sofasurfers

So I didn’t feel at all guilty about popping out to a couchsurfing
party back in town that evening – in fact, it was almost my duty to
leave. (And yes – praise be to couchsurfing, for delivering instant
gangs and house parties even – house parties! My favourite! - in
every big town.)

So was ‘Sustainable John’s’ birthday party – a twenty-something
American guy (yeah, I know, not very investigative of me not even to
get his age) who works for the Beijing outpost of a British renewable
energy company. (Note: another couchsurfing characteristic – a strong
eco conscience.) My friend Donagh is there, who Ollie and I had met at
his own couchsurfing party in Moscow, where he worked as an architect.
He’s staying with a Philippino, whose mission on his couchsurfing
profile is “to spread faggotry around the world”. Colourful
conversation is anticipated. “So may I ask you a personal question?”
he demurrs. Umm, go on then. “Have you ever laid any of your hosts?”
Ha ha ha ha ha. I say, young man! No, thank you! “I have,” he
volunteers (one suspects that his initial question was really just to
enable this confession. “I’ve even had a couple of straight guys. I
just say to guests that they can sleep in my double bed if they’d
rather not sleep on the floor.” Ah – that old chestnut. Lucky Donagh.
Ha ha ha ha ha.

And evidently, lots of people use couchsurfing for hook-ups – and
there are enough Russian girls whose profile photos feature themselves
naked for as far as they can see, happily fuelling the stereotype that
they are easy. But what happens when couples couchsurf? Do they? My
straw poll of one, who perhaps we shall leave unnamed, says no - “You
just don’t feel like it. Even if you have your own room. The
conditions just aren’t optimal.” And what about couples who host?
Well, maybe that’s why I wasn’t welcome for the evening with my
Beijing hosts. One guest reports: “Yes, I once stayed in the same room
as a couple, who were clearly, though surreptiously at it at bedtime,
and then again in the morning. It was pretty awful – and immature, I
reckon: I was so conscious of my every breath. I was trying to pretend
to be asleep, but I didn’t really convince myself. It was the same in
the morning – when it was all over, I then feigned waking up – with a
big yawn and stretch.” The moral of the story: no more couples.

My couchsurfing friends: Donagh and Yvonne at The Great Wall