You'll Never Be a First Class Blogger, or a First Class Human Being, Until You Learn to Have Some Small Regard for Human Frailty

So I finally did it. And by it, I mean the sex. That's right, this 20 year old virgin is no longer one and in two months, no longer the other. I always thought that once I lost this V card, I'd be a new person and to a certain extent I am. Rest assured, I'm still the bitter, sarcastic asshole you fell in love with so many moths ago, but I must say, I am not as needy as before. How I longed for companionship! For a cute, shaggy boy who rested beatifically in my bed as I stared at his quietly heaving chest and relished the joy that I knew he was mine, all mine. However, after experiencing just one night of intimacy with another person, I quickly realized that I am in no way ready for a relationship for the simple fact that I don't like to be touched. Let me start from the beginning.

Wednesday night, last week, I was more bored than usual and a special kind of stoned, the kind that makes you do dumb shit even though you know how dumb said shit is. Taking a cue from my roommate, one Ms. Runaround Spatz, I took to craigslist to find some possible action. After posting an ad of my own, as well as answering a few other posts, I finally got a response that tickled my desperate fancy. The inquirer had seen my post and sent along a few pictures of himself for my pondering. He was 39 which was in itself a turn on for me--daddy complex--and he didn't look THAT bad. I mean, his picture was somewhat blurry, but he would do. He also claimed to have an 8 incher and who am I to turn that down? As became vividly clear, I should have. I called the number he gave me after a series of emails and was voice to voice with someone who sounded as if he were missing a couple teeth. But boy was I determined. I had reached a certain point where I just needed to be touched and it really didn't matter, in my mind, who it was. So I left my apartment at 3:00 in the morning to head to Queens. It took a longer time than I had hoped as the G is the worst train to ever run underground and I really think it hates me. I ended up deep into Queens due to the G running express, then I had to double back and ride somewhere into Astoria. All the while, I imagined hooking up with my 39-year old. i romanticized our encounter to such an extent that the actual experience would have to be a let down. Unfortunately, that would be putting it far too lightly.

I ended up at my designated stop at around 3:40. I alerted my intended paramour on his home phone. He didn't have a cell phone, which really should have been a tell-tale sign that this guy was a loser. Still, I remained determined. I waited in what closely resembled the ghetto, but lacked the menace and the bravado, for a solid ten to fifteen minutes, baked and drifting away on my iPod. Then I saw a tiny little man speeding his way towards me. I knew it had to be him, and for a split second I considered ducking into the subway before he saw me. But I had travelled so far and it was so late that I had no choice but to go through it. The little man first went up to an angry looking black man, mistakig him for me, so I went up to him to avoid further confusion. In the light of the street lamps I saw what I had truly gotten myself into. He was short, 5'7 his email had said-that was certainly true. He looked older than his stated 39 years, however: sharp, jagged cheekbones, pale skin, my suspicion of his missing teeth painfully confirmed. Bedecked in his best turquoise shirt, acid-washed mom jeans and a pony tail, he seemed eager to meet me. And by meet, I mean fuck. Clearly. I could not bring myself to match his entusiasm, but I tried to converse with him as best as I could. I can't remember what we actually talked about as with most people, his words went in one ear and out the other. I could only think of how bad an idea this was.

We got back to his "apartment." A house, in which he rented a solitary room, filled with piano keyboards. Oh, yes, he was a pianist. Of the classical variety, though he purported to be able to play anything. We silently crept up to his room, and I though how absurd it was that a 39 year old man had to sneak men into his room the same way a 15 year old might in a similar situation. Though I hope that no fifteen year olds are trolling craigslist at 3 am. As soon as he closed the door to his room, he proceeded to undo the top buttons to his turqouise shirt, put his hands around my waist and gently grind his groin into mine. I stood frozen in a mix of fear and repulsion, my arms up in apprehension. Sensing this, he backed off. I thought that I could leave, I should leave, but I had travelled so damn far that I thought that maybe at least I'd suck the guy off. I sat on his futon and talked to him, simultaneously trying to convince myself that I could in fact go through with this. I also thought it in poor taste to leave so soon after getting there. So we sat down and smoked a joint--hence, the night wasn't completely a bust. In between drags, he told me his life story and I listened patiently. He told me of the time he lived in Australia, this girl he became fast friends with, who was unaware that he was gay and who later fell for him and wanted to date him. Forced to tell her the truth, they eventually came to a compromise so that he could sleep with one guy a week, but he had to be with her the rest of the time. It worked out for a little while, but he fell for some guy and his relationship and friendship with the girl suffered as a result. As he told his story, I felt as if I was in my own bildungsroman and as a matter of fact, I was coming of age but this would not be the man who would be the catalyst to my sexual awakening. I didn't want that dick, no matter how big it supposedly was, anywhere near me. After he asked if I had ever taken poppers, I decided it was time to go. I excused myself on the basis that I wasn't "really feeling this," which he understood and we shook hands goodbye.

In the night air again, I felt such relief at not having gone through with his intentions that I nearly jogged home. The trains, however, did not share my enthusiasm, and I got turned around several times on my journey home, finally plopping down on my air mattress at around 5 a.m. I got three hours of sleep, but the following day I was rather amused at what had happened/didn't happen the night before. If anything, I thought, it would make a great story or a sub-standard blog entry. Case in point. Despite this entire situation, I remained steadfast. I was a man on a mission. I resumed my craigslisting, this time armed with the knowledge hard won in Queens the night before. I saw this ad for a cute white guy looking for a black top, and as I was a virgin, I figured I could pull that off. After another series of emails and exchanged pictures, he gave me his phone number. I called and he seemed cool, down to earth, and he was 2 stops away so that was also a plus. I left to meet him at around 10, bidding adieu to Runaround and her ex, Cookie Puss Darvish, amidst wishes of good luck. Outside, it wasn't as cold as I had previously thought, so I decided to walk. On the way, I phoned a few of my closest friends to alert them of what might be trangressing in a matter of minutes or hours. That cocktail of emotions similar to going into a final or going out onstage to perform overtook me: fear, anxiety, excitement, panic and joy. I hoped this time would be different, that this guy would live up to my irrealistic standards or at least to my much lowered expectations.

We met outside of this gay bar in Williamsburg, and he was indeed as cute as his picture, if not a bit heavier than I would have cared for. He waddled. But, I tried to get passed that. After all, I'm not (that) shallow. His name was Sean and he was 24 and had just quit his job running tne North American division of this European furniture company which he insited on pronouncing with a pretentious French accent. He had quit due to someone he couldn't stand to work with, but the company apparently wanted him back so they were going to find a way to get rid of the other guy in order to bring Sean back, with more money. He was well spoken, no trace of the Nebraskan accent he must have worked hard to eliminate. He didn't have a college degree, he had dropped out early to pursue job offers he was getting though he's going back to finish in the near future. At the bar, he ordered for me and bought my drinks, making me feel like the lady I so often pictured myself as. We went outside to the courtyard area, sat and talked for a bit. He was really into touching and kissing in public and I was not. PDA is for exhbitionists and assholes. I've always mantained that position and I doubt I'll ever change. There's just something about something so personal in a public setting that upsets and distrubs me and reeks of desperation. I like to keep my desperation to myself, thank you. Despite this minor foul, I found myself liking Sean. It was something like chemistry, or maybe it was the beer. In hindsight, it might have been a mix of both and also a touch of that personal desperation to like someone and have them like me back.

We had the typical getting-to-know-you banter and he kept touching my leg, my arm, my face and tried to kiss me, sometimes succeeding and always asking if I was comfortable with it, to which I lied so that he wouldn't stop liking me. After our second round of Bud Lights, we absconded to his place. But before getting there, we stopped at a market so he could pick up some Smirnoff and some other little things. He should have gotten some lambskin condoms while he was at it. When we finally arrived to his apartment, I was pleasantly surprised. It was cute, well-decorated and he raved about the down comforter. Instead of getting straight to the task at hand, we went out and talked some more, over the bottles of Smirnoff. He revealed to me that he really liked me, through text message, and I responded that I really wanted to date him, a confession I thought was real and true, as I was taking one of many whizzes through the night. Thoughts of us dating and cuddling and being a couple flooded my head. Isn't this what I wanted? Didn't I want to couple with someone? I tried to convince myself that yes, it was what I wanted. I'm always trying to convince myself of something rather than facing the blank truth for what it is. In all honesty, I wasn't really attracted to Sean. He was cute, smart, kind of funny, successful, everything I should be attracted to. But there were certain things I couldn't quite get over.

Finally, he was ready to have sex. I won't go into details because I, myself, don't want to relive them. But dude had a small dick. And he was a bit of a whiner, constantly making baby noises and at one point in the night he nudged his head up against me like a neglected kitten. I don't really do that. And he also wanted to have sex without a condom because he was allergic to latex. And I REALLY don't do that. Eventually he let up and let me fuck him with the latex. I don't want to brag or anything--and if you know me you know that's a boldface lie--but he asked me to stop because I was hurting him. I mean, yes he had already come, but still, do with that as you will. I however, didn't get off that night. You would think that I would be the one most upset at that, but Sean felt that he hadn't done me a good service as my first time. I really didn't care and was ready to go to bed. The plan as we had decided earlier was for me to sleep in his bed and then I'd wake and go home to get ready for the day. Instead, he asked me to leave, out of shame, or maybe he was just done with me; either way, I still didn't care. I might not have came, but I saw and I conquered.

On my way home, I called bff and hag extraordinaite, Karma to let her know that I had gone through with it. She was happy for me, as was I, but I still felt somewhat empty. Sean had asked what I had rough plans to spend the weekend together and I was supposed to call him the next day. Yet, when the next day came, I didn't call. I didn't want to. In the dark I had liked him, I had wanted to be with him but with the light of day came all this second-guessing. I focused on all that was wrong with him and the more I thought about it, the more turned off I became. He was too fat, too hairy, too pale, too needy, too touchy feely and I dreaded having to see him again. So Friday came and went and I didn't call. Then Saturday and I was a bit more comfortable in my decision to abstain. By Sunday, I was over it. Runaround Spatz asked if I felt comfortable around him. And I didn't. I didn't feel like myself. He had come on to strong too soon and had scared me away. That was the real root of it. Everything else I didn't like about him was only magnified by my discomfort around him. And like that, I had turned a corner. From being hapless virgin to that asshole who says he'll call but never will. How quickly one grows up when given the right circumstances.

I watched The Philadelphia Story on Saturday It's one of my favorite films and has been for years. I always likened myself to the protagonist, Tracy Lord as brought to magnificent life by the incomparable Kate Hepburn. She was so cool, so distant, so unapproachable and could disarm anyone with a cold, withering stare. I respected her and those qualities so that I wanted to embody them, to be Tracy Lord. And I guess I got what I wanted. In the film, her first marriage, to Cary Grant's C.K. Dexter Haven, doesn't work because she is so cool, frigid, really, so distant and so unapproachable that she refuses to sleep with him. Dexter remarks to her that she'll "never be a first class woman, or a first class human being until you learn to have some small regard for human frailty." On the eve of her second marriage, she undergoes a transformation through the help of Dexter and James Stewart's Macauly Connor. She learns that being an icy goddess prevents you from loving and being truly loved. Maybe the problem wasn't with Sean, but with me. Hell, it probably was with me. I know I'm distant and can seem cold and foreboding, but it works for me. In fact, I prize myself on it. To me, the world is two-faced, cruel and horribly unforgiving. Thus keeping people at arms length prevents me from being hurt. And yes, it also prevents me from loving anyone more than as a friend, or being loved as more than such, but...I don't need that. At least not right now. I'm not a first class human being and I don't want to be. One day I'll inevitably have to be though it will take the right man to convince me it's worth it. If anything I've taken away from this experience, it's peace of mind. Now that I'm no longer emblazoned with my personal scarlet letter, V, I feel as if a weight's been lifted. So I may be ready to let someone in sooner than I know. Or I could just end up fucking any and everything that walks. Either way, I'm fine with it. Rats off to ya, kids.

Behold!

The magic that is Erykah Badu. I don't really have a reason for posting this except that it's awesome and my blog's all about awesomity. From the now-defunct Chappelle's Show, I present you with Ms. Badu, in concert:

Dreams DO Come True

I'll tell you one thing, Liza is looking great these days. Sixty and sexy, With a Z gave a free concert in Asser Levy Park and the gays and the geriatric Jews turned out in spades to show their fanatical support. I, myself, endured nearly two hours of subway, an hour of standing around listening to the over 70 set gripe about being alive and the tired schtick of our host for the evening, Mr. Morty Moskowicz. But boy was it worth it!

Liza made her sequined entrance at around 8:45 doing a particularly showtune-y version of "I Can See Clearly Now" ending with a triumphant "I CAN SHEE!" After that number, Ms. Minnelli announced that she had succesfully lost 26 pounds since we had seen her last year (though I didn't have that distinct pleasure) and it certainly showed. The gams were on display for the audience to see as she wore a high cut little cream bedazzled minidress, matching stockings and shoes so shiny they must have been made out of the hair of the muses. I could see them sparkling even from my disadvantaged vantage point, some 300 feet from the stage.

The show and Liza kept steaming along, with "The Man I Love," "Sara Lee," an ode to her favorite snack food, "Ring Them Bells," and concluding with "Let's Hear It for the Band" or something along those lines. My memory is a bit fuzzy as I was in a state of complete euphoria at the time. And by 'euphoria', I mean stoned. During the "Band" number, Liza disappeared for what could only be a wardrobe change and perhaps a sandwich. No booze or drugs for her, though--that's right, Liza's on the wagon, kids. And I say, bravo.

Re-emerging in a sequined red number, revealing a rather sassy shoulder, Liza began the second part of the show. This included a Kander and Ebb original, "Sailor Boys" Liza dragging up a nearly 80-year old Gina Lollobrigida, proclaiming, "We made it man!" and a soulful rendition of "You Can Keep Your Hat On" by her pianist, some musical theater fag whose name escapes me at the moment. During his perfomrance, Liza took a seat and let him do his thing, then she requested a matching red hat and had him play again. This time, though, she did a little dance number that could only be described as fucking adorable. Then it was on to the finale, "Cabaret." Noticeably, she changed one of the lines--"When I goooooooooo, I'm NOT goin' like Elsie!" Meaning, she's not going out of an overdose of "pills and liquor." And thank god for that. I'm not ready to lose Liza yet. I'd be devestated. I wouldn't be able to jazz hand for months. Anywho, she finished "Cabaret" and left the stage after a well-desered standing O, but we all knew that wasn't the end. A few minutes later she came back on asking if we wanted another song? Duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. Duh duh duh-duh-duh-duh. "Start spreading the news!" And bitch TORE. IT. UP. After another standing O, some die hard fans still waited. This couldn't be it. And of course it wasn't. Liza came back on--"But I don't have any more songs," she said in that way that you knew wasn't going to stop her from trying anyway. It was true, her band didn't have any more arrangements, but the old girl still belted out one final number a capella, leaving the stage for good. We still waited just in case, but then Morty Moscowicz came back instead, so it was clearly time to go.

Oh, Liza. With a Z. Not Lisa. With an S. Cuz Lisa with an S goes Sss, not Zzz. You've still got it. But once you have it, I doubt you ever really, truly lose it. Let's me, you and Bea do a revival of Mame. You can have the title part, Bea can reprise her role as Vera, which I guess leaves me as your loving nephew, Patrick. I smell Tony!

I, For One, Am Shocked

suzanne said...

What a sad, nasty, stupid little misogynist you are. You may think you're not, but you are. It's the comments like just stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia and It's the idea of women that gets me down that give you away.
But if you ask me it looks like day-old lunch meat.
Nobody was asking you, honey. Shut up and go away, and stop posting your horrid moronic crap. If you think you don't hate women, you're delusional.


Shocked, I say! Recently I've been accused of being a mysoginist. And I have NO IDEA where people may have gotten that idea. Just because I said that a woman's vagina reminds me of "lunch meat" and urged them to "stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia throwing those mammaries around like a baseball"--I mean out of context that just sounds mean. In context though, it's mean and gratuitous. Apparently someone or some people got angry at that, but that's really not my problem. The post was a joke, this blog is a joke and my life is a joke. So why not have a little fun? With hundreds of civilians dying in Lebanon and Ryan Seacrest masquerading as a heterosexual, there are far worse crimes being perpetuated here, kids. Don't consider this an apology, because I'm not sorry. Why should I be when I was just yanking some chain? Some vaginal chain. I'm just owning up to what I said and I also hate being misunderstood and found it necessary to clarify my position: Gays = don't much care for them. Women = could do without them. The infirm = I push past them in the subway. Kids = I push them off swings and steal their lunch money. I'm just an asshole trying to get through this crazy world and taking down as many people as I can. And if you take me too seriously, well, you're going to hate me a lot more than you probably already do. Now let's settle this the way they used to in the 80s: dance-off. I bring my crew and whoever's pissed, bring theirs--the last ones standing get the Adidas of Glory. Aww,shit. It's on like Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.

I Don't Much Care for Women

I mean, really, what are they good for? Yes, tits are nice and for some reason the snatch is appealing to some. But if you ask me it looks like day-old lunch meat. Now, don't misunderstand, I don't hate women--far from it. The greatest beards and hags of my life have been female. It's the idea of women that gets me down. Yesterday, walking through the Loisaida, I saw a bevy of attracvtive, queere-esque men holding hands and getting handsy with whom I suppose were their girlfriends. It's not just an aesthetically queer appearance, you see, but also their mannerisms. It's a special something that I can't always put my finger on but would nevertheless would enjoy fingering. Now, I'm willing to leave well enough alone, but a pang of jealousy shoots through me everytime I see these couplings. I mean, are there no gay men left? Did I miss something where gay guys just suddenly stopped being gay and took up with the fairer sex? Is it the year of living vaginally? *Shudder*. Or am I just completely dillusional? Not gonna lie to ya, the answer probably lies in the last question. However, it is times like these that I wish women would just go away--just stop standing around bleeding from your genitalia and throwing those mammaries around like a baseball. It's not mysogyny--hell, I'm a huge feminist. I would just rather scorch the earth of their presence so I can have all of their men to myself. Is that so bad?

I was thinking of those questionably straight men today as I read an article in the New York Times Style section, sassily titled "When the Beard Is Too Painful to Remove." The article concerns married men who realize/come to grips with the fact that they are gay. They often have homosexual relations outside of their marriage, even a second monogamous relationship--usually with a man in a similar situation. Some choose to end their marriage, however most do not, fearing the end of their domestic life. I have to agree with Bonnie Kaye, ex-beard, current hag (?) interviewed in the article that the decision to stay in a marriage to preserve the idea of that marriage is horribly selfish. In this case, there is more than one person's life at stake: a wife, kids, other family members. It's a sicky situation but it requires courage and the willingness to be truthful in order to overcome it. But just imagine having to tell your wife of 25 years that her vagina repulses you. Aaawwkwaaarrrd. There is a definte possiblity she may hate you that your kids may hate you and that Paul Lynde may hate you. But Paul Lynde hates everyone. However, I've always considered honesty with yourself to be one of the most important things in life as well as a sign of maturity. I know and I admit that I'm a bitchy, moody, asshole with a minor drug and alcohol abuse problem. What some consider minor, though, is up for grabs. Anyway, I'm getting off topic here. My point is, it is sad there are men in these situations, even sadder that there are women who, unbeknownst to them, are in these situations and sadder still that this situation still occurs in a society supposedly far more progressive than the age of Rock Hudson and Monty Clift. If Brokeback's taught us anything, it's that two guys in cowboy hats getting it on is hot. And what gay man wouldn't want to be part of that? Drop the ladies and let me have your sweet, bearded love.

My Thighs Are Chaffing Like 2 Sailors After Fleet Week

Newsflash to New York: it's a might bit warm out. You may have missed this little detail as your brains have been fried by the 100 degree heat. But I'm just here to let you know that it's a little unpleasant outside. I hope you have some A/C in your homes because I know I sure don't. I stopped being alive about two days ago as a result but my body's so accustomed to the everyday grind that I'm still going about my daily tasks, ie commuting to work, smoking pot and writing the occasional sassy post on my blog. I guess none of those tasks requires any sort of mental thought--who knew? Unfortunately, all this activity has caused my thighs irreparable damage and I fear should they rub together anymore vigorously my pants will catch afire. I'm going to dig myself an underground lair and wait til fall--or til I finally collapse and die. Whichever comes first.

Refrain

Nobody loves me quite yet
What am I to do?
Furrow my brow, sit and fret?
Or plunge neck-deep into ceaseless rejection?
Wondering if I manage to attain perfection
Will they love me then?
If I do everything right
Am better than everyone else
Could I stand a chance tonight?
Of finally meeting Love Ofmy Life
Probably not, but it's still great to hope
Even when hope's dangling lifeless from a rope

What I use to numb the pain
Can never stop it from comin' again
What i take to numb the pain
Will never stop it from comin' again
But I hope when I do numb the pain
I'll forget that'll soon have a regretful refrain

I could care less if I lived or died somedays
What keeps me goin' are the drugs and that funny way
Creating something makes me feel
Like I've added a stroke to a make a painting more real
As if i've been placed here for a reason I've yet to discover
Perhaps that I can exist one day without a lover
That what I've created is that bit of hope for me
The hope I lost sight of in spite of me

What I use to numb the pain
Can never stop it from comin' again
What i take to numb the pain
Will never stop it from comin' again
But I hope when I do numb the pain
I'll forget that'll soon have a regretful refrain

So I Fell in Love Again on the Subway

This is a situation that happens at least twice a day on my daily commute. The one thing I can actually stand about the complex snaking of tunnels beneath this crazy little island-nation is the plethora of hot men that run in and out of those sliding doors we should all stand so clear of. This one embodied what is quickly becoming my "type": the hot nerdTM. Cute pinstriped pants, fabulous man-bag, a clean white undershirt--displaying very well the hotness underneath--all capped off by a neat pony tail and horn-rimmed glasses. I imagined us pushing a stroller somwehere on the Upper West Side, perhaps in Europe once we tired of America and decided to quit it all together. We'd be wearing matching cardigans and linen shorts coming just so above the knee. I'd have my sunglasses on in order to fool the paparazzi constantly at my door, but he'd be at my side, ready to tackle the nearest photohog that dared snap pictures of my baby after I had already promised exclusive rights to People. We'd share private moments and jokes harvested through years of intimate discussions and broke-back-breaking sex. I'd be wearing cheap Converse slip-ons, to keep me close to the people. But a few feet behind us would be our Swedish bodybuilding bodyguard to keep the people far enough from us. And boy would we be stoned! Stoned and in love, our two adopted Chinese and Sudanese babies giggling away at the brilliant sun shining only for them. For a brief moment, life would have been as perfect as it could have gotten.

But then the doors opened and we diverged towards different exits. It's still nice to imagine had we actually made eye contact something serendipitous would have happened. Or at least, you know, a blow job in the back of a Duane Reade.

Love on the Dot-Com: Am I Here Again?

So it looks as if the tall guy's blown me off. I thought we had what I thought was a good date and went around excitedly telling everyone about it, but it seems he went home and forgot I existed. I asked him out on Tuesday for a second date on Friday--I was even going to cook and we were going to get baked, all very cute--but he made an excuse about work and said he'd let me know the next day. Since I'm new to this dating bull, it took me a while to figure out that that actually means I don't want anything to do with you. When he responded the next day that he had a party to go to, without any offer to reschedule or anything else for that matter, I still refused to believe. It turns out I wasn't even going to be around on Friday since I'm going upstate to celeberate Karma's 21st birthday, i.e. getting trashed and falling down stairs repeatedly. I asked him if he wanted to reschedule, to which I heard the chirping of one solitary, virgin cricket. Well, I get it now. Thanks, world. I guess I have to dust myself off and try again, but I'm already over dating. Can't I just be rich and famous already? That way the dick will just come flying at me from all corners of the globe and I'll be more than happy to catch them with my open mouth.

F*ck This Sh*T MotherF*cker I'm a G*ddamn Movie Star!

So if you remember Harvey*, you'll know that he and I are no longer friends. But after reading this, you'll understand why you don't fuck with me when i'm having a bad week.

So he basically went on a tirade on his Myspace blog abou Karma, Tessa and myself:

TESSA- A DUMB STRAWBERRY BLONDE WHO IS NAIVE ENOUGH TO THINK PEOPLE STILL LIKE HER

CHEKI- AN ILEGAL IMMAGRANT WHOSE 21 AND WILL NEVER GET LAID BECAUSE NO ONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WILL TOUCH THAT

KARMA- A DUMB ITALIAN WHO SWEARS ITALIANS ARENT JUST FROM ITALY BUT CAN BE BORN IN TUKAHOE OF ALL PLACES. NONE THE LESS SHES A TROLL BITCH WHO UMM IS SCREWIN A LOSER GUY WHO PRETNEDS TO BE A FIRE FIGHTER BUT CRIES IN REAL LIFE SITUATIONS.

First of all, who bitches about people on their Myspace blog except 16-year old girls who have nothing better to do? Aparently, 21-year old fags who have nothing better to do. Second of all, I am 20 so get it right, bitch. And the following was my response to his well-thought-out, articulate assault:

I don't know were the fuck you get off insulting anyone you two-faced, lazy ass, no-job having, waste of life. I at least have a future unlike some drug-addicted piece of shit who'll fuck anything that even looks at him, i.e. his fat, hairy, mildly reatrded "best friend." Just because I have class and tact and some semblance of intelligence, don't hate on me. Let's see where your're bony ass is in 10 years--but let me just guess really quick: Still living in your fucking mom's house, planning on going back to school but getting fucked up everynight because that's the only thing you know how to do and admittedly you do it well. Keep my name out of your fucking mouth because you don't know me and I sure as hell don't know who the fuck you are.

And then I added:

And as for Tess and Karma, they're two of the most awesome people you've known or will ever know and to think of all the shit we did for you--it makes me sick. Go suck Dick's greasy little dick and keep pining after idiotic straight guys with STDs b/c you don't deserve anything better, you little shit.

I apologize for the vulgarities, but this was written in a moment of heat. Angry heat. The heat you feel boiling up in your ears. And it only added to what was already a shitty week. Don't you know that tall guy blew me off? I really hate the gays.

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent and douchebaggy.

Not Mouse, Never Mouse. If Anything *Rat*!

I only realized it recently, but I've been All About Eve'd at work. This young thing, older than I--but I still feel thrown away like a piece of fabulous trash--came to temp for an employee who was leaving on maternity leave. She started months after I did, yet today I find myself the Margo Channing to her Eve Harrington; drunk, tart-tounged future has-been having been eclipsed by a conniving, heartless wench. She's already gotten a promotion, including a raise, benefits and all that jazz. And here I am still making $12 an hour. Sure, that's not bad--but considering my rent eats up half of my monthly earnings, my bills a third and my drug habit another third, it's no wonder I'm always broke. But we are in a beehive, pal. Didn't you know? We are all busy little bees, full of stings, making honey day and night. Aren't we honey?

Oh...My...God

Nirvana



If you're wondering, this is 70s funkateers, LaBelle performing on Cher's variety show, in all their metallic feathery glory. Why is entertainment so...unentertaining now?

Love on the Dot-Com, Part 3: And Suddenly the Drought Ends...

I had two dates this past weekend. Not one, but two. And that beats my record for last year by about...two. Freshman year, I had two sort-of dates that I don't really count. One involved some skeevy, boring, kind of dumb guy I met online whom I bombarded with my friends to scare him off. The second guy ended up being Drunkos, my non-sexual lifemate and girl Friday. So, this, needless to say is big news for me.

The first guy I went out with, whom we'll call Jazz, was not exactly who I'd thought he'd be--physically. A bit hippy for my taste and being as shallow as I am, this was strike one. The clothes were strike two, but I could forgive the odd body odor as we both had just come out off of work. Other than that, he was a nice enough guy. We had a very entertaining series of emails that rose my expectations to that of elopement upon eye contact. Unfortunately, that special something was missing in the real world. We were very similar, but perhaps too similar. If anything, I got a potential friendship out of our date. And, oh, yeah, a tongue down my throat. And all over my foundation. We ended up on his roof in Brooklyn, eating Spice, drinking wine, reclined and looking at the stars. Then next thing I know, I'm being straddled under the bejeweled heavens and I'm being licked in every direction, from Deleware to Colorado. And I'm not going to lie to you, I kind of enjoyed it. But for future reference, I don't think I'll go for that kind of mauling, lest I am really into it. And then it's rape time.

The second guy, let's call him Brim...the second guy I plan to trick into becoming my boyfriend by twirling something very shiny before his eyes and whispering suggestions into his ear, such as: "Buy me flowers" and "Let's adopt racially diverse orphans one day." He was tall, a giant some might say, at 6'3". He has the purdiest eyes in the world, a sense of humor, wit, and intelligence. And he actually talked about stuff that was important in the world. Stuff that I don't care about because the world's dead to me already, but it's impressive nonetheless. We went to Brighton Beach and just hung out on the sand for a while, talking, criticizing people who walked by and discussing our love of the herb--everything I like to do while lazing about. Then we went looking for some food on the boardwalk, finally settling on this Russian restaurant for lunch/dinner. While their, he even repirmanded me on not saying please when I asked for a napkin. The damn waiter owed me a napkin anyway, but that really impressed me. Some people still have manners, it seems.

On the trip back to his gayborhood, Park Slope, where we discussed a myriad of topics. He even mentioned that he might want to adopt orphans with AIDS (AWWWW). I didn't even know guys like that existed. I walked him to his door, we hugged and he said to call him again sometime. I'm new to this whole dating thing, but I'm pretty sure that means he wants to go out on a second date. I mean, a four hour date, after which we both remark that "it was a good time" denotes that a good time was indeed had by all, no? But who knows these days...the gays are so tricky. Well, here's hoping for a sceond date and the end to my bitterness...well at least the severity of it.

Cheers!

Mmm, I Do Loves Me Some Starbucks

But I love this commercial even more. Anything featuring people singing and/or dancing in everyday situations has got my everlasting devotion. I just can't wait til I re-enact the street dancing scene from Fame. Show up in Midtown tomorrow in movement clothes--you know leg warmers, jazz pants, chunky sweaters with the collar cut off--nd be ready to work!



P.S. I read online somewhere today about the black woman in the beginning and how she gets squashed but the two white people are saved from the deadly, folding scenery. The poster even mentioned how the guy manages to escape certain doom with a little "whoa" at the end. Plus, in the abbreviated version, they keep the black woman being squashed. And you know what--it's true. What's that about Starbucks?

Quick Question...

Why is that if you throw up once...ok, twice--what's that? Four times. Well, I think that's a bit exaggerated. Fine--why is it that if you throw up on four separate occassions, you're immediately branded the guy who throws up at parties? I think that's a bit unfair. And I do NOT appreciate it. Guess what douches, I have feelings too. And sometimes I need to drink excessively, to the point where I am no longer breathing air but rather 160 proof vodka, sweating rum and shall I suffer a cut, bleeding gin just to feel alive again. Don't judge me, fuckers! It's not like I mention all the times you've had a back alley abortion? No. Well, there was that one time I told your mom, but she kept looking at me with that lazy eye of hers. Or maybe she was looking at you. Or, or, or I've never told anyone about the time you sawed that head off the Jebediah Springfield statue in the town square and everybody got super pissed, did I? No. I didn't. So I would appreciate it if you quit it with all the backhanded comments because I'm a grown ass man and I will puke on everything in the world if I want to. I hope someone cleans it up, though, because I gotta go somewhere in the morning.

Shackles

Have you ever felt that you were just trapped? No, trapped is too easy, I need a stronger word...imprisoned. Have you ever felt imprisoned? As if you were going to die shackled to some wall next to dusty skeletons who have suffered similar fates. Well, that's what it's like working in an office. There are no windows. There is no hope. Instead, you're surrounded by people as miserable and bitter as you are, if not more so. And you're always being watched. By whom, no one really knows. But trust in the fact that someone is watching you, somewhere at sometime. I wouldn't mind the dull grey decor, the false smiles covering up deep-seeded resentment for anyone with a sliver of joy, or even the wave of sickness I feel when I realize that I have all the potential in the world but am filing it away in alphabetized drawers. What really gets me is working 40 hours a week, minus five hours for lunch, plus overtime, and still not being able to afford to eat. Or buy drugs. And by eat, I mean buy drugs. What really pisses me off is getting paid on Friday and being broke on Monday. And people telling you that it doesn't get any better. Then what the hell am I working for? I want to live not merely exist, to paraphrase the Prophet, Stevie Wonder. But I'm 20 and I can't really do anything else. Only wait. Wait and hope that things do get better and that I can finally live in a solid gold treehouse, just like I dreamt of as a kid.

Okay, that's a lie. I never dreamt of that as a kid, but it sounds pretty badass, huh?

Sometimes I Really Love People

Like when they leave me messages like these while I'm getting high, er, having lunch:

[16:17] slinkstergirl555: oooh, montel is doing a makeover show
[16:17] *** Auto-response sent to slinkstergirl555: Lunch...insert irreverent, vaguely racist comment here.
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: he's taking pissed off 13 year old goth girls and putting them in skirt suits with pearls
[16:17] slinkstergirl555: the girls are still pissed, but their moms are crying in happiness
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: speaking of (not at all vaguely) racist comments, i had this awful customer last night
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: 50 year old fat white guy, with a 2 inch dick
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: kept asking if i wanted that dick
[16:20] slinkstergirl555: (no)
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: and unless you pay me another $100, i'm not going to lie to you about it
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: then asked me if i'd bring him home to my boyfriend
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: i said, "no, we don't like white guys"
[16:21] slinkstergirl555: and he said, "oh, he's colored?"
[16:22] slinkstergirl555: colored?
[16:23] slinkstergirl555: i said, where are you from, mississippi?? he said, no, here. and i said, then when are you from, slavery era? and he chuckled and was like, no, i'm just naughty.
[16:23] slinkstergirl555: naughty is the new racist

I Have Two Thoughts on PDA

1. Find a damn room. Guess what, at 9 am, no one wants to see you straddling your man against the subway door, or observe the way you casually grab your bitch's ass underneath her sundress. It's all very crass and usually disgusting--I'm talking to you hairy, fat man wearing your college t-shirt you've quite obviously outgrown and bleach blonde dick attachment. Holding hands is fine, everyone loves a good handhold. But keep this in mine next time the urge to take it a step further creeps into your mind: would you do that in front of your grandmother? If you even have to think about it, choose against it. You'll be doing us all a favor.

2. Stop being a tease and go through with the show. If you just can't help but keep your hands off your partner, just to show the world just how freaking in love with them you are, then stop being a little pussy and rip off the clothes. That's right, in the middle of the sidewalk, on the 6 train, in church--let's not be coy. Obviously you want to get down anyway, and you don't mind people looking on in horror, so let's get some dick in vagina action (especially since gays rarely show PDA, though I'd gladly pay to see two bull dykes go at it in the LES). You're the ones who put that big toe over the line, so there's no going back now. I'll get the camera.

Love on the Dot-Com, Part 2: Unlucky in Love

Is there an unsightly pimple about my face? Do I have psoriasis on my clavicle? Again? Am I unfunny or just plain boring? In the world of online dating, potential mates get to know you based on a few dramatically lit photos and some blurbs written while drunk at work. Based on these two criteria, "Fit4Fun" or whomever can look at me and know whether or not I'm worth his six pack time. As you may have known, I'm attempting to get some man action online. So far, I've "winked" at about 12 guys on Nerve/The Onion personals. Nothing. I sent a cute, though perhaps too cluttered of an invitation to a date to this guy on MySpace. Zilch. And most recently, I asked out another guy, this time on Facebook, whom my friend HJ Spatz thought I'd like. This time I was a bit more straightforward:

"Hello,

I believe you know one Ms. HJ Spatz. If you don't, then this is awkward and you should probably just disregard this message. If you do, I'd like to invite you out to coffee, or maybe drinks, or maybe coffee with booze tossed in there. I don't mind drinking out of a flask. Anywho, let me know if you'd like to hang out sometime."

Informal, cute, but not precious. It's a bit of a gem. I sent it yesterday...nothing quite yet. But I'm not riding it off yet. I am oddly optimistic, as my profile says. Maybe this time, huh?

The Impotence of Being Earnest, Part 3

Tuesday. Initially, I had planned to go home Tuesday night because I had work at 10 the next morning in Manhattan. I learned that after I passed out, not only did Karma have it out with the two boys but she also broke up with her boyfriend Rick. He was supposed to come over that night and Karma drunk-dialed him to find out when he was coming over. His friends were, from what I hear as I was long gone at this point, being rude to her while she was on the phone. I have only met a few of Rick's friends, but color me surprised. Sarcasm. Anywho, they broke up and Tuesday morning slinked its way into our consciousness. I wasn't at all worried about Rick and Karma--he came over later that day and they made up, as expected. As for Harvey and Dick, I was beyond my breaking point with them, but still Karma wanted to talk to them. If only to figure out why they were being such assholes to her. Short answer, they're assholes. Long answer, they're assholes who expect the world to cater to them while offering nothing in return and basically take up space, use people and do drugs on a daily basis. Great friends, no?

However, Karma lives in Poughkeepsie. I do not. Poughkeepsie is truly lacking in potential friends. Like I said, it's something in the air, maybe in the water that makes everyone fake, two-faced and tacky. But there have got to be better friends than these, somewhere. I'm not in the business of talking shit about people, at least not without getting paid for it, so I'll drop this. Speaking of fake and tacky, though, Karma, Rick and I went to this poor excuse for a party my last day there. It was in the boondocks of Wappingers, but I'll tell you what, hipsters are EVERYWHERE. Skinny jeans, ironic t-shirts and all. They're in Wappingers, but they're also fat. And don't know how to dress for their shapes, i.e. bitches were too fat for their tops. It was one of these bitches we consulted re: acquiring some trees. For some reason, it was damn near impossible to find any weed that day. And considering the direction in which our weekend had headed, we needed to smoke just to forget the deluge of shit that had suddenly rained upon us.

Monday was mainly devoted to finding marijuana, and once that was accomplished, well, nothing much happened. There was pizza. There were fireworks in Highland. Karma and I saw our old friend, Jerry, whom we've known since elemntary school/middle school. He fell in his building a little while ago and now his back is fucked up and he can barely walk. Happy 4th, everybody! While exiting the firworks campground area, we ran into Dharma, possibly drunk, also on the exit. We were going to let her hit our blunt, but it was kind of a roach by then so we just headed back to Poughkeepsie.

I decided at about 9 that I wasn't going back to New York that night. I still hoped to save my vacation by just chilling the fuck out. We headed back to that lame hipster (repetitive, I know) party, anticipating that Harvey and Dick would be there and therefore we'd have to fight some bithces. Not only were they not there, but the party was dead--so we returned home. The 4th passed on rather easily, a welcome change from the unnecessary drama that had unfolded in the previous nights. I woke up Wednesday morning, smoked a blunt with Dharma and then Karma drove me to the train station. I ended up leaving with some cute new clothes, about an ounce of pot and with two (read: one)friend less. It sucks to lose a friend, but when they make it so very clear that you don't mean shit to them, it actually feels pretty damn good. As if getting rid of a two-faced weight off you shoulders. I don't have time for people who are going to be fake and I don't think anyone should. I mean, if you were fake, rich and had connections that could advance my career, that's perfect for a business realtionship. And I have, like, no gag reflex. But for a friendship, I at least expect some degree of earnestness. But I have always had unrealistic expectations.