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.

The Impotence of Being Earnest, Part 2

Saturday was fine. At least on the surface. See, we were (p.s. I saw the biggest fanny pack ever on the subway today, like a backpack-sized tumor on the crotch)planning on getting acid that day, but the e had worn us down. And in the hope of not appearing as some sort of drug addicts, we decided to go on Sunday. So, after sleeping off our ecstasy haze, we said, "Hey," how 'bout some iHop. Then we went shopping, I got an adorable vest and sassy shorts at H&M, but Karma and I had to leave to meet Dharma at her friend's party. An adult party at that--like, there was no one under 28 there. AKA, booze was flowing from the sidewalk. As was my drool by the time I left. Upon leaving, Karma and I had to run to the supermarket to grab an ice cream cake for this little girl for whom Dharma was throwing a little get-together. I don't remember much from that time, except eating that cake--shit was good, gurl. And shit was also in the freezer the following day...at least til Karma and I found it. During the party, we snuck away to smoke a blunt then I think I fell asleep. TYo be honest, I'm not quite sure what happened Saturday night, but we did go back to the adult party, drank some more, I think we met up with Dick and Harvey--oh yes, we did. We went to Tessa's bar where she was bartending. Yet another well-lit sports bar with tacky girls and fat men, but at least there was a pool table. I add that as if it was a saving grace, but it was only a malformed transition. We left the bar after some pool and headed back to Harvey's. Before I proceed with this section of the sotry, I must mention that Karma and I shared some Hydrocodones before drinking--a bad idea. Karma ended up throwing up on her cute little floral top, on her jeans, a bit in her bag and then finally into the garbage can. I had Harvey and Dick hold her hair back as I was busy being lazy and fucked up. Harvey cleaned her up and gave her a change of clothes and by 4:30-ish, Karma was ready to drive home. Magically, we weren't killed en route.

Sunday was the day all joy turned to bloody, curdling bullshit. Upon waking up at 2 or so, Karma called Dick to find out what time he and Harvey wanted to get the acid. Apparently, neither of them wanted to do it now, despite the fact that they had no problem doing it several times in the previous weeks. Whatev. Karma and I decided that since our plans for the day, hunting down some drugs, was kaput, we'd stay in, smoke some blunts and watch "Next" on MTV. I always love the gay "Next"s. The guys always end up making out in the bus--but once the cameras are off, I'm pretty sure there's an orgy. It's California, it's hot and they're gay--what more do you need for some multi-man fun? Well, perhaps Jose Cuervo and a speedo. While engrossed in "Next," we periodically called Harvey and Dick to see what they wanted to do. And honestly, Karma and I still wanted to do acid so we were hoping of scoring some. By 5, we had finished our lethargy marathon and had finally got into contact with Harvey and Dick. Oh, but that's not how it went down--at least according to some people. By "not calling" them, Karma and I had hurt their feelings. Sad face. We had been "using" them only to get acid. Karma and I were being assholes because we were ignoring Harvey and Dick. Dick, please.

After explaining several times that we weren't ignoring them, just stoned and lazy, Karma and I met the two boys at the Winchester. Pleasantries were exchanged, but Dick was being a, well, dick. When you snatch money out of someone's hand, claiming it as your own, you don't come off in the best light. I could care less as to the validity of your argument, but that's just plain rude. And that's just what Dick did to Karma. I was certainly not in the mood for this, as I was already pissed at the fact that Dick of all people would accuse anyone of being a user. Should I pull out the scrapbook of the last twor three years, clearly displaying Dick spending Karma's money, sleeping in her bed, eating her food, smoking her weed, talking to me like we're friends. Yet, I digress. Harvey, too. Before he came into some money, he was just as broke and just as much as a user as Dick...but I let that go. It was July 4th weekend, why can't we all just get along, no?

Hell no. Things just got weirder and more fucked up from that point on. Dick continued to display his prowess at fucking shit up, so Karma and I left, taking Harvey with us. We ended up in Rite Aid because I needed some face wash to combat these enlarged pores and oily skin. We met up with Dick again, still beating that donkey bit into the ground, so Karma suggested we leave him at the bar. An idea I was completely down for, though she was only "mostly" kidding. This was the moment, from what I understand, that triggered the shit storm. Harvey, supposedly, hates it when people ask him to choose between his friends, i.e. "Dick" and "Karma and I." He certainly didn't have this problem before when he wanted to ditch Dick in the past, but who am I to judge two-faced dochebaggery? I'm not angry,though. Far from it. I'm fucking pissed. But on with the story. Karma and I ended up just leaving Harvey and Dick behind since the whole "let's be friends" thing wasn't working that day. Still, though, we called them later that night to see if they wanted to hang out. No dice. Their phones continued to ring, uninterrupted.

Monday morning came and Dharma predicted this would be the day of assholes. Mother Nautre was holding her part of the deal up--it poured freezing rain, followed by hail, for about half an hour. I anticipated that we'd be swept away in the torrents, a la New Orleans, so I made a point to get some pot before the Apocalypse came. If I'm going to die, I might as well be high, right? Luckily, we didn't get flooded out of our existence and the sun came out. Tessa and her boyfriend, Jay, came by to hang out a bit, then Rick, Karma's boyfriend came over. I, single and saucy, pretended like I was waiting for my boyfriend to come over too--but then we left to run errands because I wasn't fooling anyone. The conflict between the two of us and Dick and Harvey only escalated. They continued to ignore our phone calls until Karma finally got in touch with Dick. His warning to us, via Harvey, was to stop calling Harvey's phone because he didn't want to talk to us. Erright. According to Dick, Harvey was mad about "something" that Karma said to him while at Rite Aid, saying that she personally attacked him at one point. That something was the insistence of leaving Dick behind, a decision I still stand by, by the way. Phone calls and accusations flew back and forth, followed by drunken, angry IMs until we were drunk enough to head over to the Winchester, yet again, to confront Dick and Harvey. Dick, being the stand-up guy he is, maintained his and Harvey's position that they were the victim's here--attempting to make Karma and I feel as if we had literally shat upon them. Something you should know, just for future reference, Dick is never wrong. In his mind, obviously altered as it is, everyone else is always in error, no matter the situation. He's one of those people that just keeps talking nonsensically for hours until you get tired of them and just leave. Why Karma dated him for as long as she did, I do not know. While Dick was explaining his head off, Harvey remained quiet at the bar. I didn't want to be around either of them--as from that day on, they no longer exist to me except as fodder for blog posts--I spoke to no one. Honestly,I was only there to back Karma up should she go off the handle and start kicking people in the jaw. Wouldn't be the first--or last--time.

Karma continued to argue/talk to Harvey and Dick, trying to find out why they decided to be such huge, gaping assholes all of a sudden. I think somehow, I'm involved. Dick, whether he meant to or not, always ruined my trips back to Poughkeepsie and this time was no exception. I refuse, however, to have him ruin the next trip because I will bite his fucking face off. And that's Karma's 21st birthday. I passed out along the way, drunk off Southern Comfort and vodka cranberries. I did wake up in time to hear Karma crying on the phone, presumably to Dick or Harvey. And how did we get here again?

The Impotence of Being Earnest, Part 1

The following is a fictionlized account of a disastrous lost weekend, as experienced by "a friend of mine". All the names have been changed to protect the innocent and the assholes.

I always feel a little less sane after leaving Poughkeepsie. There's something in the air there that renders whomever lives within its roach-infested boundaries a complete and utter asshole. I lived there for, oh, thirteen years--way too long, needless to say--climbing my way through the city's school system. I go back every now and then to see my best friend and very first hag, one Ms. Karma Sorito. At this point she and her mother, Dharma, are the only family I know. It's been months since I've last seen her, despite talking nearly everyday online or on the phone. Along with our friends Harvey and Tessa, they're the only reasons I bother going back to a town I vowed to destroy once I had the suitable means.

Since April, many a change has occured in Karma's life. Where should I start? One can't rush into something like this, so perhaps I'd better start from the near beginning. Dharma was dating a man, let's just call him Insane. He was a nice guy, at least he appeared to be for the first few months he was living with them. Then, something snapped and Insane had to be taken away to a mental hospital--five times. This last time was the last straw. Dharma had gone into surgery to remove a few melon-sized lumps from her lady area, to stop any spread of cancer. Thankfully, she's ok. But at the time she had come out of surgery, well, she obviously wasn't. And this is the time Insane chose to fuck up badly, by stealing money, stealing Dharma's medication, lying about both instances and just being an all-around ass cunt. He freaked out after being confronted about it. Then the cops came. Then Insane was gone. A very familiar scene in the house of Sorito. While he's locked up--er, seeking counseling for his problems, he continues to contact Dharma, making promises of changing, trying to bribe her with money and sobbing all over the phone and in letters.

Insane's abrupt exit coincides with that of Dick's. Dick and Karma dated for a year, maybe two. But for the last year of their association, Dick lived in Karma's bed. That's what boyfriends and girlfriends do sometimes. OF course, for that last year of their association, Karma and Dick weren't dating. At all. They had broken up and he continued to live with her because "he had no where to go." Karma--please keep up here--had found someone else, Rick, and was dating him clandestinely for the year that Dick camped out in her sheets. Dick found out, yet there was no explosion. But remember this, kids, with an asshole, there's always an explosion. And there is no bigger asshole than Dick. He's the kind that refuses to admit that he's an asshole, while everyone around him knows it but attempts to love him in spite of it. Love can only stand so much, though. Everytime I came up to Poughkeepsie, Dick would ruin my stay with the swirling dark cloud of drama that enveloped him and that house. My love for him dried up like a year ago, but Karma still held on. That was until Dick tried to kill Rick with a golf club. Fast forward to Dick having to move in with his best friend--also one of Karma's best friends--Harvey.

For the first time in a very long time, I came home to Poughkeepsie, to the house I called home, and there was silence. There was peace. There were no grown men crying or punching holes in walls. No screaming about some perceived slight, followed by even more tears. The house was settled. Well, except for that knife Karma found in front of the house. Someone was stabbed, Karma found the weapon,, unaware that it was what it was, and threw it in her garbage. Then a cop showed up alerting her to the prior events, and suggesting that she get tested. Y'know, just in case. Oh, and there may or may not have been a revolver somewhere in Dharma's garden. Other than that, though: peace. So, I arrived late Friday night witht the hope that this weekend would be superfantasticallyawesome. July 4th weekend! Ow! I had already decided on calling into work on Monday, July 3rd and extending my vacation to four days of smokin' and chokin'. It started well.

Karma, Harvey and Dick met me at the train station. Even though they weren't dating anymore, Karma and Dick still tried to remain friends. Awkward. We piled into Karma's car and the next thing I know we're driving to Wappingers (the Wop-Wop) to get some e. We got six pills, three between Karma and I and the other three between Harvey and Dick. We gathered on Harvey's back porch to smoke as the pills kicked in. Topics for discussion came so easily: the weather as our impending doom, Harvey and myself finding some good dick with a job, killing Insane should he ever come back and our testimonies in the subsequent trial. You know, the normal stuff. It was so nice. Talking, smoking, rolling--what was a bad week was melting into a great weekend. At about 2:30, though, Harvey's landlord's disembodied voice commanded us to "take it inside". Fearing that Harvey's mothter would come outside and eat our hearts, we quickly finished hitting the bong and skiddaddled to the nearest bar.

Living in New York, Manahttan especially, gives me a certain vantage point. Some would say it comes off as pompousness, but I just call it, "me being better than you are." Bars and clubs cannot possibly compare to the ones I've visited on my late night crawls through my beloved city. Unless the walls are covered with vomit and the people are shooting up on the pool table, color me unimpressed. So I was already a little cautious about going to this bar, the Winchester. Karma shared my unease because we also just don't like people. They're sort of a waste of time, if you ask me. My fears were realized when we stumbled into the Winchester--little did I know that tacky was a uniform. If I had a dime for every ill-fitting strapless halter top I was forced to be in contact with this weekend, I could have bought those heifers some good taste. Yet, I digress. I tried to keep quiet and not judge anyone. Karma, Harvey and I were watching "Dr. 90210," thinking it odd that this show--of all the programs on TV--would be on in this particular bar. It was the episode with the twins who both wanted to get their asses lifted. Or maybe it was breast lifts. They could have used either, as well as a nose job, so I'm not sure. The three of us were talking when this stringy-haired bitch and her gap-tooth decided to butt in. She walked away shortly after, taking her rats nest hair out of reach of my awaiting claws. By then, I was ready to go. Yet, Harvey and Dick insisted we stay for the Drink. As if this mysterious concoction would make us forget we were in the third circle of hell, but who am I to refuse a free drink? That Sex on the Beach was fabulous, though.

The bar was a slight bump in the road of an otherwise smooth, thoroughly entertaining ride. Karma even brought Harvey and Dick back with us to her house. Dick had been banned by Dharma in an attempt to avoid any gratuitous drama. We were smoking a blunt when she came downstairs. Karma had this brilliant plan to put our hands in front of our faces so she wouldn't see us. Dharma came down and I could see through the corner of my eye that she clearly could see us, then she threw her hands up in the air and went to the kitchen. "Did she see us?" Um...yeah. I mean, we were on e, but we weren't that fucked up and of course she saw Dick sitting on her couch. Karma was volunteered to offer her mom the blunt as a sort of peace offering. Or at least to distract her as we swept Dick under the rug. There was no rug, however, and Karma refused to be the sacrificial lamb. So I volunteered. Dharma was fine with Dick being there--must have been something GOOD in the air that night, cough, cough--just as long as he didn't upset anything or anyone. And surprisingly he didn't. At least not on Friday night.

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.

Sardines in a Can

Living a life underground is no way to live.

Falling asleep to the trembling whir of the locomotive only to wake and realize that not only did you miss your stop, but also that the next train won't be coming for another 2 hours due to weekend construction sure can throw a kink into your day. So can having to wait 20 minutes between Manhattan and Brooklyn, pressed against 80 sweaty passengers on the L train--which for some reason isn't air conditioned. And then there was the five minute hold up at 1st Ave, the smarter/weaker of commuters chosing to disembark rather than wait for to die like the rest of us. These are the moments that test one's faith.

Once New York held the promise of a new life, wanton sex, decadent fashion and enough drugs to forget the pain of an old life. But when you can barely afford to pay the rent to your cramped, shitty apartment with your shitty roommates in some shitty part of Brooklyn that no one has ever heard of, there is nothing to keep those Golightly dreams alive. I went to Philly the other day and everyone I met there wanted to know all about Manhattan. When I told them that I was tired of it, they asked: Who gets tired of New York? New Yorkers.

In truth, the city can be harsh, ugly, dangerous, loud, cramped, annoying and a whole other series of negative adjectives. With 8 trillion people packed into five bouroughs, it's no wonder I feel as if I'm in hell sometimes. But I picked this city to live in and it can kick me around, shove me into walls, crash into me on the stairs and grope me inappropriately when it thinks I'm asleep, but this is the city for me. Because I push back. I went to Philly the other day and everyone I met wanted to know all about Manhattan. When I told them I was tired of it, they asked: Well, why don't you move? Because suck as it might, it's still the best place in the world. For all the shit it throws my way, this is the only place I can be myself and become who I want to be...



Liza Minnelli circa 1972. Make sure to catch my concert special "Cheki with a Shh!," choreographed by Bob Fosse...'s neighbor's aunt's tranny hairdresser.

Mmmm, Hot Nerd

I just had an excellent sighting. Now, we've all seen attractive guys who happen to wear glasses. Yes, it's unbelievably sexy and only leads down the road of you being bent over a twin sized bed in his mom's basement, drunk off Zima because apparently being hot is a full time job and affords no feelings of motivation or advancement. But those guys aren't nerds. They're probably not even smart. And I would check those glasses to make sure there are actually lenses in them. What I saw today was the real McCoy. Ill-fitting, ugly short-sleeve PLAID button up shirt. K-Mart khakis that stop just short of the ankle--revealing ankle socks, naturally. Grungy sneakers that say I don't need/can't afford to buy new shoes because I'm kind of a genius and I'm above that. Finally, he had the too small backpack that he's probably had since the 8th grade (aww). On anyone else, this would be off-putting at best. But if you took his clothes off with your teeth as I imagined doing, he could easily be a male model. Strong, solid build, gorgeous face, great skin. I mean who the hell are you? I swore it was just some hot piece with a healthy sense of irony posing as a geek. But then he flashed his college ID--pre-med. After that, I needed a minute and a wet nap to gain my composure. However, beautiful. Simply, beautiful.

Short Story: "It Fits, But You Can't Make It Work," Part 2

“I don’t even know why I’m,” cough, “going up there.” Our little, smoke-filled 2001 Camry chugged along at 25 mph on 86 North, despite Toto’s nagging suggestions to at least match the 50 mph speed limit. He is so impatient--I think it’s because he’s an only child. Note, this is also the reasoning I use to explain his laziness, his unkemptness and his drug dependence. My drug dependence, on the other hand, is based on my alienation as a child.
“Well, your aunt died. She was your mom’s sister. It seems likely that you’d want to,” cough, “pay your last respects.”
“I have no respects left to pay that bitch.”
“Well, at least you can get some,” cough, “closure.”
“I guess. Say, would it be wrong to just lift one foot, let’s say the left, and just,” cough, “stomp her face in. It’s just one foot, you know? And it’s all in the effort for,” cough, cough, “closure.”
“I wouldn’t have a problem with it, it’s not like she can feel it.”
“Exactly!”
“But I can’t vouch for the others in your family. They might take offense, but if everyone’s drunk, who knows? Could be the start of something, a tradition, a nom de guerre some might say.”
“Obviously only those who don’t know what ‘nom de guerre’ actually means.”
“Baby you’re just,” cough, “splitting hairs. Just chill out. It won’t be that bad.”
“I think you’re wrong. I think this is going to be the worst day of my life and I’m none too happy about that. I was having such a good month, too.” Cough, cough. “I got a raise at my job.”
“Yay!”
“I found a quarter in the middle of the street.”
“Wow, really? Not just a really big nickel?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but no. It was an actual quarter.”
“Yay!”
“And my aunt died and that really brightened up last week.”
“Yay!”
“But this FUCKING funeral! Can’t we just turn around?”
“You’re still driving--25.”
“I’m not speeding up.”
“But how do you think this looks? I mean you ARE black.”
“What? Oh, yeah. I always forget that. Well, it’s time for you to take over anyway.”
“All right, fine. But I’m flooring it all the way. Scoot over.”
“Can I pull over first?”
“Fuck that. I’ll grab the wheel, you keep your foot on the gas and we’ll just switch places. It’ll be fun.”
“That’s dumb.”
“You’re face is dumb.”
“Good comeback.” Eventually, though, he wore me down. He always does and I usually regret it. This time was no exception.

“I still think we should turn around for that joint.”
He looked at me with that look. That look that meant, ‘I’m not in the mood to fucking joke with you, Toto, so just shut up.’ I’m not going to lie, that look kinda turns me on. It’s full of so much anger and passion…when he gets mad—not that I intentionally make him mad, but I don’t usually feel that bad about it. In hindsight, however, it might have been better if we hadn’t decided—okay, if I hadn’t decided—to switch seats while passing by a state trooper. I honestly didn’t see him, but I was still holding the spliff in my left hand and Bri just ripped it out of my hand and threw it to the side of the road. I really didn’t mind, but there was at least a few puffs left in that thing. But whatever. I wasn’t even that serious.
He’s on edge, understandably. He doesn’t want to go to this funeral but of course he is. He won’t admit to himself that he still has feelings for his family, if not necessarily love, he has a history with them. It’s harder for me to understand because I’ve always been pretty close with my family. They’re totally cool with me being gay. Well, at least that’s what they say. But it doesn’t matter what they think so much as what they give me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but I love them a lot more when they get me an iPod for Chanukah. Grandma was awesome, though. When I came out she practically wet herself with excitement. Turns out she was a big time hag back when people didn’t have TVs and condoms. According to her, everybody fucked everybody because there was nothing else to do. You just didn’t talk about it because your private life was private, and then she went into this rant about how the government has too much control over us and totalitarian this, Big Brother that. I stopped paying attention because she’s old and her voice gets unpleasant after a while. But she was the only one who fully supported me when I came out…I wonder if Brian’s family knows?

Short Story: "It Fits, But You Can't Make It Work", Part 1

April, but it’s unseasonably cool. Or maybe it’s supposed to be this cool and it’s just been unseasonably warm for the past few years. Maybe it’s not seasonable at all. Is 50 degrees even considered ‘cool’ anymore? The sky must be punishing us for past transgressions, hiding the sun behind those thick corpulent clouds. But at least the flowers are beginning to bloom. That’s one good thing I can say about Sacton, spring is always beautiful up here. I’d have to dig deep in order to find anything else, though.
The roads are still that pristine dark black from the earlier rainstorm. They look so disgusting when they’re gray, especially if it’s accented by the corpse of an overzealous rabbit. The last time I came up here, about three years ago, this road was littered with dead bodies, as if I was driving through some petting zoo Jonestown. I should have turned back when I saw that first deer on the side of the road. It was a fawn, with a white tail and little white specks on it’s back. I had to pull over the car and just…be for a moment. Just absorb it. Then I saw his mother come out from the sparse woods, nudging her baby and it was the saddest thing I’d seen up til then. Being only nineteen, I hadn’t seen very much. But I should have turned back. I don’t think I know why I didn’t.
Topher’s with me this time. My little Toto. Ever since that last trip I refused to come up here ever again, but things inevitably change. I didn’t want to go alone and I was kind of surprised when Toto offered to come along with me, something about wanting to meet my family and all that. To be clear, I never wanted to meet his family. Nor do I ever want to. I find that they have a clan mentality. Not all families, just the ones I’ve encountered. They accept you initially as a guest and let you begin to feel like you’re one of them. But sooner or later you realize that you’re NOT one of them, you’re just another outsider. A withered brown leaf on their geneaological tree, destined to fall off and float away. But more power to Toto.


“Do you think you can take over soon?” I asked. I’ve always hated driving, unless you have nowhere to go. Driving aimlessly is akin to meditation for me. The road wraps itself around my mind and we disappear together. When you get lost, you’re not really lost at all because you’re not trying to find a specific location. You’re just discovering the world around you. As soon as you introduce a map, that’s when I lose all interest.
“Yeah, give me like five minutes.” I look over at my co-pilot, Toto, rolling a joint between his long nimble fingers. He said he used to play the piano, but when I asked him to teach me he refused. So I think that piano was just code for accordion.
“You do realize this is a rental?”
“It’ll be okay. We’ll just roll the windows down. Or,” dipping his bushy, curly hair into his book bag and re-emerging shortly with a thick glass bottle the size of Pepto Bismol, “we could hotbox and just spray it down with a little Coolwater.”
I considered for a minute then rolled up my window. If it had been Polo, I might have answered differently.
“We should probably pick up some Febreeze or something on the way. It’s impossible to get weed stench out of fabric.”
Toto looked at me, grinning, with the lit paper clenched between his yellowing teeth, his eyes obscured by the canopy of hair on his head. “That’s why I don’t bother to wash my clothes anymore.”
“Well, thank god one of us does.”

An Ode to the 40

You know it is wrong
But it is also 2 bucks
And bitch needs to drink

I Need You...to Hold Me, to Scold Me, Cuz When I'm Bad, Mmmm, I'm Oh So Bad: 1-5

So I had a dance-related injury on Friday night. I had to serve someone in an impromptu dance-off and as a result my left leg is a little tight. But alas, that is the spirit of disco: drunk and high, dancing your knees off til the early morning hours. It's good to know that some values never die, huh? So without further adue, let's get on with this list:

1. Cheryl Lynn - "Got to Be Real" (Cheryl Lynn, 1978)



"What you thiiiiiiiiink-uh? What you feeeeeeeeeeeeeel, now? What you knooooooow-a? To be REAL! It's got to be REAL!" It all starts with those walls of Jericho-shattering horn stabs and you know that your rump will not stop bumping for the next 3 and 1/2, or 5 minutes, depending on which version you get. I suggest the shorter as you get to hear Cheryl "soo-hoo"-ing all over the place in the middle. It sets the bar deliriously high in the beginning and it keeps it floating and spinning til the very last drum kick. Perfect song? Perhaps. Best song ever? Well, having heard every song that ever was at least 5 times, I can safely say that it obviously is. And anyone who says different is a heathen. A disco-hating heathen.

2. The Emotions - "Best of My Love" (Rejoice, 1977)



Oh, The Emotions. Oh, you. You and your infectious joy. Little angels. Taking it from the church straight into la discoteque. Jesus, get off that cross right now and show us that six pack! Mmm, our Father who art in heaven, indeed. "Best of My Love" really is just a gospel song, dipped in shimmer, washed in fabulous and left out to dry on a gold lame clothing line. Sure, some may find that a bit sacreligious, but honestly the Puritans never knew how to let their hair down.


3. LaBelle - "Lady Marmalade" (Nightbirds, 1974)




That beat just walks all over you in its silver 6-inch spiked cha cha heels, don't it? It grabs you, screws you and never lets you go. At night, I can still hear it calling me in the middle of the night: more, more, MORE! Gitchy, gitchy ya ya da da da. Gitchy, gitchy, ya, ya hey. Mocha, choca lata ya ya, Creole Lady Marmalade! Ooh, ah. Little sticky here. Wow, napkin, someone?The connection between disco and sex was never clearer and this funk masterpiece laid the sultry roots for all other disco cuts to come. Oh, and do yourself a favor and pick up Nightbirds. Patti, Nona Hendryx and Sarah Dash soaring through glam, soul, funk and disco. You're welcome.


4. Anita Ward - "Ring My Bell" (Songs of Love, 1979)



If you're listening to this song for the first time, it will most likely come off a bit strange. First of all, it doesn't hit you over the head with a propulsive beat, nor will it ever. The real charm in this song is in its seductiveness. Anita is talking to you like she has a dick in one side of her mouth and a ball gag in the other. Things are going to get hard, sweaty and little illegal in 49 states in no uncertain terms. Ring a ding ding ding, baby.

5. Vickie Sue Robinson - "Turn the Beat Around" (Never Gonna Let You Go, 1976)



What can I possibly say? That percussion section. Vickie Sue's inspired performance. It's like someone kicked you in the head with badassness and left you to drown in your own blood, only to hallucinate that you were living inside Jesus' own personal marching band. Gloria Estefan tried to cover this song, but she pales miserably in comparison to the original. That and she's Cuban so it's innately inferior.

No Blacks, No Jews and No Ga-hays!: 6-10

6. ABBA - Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)(ABBA: Gold, 1994)



I never knew ABBA could be so suggestive. Or aggressive. I really thought that the Nordic folk never had sex, but produced offspring through a rather complex, rhythmic dance to generic pop music passed down over the generations. But ABBA proved me wrong, as they often do. The ladies and gentle-Swedes of the world's favorite reclusive supergroup command you to drop trou and start stepping along with the beat. Thanks Madge (and Jimmy) for introducing us.


7. Thelma Houston - "Don't Leave Me This Way" (Any Way You Like It, 1976)




Some people want you to beg for them. They feel that they're just so impossibly stupendous that one must genuflect in their presence. But not Thelma Houston. Sure, she plays that game for a minute then the beat kicks in and shit is on. Disco kick! Ugh! Yell in that fucker's face and let him know that this puss is Grade A. Bravo, Ms. Houston.

8. Machine - "There But for the Grace if God Go I" (Machine, 1979)



Wow, a disco song about actual social issues. But when you set that scene against one of the most insane tracks, like, ever, suddenly social commentary can do the hustle just like everyone else. And blow in the bathroom like everyone else, too.

9. Chic - "I Want Your Love" (C'est Chic, 1978)



Sheer beauty. Just listen to those bells. Though it doesn't have the life-saving bassline of "Le Freak," it don't need it. That feathery vocal, the pounding bells and those sweet strings all volleying off one another, it makes you want to fall in love with the next stranger that looks at ya. Well, hello there. Sure, you're balding, fat and probably have a baby meekrat's penis, but "I Want Your Love." Mmmm, funk.

10. The Whispers - "And the Beat Goes On" (The Whispers, 1980)



Way before Will Smith sampled it for his PG-rated ode to "Miami," the Whispers funked all over the place with this. Turn it on, turn it up and try not to bop your head along to their groove. I dare you, bitch.

You Can Dance and You Can Die: 11-15

11. Blondie - "Heart of Glass" (Parallel Lines, 1978)



God Debbie Harry was one fine piece of ass back in the day. Hell, I'd probably still do her now, but only if she were whispering the lyrics to this song in my ear. No disco diva, this song managed to meld the worlds of disco, new wave and punk together long enough to realize that they couldn't stand each other. Then punk kicked disco in the nuts, new wave spit in its face and disco limped back to it's glitter ball.


12. Yvonne Elliman - "If I Can't Have You" (Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack, 1977)



"Saturday Night Fever", huh, kids? One of the touchstones of a generation yet it also sparked a massive backlash against disco. The boogie balloon got so big that it had to burst it's sequined insides at some point. But before it did, it gave us this Bee Gees-penned classic sung by Yvonne Elliman.


13. Earth, Wind & Fire Featuring The Emotions - "Boogie Wonderland" (I Am, 1979)



What is Boogie Wonderland? Why, the place where funk and disco meet, have slimy, unprotected sex and produce beautiful, afro-haired babies with the innate ability to boogie down, of course.

14. ABBA - "Voulez-Vous" (Voulez-Vous, 1979)



No offense to "Dancing Queen" but I simply can't resist the triumphant "a-ha!s" in the background. It's like those crazy Swedes are proclaiming their own awesomeness. Can we rock? A-ha! Can we make you dance? A-ha! Voulez-vous? A-ha!

15. Diana Ross - "Upside Down" (diana, 1980)



How can you possibly lose? Diana Ross + Chic's Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards = Disco Gold. Come on everybody, let's all chant it together: Upside down you're turning me/ You're giving love instinctively/ Round and round you're turning me/ I say to thee/ Respectfully!"

Toot Toot, Heeeeeyyy, Beep Beep: 16-20

16. Evelyn "Champagne" King - "Shame" (Smooth Talk, 1977)



Champagne was only 16 when she recorded this song, not like you could tell. Her best song, "Shame" is a bitch slap on wax. "SHAME! Burning, you keep my whole body yearning." But it's also a call to love--sweet sweet disco love--as "Wrapped in your arms is where I want to be."

17. Donna Summer - "Bad Girls" (Bad Girls, 1979)



Donna really hit a one-two punch with this track and "Hot Stuff" in '79. But for my money, "Bad Girls" takes the cake. When I walk down the street, I secrelty chant "toot toot, heeeyyy beep beep" with each step, all the while pretending I'm on the prowl for my next meal ticket. It's good to be a bad girl.

18. The Andrea True Connection - "More, More, More" (More, More, More, 1976)



A porn star doing disco, it all seems so appropos. It's the 70s, let's all fuck and dance and then record ourselves fucking and dancing. But when the song is this good, you could kill Sudanese orphans in the recording process and I wouldn't care...too soon?


19. First Choice - "Let No Man Put Asunder"/ "Dr. Love"(Delusions, 1977)




I really love when god and disco meet. I once saw god blowing Mikhail Baryshnikov at 54 and he looked fffaaaaaaattt. Then Dr. Love came over and started playing with god's balls and it got a little weird. But how could the big guy resist with First Choice beckoning him to the dance floor?

20. Donna Summer - "Hot Stuff" (Bad Girls, 1979)



"Gotta have some hot stuff, gotta have some love tonight!" Woo, turn the cameras off, Donna. There might not be 12 minutes of moaning, but this is arguably her sexiest and sassiest song.

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Some Disco After Midnight!: 21-25

I don't know if it's the return of spandex and feathered hair a la Madonna, or the fact that I just need to dance but I am in love with disco right now. Well, honestly, I'm always in love with disco, and not ironically. Yes, it's cheesy, but once you get over that you realize just how awesome some of these songs are. Just close your eyes, crank up some Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" in your headphones and try not to feel transcendent. Thus I decided on the long walk to work that I would rank my favorite disco gems, 25-1. Strap on your rollerskates, wipe off the mirror and pull Liza's number out of your rolodex cuz it's time to go to Funkytown, population: funk.

21.Diana Ross- "Love Hangover" (Diana Ross, 1976)



If there's a cure for this, I don't want it, don't want it," Ms. Ross coos before the song inevitably crescendoes into an orgy of beats and moans and one of her best singles/biggest hits. You can just see the disco ball, can't you?

22.Evelyn "Champagne" King - "Love Come Down" (Get Loose, 1982)



And Evelyn, you make my love come down my leg. Pass me a wet nap.

23. Carl Carlton - "Everlasting Love" (Everlasting Love, 1974)



Why, hello, Mr. Carlton. One of the most joyous songs ever recorded, it's all over in two and a half minutes and you don't even know what hit you.

24. Sylvester - "You Make Me Feel Mighty Real" (Mighty Real, 1980)



Fuck the Bee Gees, this is how you do falsetto, kids.


25. Silver Connection - "Fly, Robin, Fly" (Save Me, 1975)



"Fly, Robin, fly! Up, up to the sky!" No other lyrics, but with that bassline and those strings you really don't need anything else.