"You've got such deep, blue eyes," he breathed.
"So also have you," the other replied.
"Shame I can't drown myself in your limpid pools of blue when they're hidden behind your Prada sunglasses."
Yes, it was a winter junk trip - which, in theory, shouldn't have worked. Edo started with a group of 40 and a waiting list of 20 more. But Saturday was miserable - wet and gray. Sunday wasn't gonna be any better, according to the Hong Kong Observatory.
Eventually, 22 boys made it onto Pier 9. We were clutching onto our javas for dear life - the coffee's warmth providing essential life into essentially dead fingertips.
On the plus side, there was none of the "I'm-too-sexy" posturing which summer and autumn junk trips usually start with. During more agreeable seasons, boys tend to oil themselves up liberally before they even get to Pier 9, you might as well fry your morning eggs directly onto their greasy skins. Fabulously oversized "celebrity" sunnies come out and it's a designer parade - Prada! Versace! Diesel! It's like Fashion Week, but better, coz almost everyone's naked even before they actually get naked. And of course the attendant celebrity pout is de rigeuer. "Who are you and why are you talking to me, coz I'm too sexy and you're kinda looking rough, so please." And there was blessedly none of that last Sunday. Boys just wanted to cuddle coz it was friggin' cold.
Pier 9 was OK, but getting onto Swire's private junk was even better. Why? One word: BLANKETS. In Paul Smith-esque stripes. And good lord, things happen when boys huddle under blankets all together. It's a spaghetti bowl of legs and hands and shoulders and your-momma-doesn't-wonna-know-what-else. Pile on the meatballs and you're all good.
Lunch at Lamma Island was an insane orgy of food, Smirnoff, Tsingtao and Coca-cola. By the time the final two courses were wheeled in, we were pleading: "Please! No more! NO MORE!" Hey, homos are not wimps. Anybody who claims all we ever eat are protein bars and dust should have been at that table because, darling, we scarfed down enough food for three Filipino town fiestas.
Eric and Glynn regaled Chris with tales from their 24-year love story. I cuddled next to Biketilla's David; he and Olivier swaddled me in a beautiful cloud of French gibberish, because anything French is just good and needs no explanation.
By the time we sailed back to Central, our bodies have been sufficiently lubricated by alcohol and food. Somebody's iPod was plugged in, and the entire boat erupted to Cher's "Believe."
We ended the night in a gorgeous penthouse, with the fading lights of Hong King's skyline twinkling ever so titillatingly.
We can't wait for summer. So what.
It's gay Hong Kong.
We'll take what we can get.
With Affection,
James
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