Love on the Dot-Com

Being completely inept at meeting men in the real world--lest you count getting drunk and fondling every naked torso in sight "meeting" someone--I've decided to take to online dating. I've already made many a pass on dudes online and am waiting to hear a response. I might be waiting forever, but where in the past that may have discouraged me, this is Cheki 2006. I'm willing to cast my dick into those gay waters for as long as it takes to get a bite. Then I shall reel that man in, gut 'im, have my way with 'im, stuff 'im and hang 'im on my wall right next to my taxidermied Janice Dickinson. Yes, friends and enemies, this summer I shall conquer that most mysterious of races: the datable gay.

Since I'm a novice at this, I'm starting off slow. Myspace has a bevy of mo's just waiting to hook up, but tucked precariously into its nooks and crannies are those looking for something other than a one night stand. I think I may have found one last night and I sent him a message along these lines:

"Subject: Why, Hello, Sir

Body: I hope I'm not being too forward here, but I really liked your profile and I wanted to know if you wanted to go on a date sometime. I mean, you know, like after proper introductions via AIM, clandestine flirting through various IMs, the occasional brief phone call and other jazzy steps in this awkward mating dance. Once again, I hope this isn't weird---well, let's face it, I already succeeded in making it horribly so--but if you're not turned off by my Hugh Grant-esque befuddlement, my screenname is lefabrat.
Later, :-)"

Who could resist that? Well, since I haven't heard back from him yet, possibly him. But it's only been a few hours, so I won't obsess over it. BUT I WANT HIM NOW!!!

Sorry. I'm really horny. And, not going to lie to ya, drunk. Yes, it's not even 11 am. Don't judge me, assholes.

I've also been trolling Nerve/Onion personals which has--surprisingly--witty, charming, intelligent guys who care more about what you read than the size of your chest. Well, at least in theory. I mean, they are guys. We are a very shallow sex when it all falls down. It's hard to have it both ways: physically attractive and a winning personality. That strange animal does exist, but they almost always are dating someone. Sure, I could kill their insignifcant other. That's the easy way out--if I can get away with it. If I end up in jail, though, face down in the shower after being ravaged by a series of buff men who treat me as just another faceless hole, will it be worth it?...

Um, duh. However, that's a last resort. For now, I'll just try my luck with these online dating sites. If it doesn't work, well, I hope E! does a re-enactment of my trial with Shemar Moore portraying me. What's he doing anyway? Here's to love on the dot-com!

Why Are Lesbians So Unkempt Nowadays?

Now, I'm all for individuality and gay rights and all that shit. I'm just saying, what happened to taking pride in one's appearance--gay pride? Give me some Marlene Dietrich, some Greta Garbo, some Tallulah Bankhead. Now those dykes knew how to turn it out. I for one wouldn't mind taking a roll in the sack with any of those ladies. Today's sapphites remind me of twelve-year old boys in both their grooming habits and style of dress. I for one stopped wearing cargo shorts and mandals in like, sixth grade. I understand it's summer and the air's thicker than the beard on Ryan Seacrest, but how about some linen pants? Or some fabulous above the knee, non-denim shorts with a pair of ass-kicking wedges? If heels aren't your thing, and I know they aren't for many of you, how about some ballet slippers? There's nothing wrong with being adorable, just ask Portia de Rossi. Now that's a lez that knows how to glam it up. Remember, ladies and she-fellas, glamour is not just for straight women. And it never was. I mean, look at this:



Stern, austere, ambiguous, but still -- fabulous. (P.S. Can we find a new word to describe fabulosity, I am totally over that word.)

If glamour puss isn't your thing, throw on a pantsuit and some buckle shoes. You can dress a suit up or down depending on the occassion, weather, and level of butch. After all there's nothing sexier than a woman in a tux:



Sisters, I'm not saying this to be mean, nor am I addressing the entire pussy-eating population. Just the ones who think plaid is STILL a staple. I'm talking to you, Rosie. Before you step out the house, just wonder, am I giving the world my best face? If not, throw on some rouge and a touch of foundation. No need to overdo it as a natural look is often more appealing than drag queen chic.

And speaking of drag queens, I see you fags snickering in the background. You little fruits aren't exempt from this scrutiny, either. Here are some tips: Abercrombie and Fitch is tacky. Armani Exchange is tired. FCUK off with the FCUK. The whole point of fashion is to experiment and have fun with it. Throw those graphic tees in the back of your armoir, unpop those collars, and show those straights how to dress. Tally, hoes!

P.S.

The kittens are officially gone.

And I could care less. Does that make me cold-hearted? Why am I even asking, I really don't care. One of those bitches diarrhea'd all over my goddamn floor. I am so over animals, leaving only amoeba among things that I can tolerate. And even they are beginning to wear on my nerves.

Desperate No More

I wasn't always the witty, charming, whimisical and color-coordinated future icon you read before you. This facade took years of study and prayer to contruct, yet the scars from grade school occasionally rear their ugly, puss-dripping heads. Hence my current bachelorhood. And it's accompanying virginity. None of thse conditions are voluntary. I'm not Rivers Goddamn Cuomo; I don't take a vow of celibacy for clarity or whatever bullshit reason. I'm just a loser. Plain and simple. When I look in the mirror, I still see the chubby, weird dorky gay kid everyone made fun of at one point in their prepubescent life. And that needs to end.

When I was beginning to come into my own as a gay, my hormones raged uncontrollably. Since I was only out to a few people and still fearful of what might happen to me should I come out to anymore, most of my efforts to assuage the heat betwixt my legs were clandestine. I'd pilfer workout mags from drug stores into my bookbags, jack off in my room with unhealthy frequency (my record was nine times, achieved in the summer of 2003, thanks to the rebroadcasting of "American Gladiators" on basic cable)and my favorite passtime, stalking hot straight guys in the mall. Oh! the hours I spent trolling the Galleria, devouring meaty calves, large pecs peeking through tight shirts and the cherished exposed arms of various studs, hunks and the like. At the end of a long day of stalking, my feet were sore and my heart heavy with regret at having wasted my time. And let's not forget the embarassment of walking around a mall--the stomping ground of the gum-popping set--from afternoon to evening without buying a single thing. It's like being in the 70s and not getting stoned with Streisand. It's just not done.

But it's not like I had any thought of approaching these guys I dutifully followed til they ran away from my ever-present stare. Far from it. My pleasure came from merely looking at them because that's all I thought I was worthy of doing. I'd concoct stories about them in my mind--about our torrid love affair, too passionate for the world to understand. In my mind, they were who I wanted them to be: smart, funny and a great dancer, despite who they actually were. So it was enough for me for a while. My imagination was my boyfriend. Now, however, I'm totally over my imagination. It doesn't put out and frankly I don't need that level of commitment without some hot action, you know? Stalking simply doesn't do it for me anymore.

And why should it? I'm a pretty good catch, over here. I won't repeat my astounding attributes, but if you knew me, you wouldn't be able to understand why I'm alone. I'm just that awesome. And even if I am slightly dillusional, if that flapjack-breasted Kiki Dunst can trick someone into loving her, I should have no trouble. As of today, I am officially hanging up my stalker binoculars because I'm not in high school anymore. I'm not still in the closet, I'm no longer an insecure teenager. I'm an insecure 20-year old and dammit I deserve love--real love--like everyone else. Not that I expect men to suddenly drop their shoulder bags and come chasing after me, but I will no longer debase myself by sneaking around behind the next piece of eye candy I see. Hell, that's what the internet's for.

Real Life Lessons

So just barely over a week into becoming the proud parents of two kittens, my roommates and I have decided to give up and return the little buggers from whence they came. It breaks my icy heart, but it is a decision that simply had to be made. It turns out that Chairman Meow and Fosse Uggums are sick. And I don't mean BDSM sick, also known as the "fun sick," but more along the lines of shitting blood sick--the "gross, should we call an old priest and a young priest?" kind of sick. And being broke college students, we just don't have the time, money or the amount of sober acumen necessary to take care of two child cats. Le sigh. Le purr. Le fuck. Oh, well. Anyone want a pair of blood-shitting cats?

In other mews (PUN!), I've finally learned the choreography to "Bye, Bye Blackbird" from Liza with a Z and my gay little heart couldn't be any giddier. It's only a matter of time before I re-enact the entire concert a la Rufus Wainwright, but my reviews will be considerably more favorable. After all, these gams were made for dancin'!

Fresh Pussy

So my roommates and I acquired two kittens over the weekend. I like to say acquire as if the cat-retrieving process involved some sort of seedy deal with a seven-fingered man with only a passing acquaintance with the English language and a Jansport backpack stuffed with wide-eyed domestic animals he smuggled into the country in his rectum, but we actually adopted them from a precious cat lady in Ozone Park. One is a champagne-colored ball of cuteness and diarrhea with swirls on its coat, unimagintaively named "Chairman Meow" by my roomie. Way to go for the easy joke, Spatz. The other is black and white. And a killer. Seriously, don't turn your back on this mother fucker or you'll end up dick down on the floor desperately trying to dig whiskers from your exposed pancreas. And he goes by the name Leslie "Fosse" Uggums aka Chuck Norris aka Moo Too aka Dirt McGirt aka That Fucked Up Nigga. Full name or nothing, he gets a little pissed if you don't address him properly.

These are my first pets, like ever, barring the various rats and roaches I befriended in my childhood. I've never really been an animal lover, because if I wanted to smell like I was shat and peed upon all day I'd just give into the voices in my head, throw on a potato sack and live on the L train. Hi. But these kittens are SO FUCKING CUTE!!!! Just looking at them play, explore and throw back high balls fills me with a feeling I've never known before. Could it...is it...LOVE? Or maybe it was that Fancy Feast I ate last night. Damn cat food always looks so damn appetizing in those damn commercials. But who am I kidding? I love those little fur-ball coughing assholes. Look for me in the near future running from my apartment throwing live cat grenades at those who would dare intrude upon my fastidious feline flat.