since it struck me that these kids were children. What were they doing down here with the sinners? Bad shit happens downtown.
One of the rowdy guys kissed one of them, while she clearly didn't want him to. Why didn't she brush him off? She's young and inexperienced, practically inviting him to rape her.
I don't fight unless I have to, but I really wanted to give him some of my striking argu-ments. He must've been twenty, or maybe even older than me. Going out with these kids. Usually girls are rather sensible, but when you catch 'em boozing they are acting like what they really are. Children. Shit like that makes me frustrated, but stepping in wouldn't have made it any better.
We got on our way to a place near Blitz, the infamous, occupied birthplace of Edvard Munch. His 'The Scream' is the single most reproduced print in the art world. His house could use a touch of paint though. And some outer walls.
There are three kinds of people going there: radicals, criminals and old homosexuals who for some reason don't go to gay bars. Instead they sit silently in the corner staring at you. Nice.
Now, I'm a beautiful man, as frequently commented by the queer side of society, but I am heterosexual nevertheless. One time Kornelius and I had to make a pit stop, and the only place in the vicinity was a gay bar. I've been to gay bar toilets two times in my life, and both have been terrifying experiences.
The first time I was going with some girl friends, on the condition that they promised to make out with me in case some of these athlete-looking gaysians made a move. They could've taken me easily, but I felt pretty safe surrounded by comforting cleavage. Then I had to take a shit. I almost crapped my pants where I sat in my booth, when I heard someone entering the restroom. Then another one. Fuck. I was trapped. "Here we go,”" I thought to myself. But nothing happened, and eventually they left without even washing their hands. Must have been silent code. That's the longest time I've held my breath in my entire life.
The second time was that time with Kornelius. I had to do number one, and for some reason I felt I had to prove my courage, so instead of waiting for a booth I went in the pissoir. Almost wet myself when some guy got behind me, really close behind me. Ad-miral Ackbar popped up in my subconsciousnes, standing on the bridge: "IT'S A TRAP!" Again I thought I had walked straight into some unknown, homosexual cere-mony. Of which there are plenty, if you don't know about them.
But it turned out all right. The guy was only checking his hair and accidently, at least I think it was accidently, got intimately close to me. He didn't seem to notice, however, so he didn't move. At least he wasn't looking at my penis.
Kornelius, the suicidal fuck, went in the ladies' room, almost getting himself killed by militant lesbians. They were angry for some reason. Or maybe they were just angry in general. We went straight for a strip joint after that ordeal.
When I think about it, maybe those old homosexuals don't go to gay bars because those who do are either extreme and bizarre freaks, or terrified kids who took a wrong turn somewhere and got in the wrong door at some point. "I'm not homosexual I'm just look-ing for the toilet."
It's like you have to excuse yourself before saying hello. Having sepa-rate clubs for people with different sexual preferences is rather backwards anyway, and boring or terrifying for everyone else. Apartheid anyone?
Anyway. Back to the radical place.
The red-eyed bartender looked like he'd been doing smack, all tired and woozy, but it turned out he'd been kidnapped while drunk, by two busty blondes, and taken to Den-mark. He had woken up at the docks in a different country, with a half-smoked joint and a Dear John letter in his lap. He smoked the rest of it and had to rush back over the sea to get back to work in time. Sounds like a nightmare to me, with my hangovers.
I was sort of standing in line there, three people on the stools in front of me; a Rasta, a bimbo in City Combat trousers, and their twelve-year old daughter.
"All right," I thought to myself, "it's that kind of place. Peace, love and all that. No harm done."
Until the twelve-year old picked up a pint with her little hands. I actually coughed. That's where I draw the line. One thing is putting the kid in a brown pub fre-quented by everything that can crawl; another thing is putting a beer in front of the kid and wishing her good luck in life.
I got up to the bar and ordered a beer, without making eye contact. I shuffled through a newspaper from two days ago. Her little hand going for the pint got within my line of sight, and more or less instinctively I turned to face her. To my complete bafflement, again, I realized she was probably a few years older than me. And really nice too. She smiled.
Petite. That's the word. It's the first time in my entire life that that word has come to its rightful use. She and her friends went out to smoke, I sat down with the beer at my friends' table, and she flashed a grin to me through the window. She probably knew what I'd thought. Smart girl. Then the grin turned into that lovely smile again, the kind of smile that goes right through, and you smile back without even thinking.
But I know what you're thinking. You're thinking she was a midget. But she wasn't.
No offence, but midgets have big heads. She was completely regular, except for her size. She was – petite. I wouldn't get it on with a midget, it just wouldn't work for me, but I could have done her. And I wanted to. She was all over me. Petite.
After a little while, as the chat got along with my friends, quite a few imposing questions began to dawn on me. Would I harm her if we went for third base? I mean, because of the size ration, I'd be like a giant to her. The monster mamba. Fee Fi Foh!
There were all kinds of safety precautions to consider... I would have to be careful kiss-ing her, so I didn't dislocate her jaw. And she would have to be on top, so she wouldn't suffocate or be crushed or anything. We wouldn't see eye to eye.
I was anxious to see what she could do with those hands, but, I nodded to myself with serious eyebrows, I wouldn't be able to bring myself to the doggy. That would be too kinky, or even perverse, if you catch my drift. Keep eyes on her face, a mature woman. A really nice one, too. And since she had to be very light, we could try all sorts of things. With her size we would be bound to end up in an awkward position. Or maybe just bound. I'm quite liberal when it comes to having fun.
My smile drew power from the thought. Petite.
All of this and more buzzed through my head with the happy bubbles of the beer. Life's too short not to give it a shot. Couldn't hurt. Unless it actually would hurt for her, of course, and then I wouldn't do it.
The obvious question arises: what happened?
Nothing. Nothing at all. I just talked and joked with my friends about everything from common aquintances to Bob Dylan's asthmatic harmonica. A blind fellow joined us there, and he knew all the Dylan lyrics, too.
You see, I was still waiting for the results of some, ah, medical tests. Since I'm such a good lad I didn't want to get involved with anyone before I knew they were in the nega-tive, hence; no mixing of bodily fluids. Going home with her would mean exactly that. If you approach the joys of sexual relations in a playful manner, a condom simply won't suffice. Fate was against me on this one, and the petite one was slipping through my fingers for every tiny tick and tack as the sand poured faster into the hourglass.
A hard motherfucking fact of life. Especially since she obviously had a keen eye to me. She tried to engage me in chatter when we were smoking outside, and we had that eye contact thing going on, accompanied by her lovely smile, throughout the evening. What a disappointment I must have been to her. But I didn't want to distribute the possible load I was carrying.
An ethical dilemma methinks, petite versus STD, and she was just found too light. Figu-ratively speaking. The grown-up thing to do.
But to my mind the show's not over till the fat lady sings. Or the tiny lady, whatever yout preference. The important part is the singing. Somewhere out there someplace, there she is; a little, light elf carrying the smile of an angel. And I'm going to find her, and make her sing. Fee Fi Foh!
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.