The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

While working at a ski resort in Canada, I met Tony, a German guy who worked in housekeeping. He was effeminate and stereotypically gay.

Tony was one of the few people who skied. Few people liked skiing. The general consensus was that skiing was for poofs and sissy boys. My friends preferred the much cooler activity of snowboarding, which is fair enough, because as soon as you put skis on, you feel like a twat. That's inevitable. It's something about having two long sticks on your feet, and then two more long sticks in your hands that makes you feel like an old person in a care home with a walker aid. Whereas with snowboarding, you have a big chunky board on your feet and you feel like the winter version of Tony Hawk.

Tony liked to ski so Tony and I went skiing together. But whereas I'd only been skiing for a week. Tony had been skiing his whole life. As soon as he came out of the womb, his parents sent him off down a mountain wearing nothing but skis and a nappy. Then he'd spent his entire childhood skiing whereas I'd spent my childhood eating crisps and watching television.

The day was off to a good start, as the really bad days often are. The sky was blue, the snow was crisp, and the sun was shining. Tony and I made our way on skis to Waterfall, one of the intermediate slopes on the resort.

"Do you really think I'm ready for an intermediate slope?" I asked Tony.

He looked at me with uncertainty. "Oh, yes," he said.

We reached the top of the slope. There were children skiing down it. So how hard could it be?

So we started skiing. Tony raced off ahead while I struggled to keep up.

I was skiing along, trying to keep up with Tony. I was making a valiant effort, especially when you consider I had only started skiing just one week before.

But suddenly, something happened.

My left ski turned left. In other circumstances, this would have been okay, except my right ski was still going forward. So now my left ski was going left and my right ski was going forward. I don't know much about skiing, but even I know that when your skis can't agree on a direction to go in, this probably isn't good.

Then there was a snap in my left knee and I fell over.

I lay there in the snow, wondering what had just happened. When I tried to get back up again, my knee gave way and I fell over again.

Tony came over to see if I was okay. He looked worried, probably because he was to blame and therefore I could sue him for any injuries.

"I think I hurt my knee," I said.

Tony helped me get to my feet. With his help, I made it back to the rental shop. I returned the skis and limped home. Worst of all, my camera was broken.

My knee was bad for the next year, but that's not what I'm here to tell you about. I'm here to tell you about Tony.

We became friends, and one night, we were alone in my room, playing poker. We were both a little drunk. I mustered up my courage and told him I knew he was gay, and was unsure of my sexuality and wanted to experiment with him. He was taken aback and flustered. Eventually, he composed himself and said we would have to take it slow and see how it went. But before he left, he decided to kiss me. I noticed I immediately got an erection.

A few days later I was alone in the laundry room. By coincidence, Tony came in to do his laundry too. We made small talk, then an idea crossed my mind. I told him to shut the door. Then I kissed him again. It was strange, feeling a moustache against my skin. I smiled and opened the door and left. I felt fluttery and excited for about an hour after.

Another day, we took a walk into the town. He wanted to know how long I'd known I was gay. I shrugged. He proudly said he'd known all his life he was gay, from when he was a boy. I realised how different we were - I had always been attracted to girls, with only one or two exceptions.

By this point, his personality was grating on me. He was self-absorbed, overly talkative, bitchy and boring. I became tired of our conversations.

I wanted to distance myself from him, partly because I was afraid of homophobia if anyone found out about us.

One night I found myself staying over in his bedroom. He was drunk. I took off only the minimum of my clothes and pretended I just wanted to sleep. He fell asleep quickly, snoring. The bed was made for just one person and was uncomfortably small. I stared at his bedroom ceiling the entire night. His room was stiflingly hot, even though it was the middle of winter. I left as soon as morning came, making sure no-one saw me.

Tony visited me at work to tell me he'd dreamt about me, and hinted that he was starting to fall in love with me. I was angry that he'd come to my workplace when he knew I wanted to be secretive about our relationship. I told him to leave. Later he came to my apartment, with a plan that we should go to Hawaii together. I told him I'd made a mistake and I wasn't gay after all. He became angry at me for leading him on.

On his last night at the resort, I admitted that I was still curious to try having sex with him. However, he was still annoyed with me, But he was a bit drunk and he admitted he hadn't had sex for a few months. He said he was going to his bedroom, and if I wanted, I could follow. After he left, I sat in the lounge for several minutes, unsure of what to do.

Should I have sex with a gay man? I decided I didn't really want to, and went next door to hang out with the Chileans instead.

The next day, I found this note on the fridge:

Here's a translation courtesy of Reddit:

Dear Paul,

It was a pleasure getting to know you. Best of luck and success on your journey. I'm sorry if I've caused you any inconveniences with everything I've done. But I'm sick of playing hide and seek. Safe travel and have fun with the translation.

Ps: keep me up to date via Internet. You always meet twice in your life.