Airbnb, SpareRoom, Badi, Craigslist. Joining the fray, we have Misterb&b, the latest app for “gay hospitality”. It is basically a knock-off of Airbnb, presumably designed by gays, hosted by gays and targeted at gays (and of course extending to LGBTQ allies as well, because it is fundamentally uneconomical to target only 3-5% of the world’s population). Seems pretty legit to me. Where do I sign up? I know, I know, I hear your screams of protest already.
Your concerns:
1. Isn’t it risky?
2. Will you get raped?
3. What if you get hit on?
Me:
1. Well, YOLO. And I basically had no choice back then.
2. Me, raped? Nawwwww… I’m stronger than most guys anyway.
3. Hit me up. Just joking, don’t. But real talk, I’m single.
Nevertheless, I really did not have much choice in using Misterb&b this time. I was scouting accommodation more than a month before but the choices were terrible. The cheapest rooms in the city were €49 per night, the affordable rooms at €38 were way outside the city. Then a well-timed, well-placed ad on Instagram got me onto Misterb&b. No, I ain’t desperate, you are. Anyway, turns out that the smaller consumer market on Misterb&b panned out for me: €36 per night in the city? Say no more.
I arrived at 2 pm after 3 hours of that sprained ankle saga, he let me up into his apartment, I settled in and got my keys. I was going to stay under the same roof so I knew what to expect. I was chilling on the couch for a number of reasons. Mostly because I had a pretty shitty day busting my ankle up, but also because I was excited to make a gay friend. (No, I do not have many close gay friends; more like I did, but ended up getting those bridges burned. What a turn, but enough about me.) So there we were, Sylvain and I, sipping some Marseillan pastis and chatting. He is a podiatrist, does beach volleyball and horse riding (he also owns a horse in the countryside), fit AF. His command of English was not great, but A+ for effort; my French was non-existent, so I am in no position to whine about his bilingualism. One dealbreaker for me was that he smokes. I'm answering the question that nobody asked.
After many rounds of introductions and pleasantries, the conversation abruptly veered left onto “are you single” lane. You know it, I know it. That part of conversation when everyone discusses and unleashes details of their love life, or lack thereof in my case, on unsuspecting attendees. While I was not surprised, I was not expecting to strike that topic up with a stranger whom I met barely half an hour.
Sylvain: Are you, ehhh... zingle? [the French ‘s’ sounds like a ‘z’, not intending to be rude]
Me: Yeah I am.
Sylvain: Not seeing anyone?
Me: Uhh yeah? Why?
Sylvain: Just iz a bit… what iz it… *quickly checks his phone for Google Translate*
iPhone: … surprise!
Me: Oh uhh, thanks? I take that as a compliment then. But no, I’m hopelessly single.
Sylvain: Why are you zingle? You a nice guy, good looking.
Me: It’s pretty complicated. What about you?
Sylvain: I, ehh, have a (boyfriend). He’za coming over after his work. You should meet him!
I know I shouldn’t have felt disappointed hearing that, but I have not been on a date in a year or so. I'll leave it at that.
While waiting for his boyfriend to make his entrance, Sylvain gave me a run through of the sights and scenes of Marseille. Using his handmade pamphlet, he went through the leftmost column of his favourite restaurants around Marseille, though strangely none of them offered French cuisine. You’d think that locals would recommend local cuisine, apparently I was wrong, but that isn’t the punchline. The next column listed names of gay bars, as he continued to explain:
Sylvain, pointing to the first bar (Le Pulse): Pulse, I like. Very bright, very safe.
Me, internally: Oh I was not expecting a tour of the gay scene here, but go on...
Sylvain going down the list: Zis one, I don’t like; dark, not nice, loud. Zis one, very far. (Reaching the final one) Zis one, very very VERY dark, iz a very dirty... iz dangerous...
Me: Uhhh I get it… it's okay I probably won't go anyway.
Sylvain: It okay, just go to Pulse and have a good time! Don't need to fall in love with a Marsellan boy.
Me: ... I'm alright, really.
Three pastis later, I ended up going to Le Pulse that night. That shit is strong.
The last column was conspicuously labeled Sun, Sea and Sex (the only English heading in the pamphlet btw), yet he stopped just short of explaining that to me. It is only natural that I absolutely had to know what that was about, right? Turns out that list was for gay saunas. In Sylvain’s words, they are “very very dirty” and for what I presume would be dirty sex? He could not find the English expression so he started using his hands to get his message across… (You know what I mean.) I was surprised, I expected him to show a bit more resistance to one-night stands especially if he would have to clean up the mess.
Sylvain explained that he is used to these things happening; I guess it helps that gays are socially mandated to understand and accept the normality of casual gay sex. I must be the exception here. Tangent aside, he had a previous tenant who had brought 4 guys home one night. And this is a place that has a lift so small it can only fit literally one person at a time. Imagine being Sylvain, watching the lift transport each person up one at a time, knowing that all of them are coming into your house for an orgy that you aren’t invited to.
Awkward.
Anyway this is by no means the end of my story, but I am pacing myself; this is a marathon, not a 100m sprint. I will be back another day to wrap up the final chapter of my adventures in Marseille and sum up my last opinion of Misterb&b. Brace yourselves and catch you all later! Au revoir!
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