I find myself falling in love with more and more guys daily.
It's spring, I already know that. The sudden emergence of sunshine, warm weather and pretty, smelly flowers signal every species in this vast metropolitan animal kingdom to copulate til their copulates fall right off. Come May, I'll be humping every muscular calf to pass in my line of vision. The 'why' doesn't concern me. It's the "what the hell can I do about it" that's really the rub.
Like 30 billion other people, I ride the subway every morning to work. And every day I am bombarded by a cavalcade of attractive men, with whom I'm trapped for minutes at a time, undergound, with limited oxygen and space. Often, we're pressed together like two horny, desperate sardines in one large, rectangular can. Wow, I didn't know fish could be such a turn on...
Now that I've jacked off, I'm reminded of the point I was trying to come to a few sentences ago. With so much fesh man meat dangling before my mouth on a maddeningly constant basis, is it appropriate to take the bait?
OMG, how Carrie Bradshaw do I feel right now?
A friend and I were discussing this particular issue over sangrias and tears last night. He told me that he feels the same way, what with us both being frustrated, self-loathing gays and all. Apparently, a relatively attractive guy came up to him on the subway. Now mind you, this is New York, so his subsequent reaction is rather logical. If a strange man came up to you on the subway, making a face I'm sure he though was sexy, but most likely was just plain creepy, you'd get off 3 stops early and walk to your destination in the middle of January too.
And that's what I fear. If I were to ever bite the mullet and sashay over to a stud/hunk/hot nerd on the 6, would my advances be rebuffed in a similar fashion? I guess the only way would be to try. Here is where a better writer, or at least a writer more bold than I, would make a grand declaration to find this out. Perhaps, dressing up like a fat woman and then conducting my "social experiment" on unsuspecting, hidden-camera'd individuals. Thus, I'd be able to test society's views of subway come-ons and make fun of the morbidly obese. Just like Tyra.
But I'm just not that bitch. If I were, though, I'd wear bangs more often because that forehead is getting out of control.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Looking for Gay Love in the Big City....
...on Craigslist:
"any yuppies need oral service on way home? - 28"
"PLUMP BUBBLE ASS HERE TO MASSAGE and EAT... - 28"
"my Azz is Horny - 26"
"Any RAW BLACK TOPS looking for a White Virgin BTTM - 23"
"Petite white boy for Black Men - 28"
"I love thugged out white/latin boys - 31"
"***Brokeback Mountain Buddy*** - 34" This one at least promises a relationship with it's cowboy love story-inspired title..even if that love will only end in heartbreak and cheesy 80s mustaches.
"GAM Looking for to Date - 26" I would love to think it's just a fabulous, disembodied leg, but alas...
"Muscle bottom wants some - 28" I kinda want to hit this one based on his pic alone, but this is the internet and he's probably a fat, hairy 70 year old woman into kinky shit....on second thought, what was their email?
"any yuppies need oral service on way home? - 28"
"PLUMP BUBBLE ASS HERE TO MASSAGE and EAT... - 28"
"my Azz is Horny - 26"
"Any RAW BLACK TOPS looking for a White Virgin BTTM - 23"
"Petite white boy for Black Men - 28"
"I love thugged out white/latin boys - 31"
"***Brokeback Mountain Buddy*** - 34" This one at least promises a relationship with it's cowboy love story-inspired title..even if that love will only end in heartbreak and cheesy 80s mustaches.
"GAM Looking for to Date - 26" I would love to think it's just a fabulous, disembodied leg, but alas...
"Muscle bottom wants some - 28" I kinda want to hit this one based on his pic alone, but this is the internet and he's probably a fat, hairy 70 year old woman into kinky shit....on second thought, what was their email?
The Merits of a Meritless Generation
What do we have to offer? This blogging, internet-savy, plugged in, tuned out generation--what do we have to offer, well besides sass and uncalled for sarcasm?
Trick question!
When you have those aforementioned qualities, you really don't need anything else. We stand not on the shoulders of our meth-addicted ancestors, but on the bones of the disillusioned youth of generations passed. We saw what protesting, univeral love and other high-minded ideas got them, so my peers, rather knowingly or not, have processed history and distilled out the rich minerals from which we shall build the future: greed and apathy. To put it simply, this generation just don't give a shit. The world's falling down around me, yet I realize not only am I powerless to stop it, but I could care less about what happens as long as it doesn't affect me personally.
But can you really blame me? Everything that has happened, globally and nationally, the generation currently in charge has just let it happen. Letting the government run rampant and unchecked, supporting a useless and increasingly bleek war, ignoring the crises on our own shores and the ones America has directly/indirectly caused and pursuing the almighty euro in sacrifice of everything else; with a model like that, is it so hard to source where the values of someone my age truly lie? Hope is a fool's luxury, kids.
We're all depressed, on drugs and getting dumber as the years wear on. Not all of us, of course, as there are exceptions to all ruless. See: gay republicans, straight choreographers--Fosse? Really?--etc. There is a crop of twenty-somethings coming up who are conservative, savvy and ruthless--a throwback to that shoulder-padded glory era of yuppie dominance--but the 80s are always coming back. The general assumption is that everyone 18-25 or so is a liberal, a democrat or at least a moderate, but the country itself has shifted so dramatically to the right that the majority of us are conervative on some level. Take into account that the future lies in the hands of the educated and the priviliged, hands that are ignorant to the toil of hard work and have forever been pampered with the warmest/silkiest of oils, I like patchouli, and it seems that we as a nation have only begun our obsession with all things that hang to the right.
But if there is one thing I am proud of in my contemporaries, besides the six pack abs and rock hard pecs that have become requisite for any male old enough to curl a dumbbell, it is the acceptance of the queers. This is literally, the gayest generation, like, ever. My teenage years weren't the greatest, but the biggest problem in my life was never that I was gay. It was an issue, but there were so many resources available to me, be it the internet, support groups, the local gay bar--and I grew up in upstate New York, above said gay bar--that I never feared what might happen to me in the halls once the school bell rang. Also, race has become so blurred in 20 odd 6, with the multiracials representing a larger and larger percentage of the population,* that I feel racism is slowly but surely on its way out of the country. However, for this to truly happen, someone's gotta take the necessary steps, once someone knows just what the hell those steps are.
Who'll be the next great leader? Who's willing to step up and lead us all into a brave, new world?...Anyone? No, not today? You know, that was really a rhetorical...nevermind. I kind of lost interest in what I was doing, anyway. Whatever. What was I going to say? Oh, yeah. Someone's going to have to step up to the plate and lead this generaton and future others...oh, fuck, I don't even believe what I'm saying anymore. Fuck it.
*I don't do research...so FUCK you.
Trick question!
When you have those aforementioned qualities, you really don't need anything else. We stand not on the shoulders of our meth-addicted ancestors, but on the bones of the disillusioned youth of generations passed. We saw what protesting, univeral love and other high-minded ideas got them, so my peers, rather knowingly or not, have processed history and distilled out the rich minerals from which we shall build the future: greed and apathy. To put it simply, this generation just don't give a shit. The world's falling down around me, yet I realize not only am I powerless to stop it, but I could care less about what happens as long as it doesn't affect me personally.
But can you really blame me? Everything that has happened, globally and nationally, the generation currently in charge has just let it happen. Letting the government run rampant and unchecked, supporting a useless and increasingly bleek war, ignoring the crises on our own shores and the ones America has directly/indirectly caused and pursuing the almighty euro in sacrifice of everything else; with a model like that, is it so hard to source where the values of someone my age truly lie? Hope is a fool's luxury, kids.
We're all depressed, on drugs and getting dumber as the years wear on. Not all of us, of course, as there are exceptions to all ruless. See: gay republicans, straight choreographers--Fosse? Really?--etc. There is a crop of twenty-somethings coming up who are conservative, savvy and ruthless--a throwback to that shoulder-padded glory era of yuppie dominance--but the 80s are always coming back. The general assumption is that everyone 18-25 or so is a liberal, a democrat or at least a moderate, but the country itself has shifted so dramatically to the right that the majority of us are conervative on some level. Take into account that the future lies in the hands of the educated and the priviliged, hands that are ignorant to the toil of hard work and have forever been pampered with the warmest/silkiest of oils, I like patchouli, and it seems that we as a nation have only begun our obsession with all things that hang to the right.
But if there is one thing I am proud of in my contemporaries, besides the six pack abs and rock hard pecs that have become requisite for any male old enough to curl a dumbbell, it is the acceptance of the queers. This is literally, the gayest generation, like, ever. My teenage years weren't the greatest, but the biggest problem in my life was never that I was gay. It was an issue, but there were so many resources available to me, be it the internet, support groups, the local gay bar--and I grew up in upstate New York, above said gay bar--that I never feared what might happen to me in the halls once the school bell rang. Also, race has become so blurred in 20 odd 6, with the multiracials representing a larger and larger percentage of the population,* that I feel racism is slowly but surely on its way out of the country. However, for this to truly happen, someone's gotta take the necessary steps, once someone knows just what the hell those steps are.
Who'll be the next great leader? Who's willing to step up and lead us all into a brave, new world?...Anyone? No, not today? You know, that was really a rhetorical...nevermind. I kind of lost interest in what I was doing, anyway. Whatever. What was I going to say? Oh, yeah. Someone's going to have to step up to the plate and lead this generaton and future others...oh, fuck, I don't even believe what I'm saying anymore. Fuck it.
*I don't do research...so FUCK you.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I, Stoner
Some would disagree, but it's not easy being a stoner. Sure, lazying about all day, trading off between DVDs of "Cheech & Chong: Still Smokin'," "Half Baked" and "Dude, Where's My Car?", listening to your favorite 3-hour Phish jam and eating a salad bowl full of shrimp Ramen sounds like a walk in the park, but most stoners I know aren't like that. You know, lame.
Rather, I'm talking about the societal pressures, the stigma and the often uncalled for vitriol we as potheads must endure in our everyday lives. No one takes us seriously because we're always giggling. No gay in this town will even look at me once they smell my jacket. And if you come high to work, people want to be all up in your shit like they fucked your mother or something. Really though, is it so wrong to want/need to be high every moment of your life only because the pain of reality is too much to bear? Because last time I checked this was still New York and not bitch-ass, straight-edge faggot loser town.
I recently proclaimed that I was cutting back on smoking the reefa, for the fifth time this month, only to reneg on this promise once the voices started getting a little too real. I'm lethargic, my cough is hacking and usuaully produces some unsightly green mucus and I tend to overeat whenever I'm high, so I thought the obvious conclusion was to relax on the joint tossing. But cutting back's for quitters. Next thing you know, I'm like 5 years sober and a born-again Christian. I've seen those people, and though spending the majority of my life on my knees in polyester sounds enticing, I'll have to pass. Smoking is just too much fun. I have,instead, chosen to accept my fate and declare, I, Stoner. Hey, that's just who I am right now; bitter, cantakerous and sarcastic with a blunt eternally strapped to my inner thigh...just in case.
And I also plan on smoking the smart way. By using a vaporizer, I can preserve my throat. I'm going to start taking vitamins for energy and my overall health. And I'm already on a diet so I'm going to start eating and snacking much better. All in the effort to avoid doing the responsible and logical thing because in the end, I'm gonna get fucked up one way or another. And that knowledge just gives me the comfort I need to fall asleep at night...that and the bong right in reaching distance from my bed. You know, just in case.
Rather, I'm talking about the societal pressures, the stigma and the often uncalled for vitriol we as potheads must endure in our everyday lives. No one takes us seriously because we're always giggling. No gay in this town will even look at me once they smell my jacket. And if you come high to work, people want to be all up in your shit like they fucked your mother or something. Really though, is it so wrong to want/need to be high every moment of your life only because the pain of reality is too much to bear? Because last time I checked this was still New York and not bitch-ass, straight-edge faggot loser town.
I recently proclaimed that I was cutting back on smoking the reefa, for the fifth time this month, only to reneg on this promise once the voices started getting a little too real. I'm lethargic, my cough is hacking and usuaully produces some unsightly green mucus and I tend to overeat whenever I'm high, so I thought the obvious conclusion was to relax on the joint tossing. But cutting back's for quitters. Next thing you know, I'm like 5 years sober and a born-again Christian. I've seen those people, and though spending the majority of my life on my knees in polyester sounds enticing, I'll have to pass. Smoking is just too much fun. I have,instead, chosen to accept my fate and declare, I, Stoner. Hey, that's just who I am right now; bitter, cantakerous and sarcastic with a blunt eternally strapped to my inner thigh...just in case.
And I also plan on smoking the smart way. By using a vaporizer, I can preserve my throat. I'm going to start taking vitamins for energy and my overall health. And I'm already on a diet so I'm going to start eating and snacking much better. All in the effort to avoid doing the responsible and logical thing because in the end, I'm gonna get fucked up one way or another. And that knowledge just gives me the comfort I need to fall asleep at night...that and the bong right in reaching distance from my bed. You know, just in case.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Am I Hot?
Ohmigod, did I miss something? Maybe it's because I'm always high or whatever, but I think I might be hot. Or maybe in the beginning stages of hot.
I've always been that heavy kid with glasses and occaionally nappy hair, and to an extent I still am. However, I just recently shaved my head and now I've been noticing a lot more attention being paid to little old me. I'm getting a bit flustered, perchaps it's the vapors, the VAPORS!! The vapors? But I'm not sure how to tell what's going on? Are hot and mildly attractive guys looking at me because there's something on my face that I didn't catch before leaving the safety of the indoors? I mean, I could understand a couple of days of that happening, but there's a consistency I've been experiencing. For instance, take ten minutes ago. If you can remember that far back, what with the war going on and all.(Perhaps a little too Woody Allen?)
I was walking down the street back to work, and I was blazed like chestnuts on that proverbial open hearth fire, when I saw this, for lack of a more emphatic adjective, GORGEOUS guy coming from the opposite direction. Normally, I'd just try to catch a few passing glimpses without arising suspect from him. But at the time, and in my condition, I was staring at everything, one of the benefits of being stoned in the city.
You know, after living in New York for a while, you get kind of tired of it. Well, I did. I became desensitized to the diversity and vibrancy of this city because I fell into a routine of going to school, going to work, always going somewhere or staying and vegging out. But when I go anywhere else, like Poughkeepsie, I realize just how shitty everywhere else is compared to NYC, Manhattan especially. New Yorkers don't live in the real world. We live in left-wing, blow job giving, coke-snorting paradise that very few people have experienced. It's just not that exciting when you live it everyday. Thats why I get high. I appreciate things more, put things into perspective and gain focus often lost in the daily grind of life. And I get a nice little buzz to take me through the day.
But I was walking on the street when I saw this GORGEOUS guy walking towards me. I glanced at him, and yay saw it was good, then I did one of those lurid scans, from sole to scalp. And I got a little wet downstairs. As I walked by him, he caught me staring at him and--normally this would devolve into some unfinished homoerotic fantasy I was so fond of writing in high school...and now--cocked his head to the side and gave me a weird smile. Then it looked as if he said something, but my headphones were blasting ABBA so I missed it. I'm not sure what it was all about, but my heart kind of skipped a beat a bit. I thought that maybe he was straight and just really cocky, as if daring me to gaze or some shit, but then I remember how he was dressed. Very 'mo, but in this day and age, who knows anymore?
Not the sultriest of stories, I know, but I'm 20, single and a virgin. I'll take whatever I can get. However, it's moments like these that boost my confidence to one day, maybe even kiss a boy. WHOA! Head rush. Baby steps, Cheki, Baby steps.
I've always been that heavy kid with glasses and occaionally nappy hair, and to an extent I still am. However, I just recently shaved my head and now I've been noticing a lot more attention being paid to little old me. I'm getting a bit flustered, perchaps it's the vapors, the VAPORS!! The vapors? But I'm not sure how to tell what's going on? Are hot and mildly attractive guys looking at me because there's something on my face that I didn't catch before leaving the safety of the indoors? I mean, I could understand a couple of days of that happening, but there's a consistency I've been experiencing. For instance, take ten minutes ago. If you can remember that far back, what with the war going on and all.(Perhaps a little too Woody Allen?)
I was walking down the street back to work, and I was blazed like chestnuts on that proverbial open hearth fire, when I saw this, for lack of a more emphatic adjective, GORGEOUS guy coming from the opposite direction. Normally, I'd just try to catch a few passing glimpses without arising suspect from him. But at the time, and in my condition, I was staring at everything, one of the benefits of being stoned in the city.
You know, after living in New York for a while, you get kind of tired of it. Well, I did. I became desensitized to the diversity and vibrancy of this city because I fell into a routine of going to school, going to work, always going somewhere or staying and vegging out. But when I go anywhere else, like Poughkeepsie, I realize just how shitty everywhere else is compared to NYC, Manhattan especially. New Yorkers don't live in the real world. We live in left-wing, blow job giving, coke-snorting paradise that very few people have experienced. It's just not that exciting when you live it everyday. Thats why I get high. I appreciate things more, put things into perspective and gain focus often lost in the daily grind of life. And I get a nice little buzz to take me through the day.
But I was walking on the street when I saw this GORGEOUS guy walking towards me. I glanced at him, and yay saw it was good, then I did one of those lurid scans, from sole to scalp. And I got a little wet downstairs. As I walked by him, he caught me staring at him and--normally this would devolve into some unfinished homoerotic fantasy I was so fond of writing in high school...and now--cocked his head to the side and gave me a weird smile. Then it looked as if he said something, but my headphones were blasting ABBA so I missed it. I'm not sure what it was all about, but my heart kind of skipped a beat a bit. I thought that maybe he was straight and just really cocky, as if daring me to gaze or some shit, but then I remember how he was dressed. Very 'mo, but in this day and age, who knows anymore?
Not the sultriest of stories, I know, but I'm 20, single and a virgin. I'll take whatever I can get. However, it's moments like these that boost my confidence to one day, maybe even kiss a boy. WHOA! Head rush. Baby steps, Cheki, Baby steps.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Scene 1
Franky (on phone): Hmm, hi. I, uh, recently saw a, an, uh, ad, for a study. Paying 100 bucks, dollars, and I was wondering if--well, the ad said nonsmokers, and I was wondering what that entails....mmhmm, tobacco and marijuana...how about crack?....hello?
Kindness
I'm SOOOOOOO HIIIIIGH, you guys!
Well, I was. Now, I'm just sort of floating...floating...taste the grainbow.
Well, I was. Now, I'm just sort of floating...floating...taste the grainbow.
Acrimony
Do you ever feel like just putting a gun to a hobo's face just to see him shake in his toeless shoes? Just to have that feeling of power over someone, all the while knowing that no matter what, you're not him? When life deals you a bad hand, it's best to look at the homeless--not in the eyes because that's how they get ya--to get through the rest of the day. Those gnarled, wrinkled, toothless faces would give anyone a sense of accomplishment, no matter what might have transgressed earlier. But then there are those hobos that don't really give a shit and would gladly be put out of their misery. Stick a gun to their face and they might just pull the trigger. Or, if they're really badass, they'd just grab that gun from your manicured fingers and rob you of all your possessions. That is what I aspire to.
I had to sit through 35 minutes of telephone prompts and elevator music as I tried to get through to a real and actual Indian today. East Indian, as opposed to the raped and pillaged version. When they decided that speaking to a computer was a time saver, I do not know, but by the fifth time I yelled "Yes!" into the receiver only to be rebuffed by an automated "I'm sorry could you repeat that?" I was ready to choke myself with the phone cord. A pleasant enough death, I suppose, if unglamorous. I prefer to go out with fireworks and streamers, something that says, "DEATH! Starring ME!!" Needless, to say, by the end of that lost half an hour of my life, I was in rather poor spirts, only to be compounded by the revelation that something I was expecting was not to be expected any longer.
I was supposed to work not this Saturday, but next, proctoring an exam. I was excited for the fact, not because I'd be sitting in a room full of residents for 8 hours as they took an in-service exam, but rather for the fact that I'd be getting an extra 8 hours of work in my paycheck and free food. And free food is my middle name. I had t changed legally in '97. More importantly though, I was looking forward to seeing one of the doctors scheduled to take the exam that day. We had had minor conversation for the first time last week and I do believe I caught him staring at me one day. Big mistake on his part. The second a guy shows any remote interest in me is the moment he gets a new stalker. I'm not saying I'm desperate for attention or anything, but this virginity's not fucking itself away, if you catch ma drift. And he's a young, hot doctor. Not only is he out of my league, but I'm pretty sure we're not in the same species. But I was hoping to take this opportunity on not this Saturday, but the next to get some valuable face time with this guy and now...:-(
Oh, well. Nothing probably would have come from it anyway. It never does. I'm the dating equivalent of an infant. I'm all smiles and odd stares only to soil myself as soon as the object of my affection so much as looks at me. At this point in my life, I kind of just want to get it over with. Just put runway lights leading up to my crotch. Is that subtle enough. Or maybe I could become a street hustler. I just saw "Mysterious Skin" with my new future ex-boyfriend, Joey Gordon Levitt. There's something very intriguing about throwing your body to the wind and not caring about the consequences. I can see myself now, bedecked in gold lame booty shorts and nothing else, skulking my way across Chelsea, getting picked up by fat, hairy johns who know how to treat a dirty slut right.
But I'd never do it. If only because I need to feel in control. That life would spiral crazily, leading to me being addicted to meth, killing one of my customers and ending up in prison to be the butt boy for every Tom and hairy Dick in the joint. Perhaps not too bad a life--maybe I could even get married to someone with the colorful nickname "Ass Ravager." Then I'd be just like those badass hobos, not giving a shit, always ready to pull the trigger. No matter how horrible my day is, at least I'd be someone's bitch. And no one could ever take that away from me and my Ass Ravager Bill. But til the day I slip on the cootchie shorts and slip off my dignity, I guess I'll have to find new ways to cope with the general shittiness of life. In the distance, I can hear the faint bubble of a bong rip and I know that everything will somehow, someway be okay.
I had to sit through 35 minutes of telephone prompts and elevator music as I tried to get through to a real and actual Indian today. East Indian, as opposed to the raped and pillaged version. When they decided that speaking to a computer was a time saver, I do not know, but by the fifth time I yelled "Yes!" into the receiver only to be rebuffed by an automated "I'm sorry could you repeat that?" I was ready to choke myself with the phone cord. A pleasant enough death, I suppose, if unglamorous. I prefer to go out with fireworks and streamers, something that says, "DEATH! Starring ME!!" Needless, to say, by the end of that lost half an hour of my life, I was in rather poor spirts, only to be compounded by the revelation that something I was expecting was not to be expected any longer.
I was supposed to work not this Saturday, but next, proctoring an exam. I was excited for the fact, not because I'd be sitting in a room full of residents for 8 hours as they took an in-service exam, but rather for the fact that I'd be getting an extra 8 hours of work in my paycheck and free food. And free food is my middle name. I had t changed legally in '97. More importantly though, I was looking forward to seeing one of the doctors scheduled to take the exam that day. We had had minor conversation for the first time last week and I do believe I caught him staring at me one day. Big mistake on his part. The second a guy shows any remote interest in me is the moment he gets a new stalker. I'm not saying I'm desperate for attention or anything, but this virginity's not fucking itself away, if you catch ma drift. And he's a young, hot doctor. Not only is he out of my league, but I'm pretty sure we're not in the same species. But I was hoping to take this opportunity on not this Saturday, but the next to get some valuable face time with this guy and now...:-(
Oh, well. Nothing probably would have come from it anyway. It never does. I'm the dating equivalent of an infant. I'm all smiles and odd stares only to soil myself as soon as the object of my affection so much as looks at me. At this point in my life, I kind of just want to get it over with. Just put runway lights leading up to my crotch. Is that subtle enough. Or maybe I could become a street hustler. I just saw "Mysterious Skin" with my new future ex-boyfriend, Joey Gordon Levitt. There's something very intriguing about throwing your body to the wind and not caring about the consequences. I can see myself now, bedecked in gold lame booty shorts and nothing else, skulking my way across Chelsea, getting picked up by fat, hairy johns who know how to treat a dirty slut right.
But I'd never do it. If only because I need to feel in control. That life would spiral crazily, leading to me being addicted to meth, killing one of my customers and ending up in prison to be the butt boy for every Tom and hairy Dick in the joint. Perhaps not too bad a life--maybe I could even get married to someone with the colorful nickname "Ass Ravager." Then I'd be just like those badass hobos, not giving a shit, always ready to pull the trigger. No matter how horrible my day is, at least I'd be someone's bitch. And no one could ever take that away from me and my Ass Ravager Bill. But til the day I slip on the cootchie shorts and slip off my dignity, I guess I'll have to find new ways to cope with the general shittiness of life. In the distance, I can hear the faint bubble of a bong rip and I know that everything will somehow, someway be okay.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Don't Call It A Cumback, I've Been Queer For Years
Please pardon the pun, but I thought I'd add a little hot sauce to this posting. It's been a while since I've updated, but the mob really does have ways to get their money and believe me when I say they're a tad bit inhumane. Once my ball hair grows back, I'll be, well, right as rain kids. Though for now, Momma's enjoying the breeze, even though my pleasure has been halved, but I don't really like to hold a grudge.
Anywho, a lot of shit's happened in the world, people dying, high ranking politicians shooting the geriatric, fading popstars riding ass to clit with their ungodly spawn et cetera, schmetcera. But it all means one and one thing alone: 2006 is the beginning of the end. That's right, kids, stuff your head in between your legs and take in your last whiff of life because we're all going to hell in a Chinatown Chanel clutch knockoff. I mean, just look at the damn stitching. Happy New Year!!
But really, though, this is me loving you.
Anywho, a lot of shit's happened in the world, people dying, high ranking politicians shooting the geriatric, fading popstars riding ass to clit with their ungodly spawn et cetera, schmetcera. But it all means one and one thing alone: 2006 is the beginning of the end. That's right, kids, stuff your head in between your legs and take in your last whiff of life because we're all going to hell in a Chinatown Chanel clutch knockoff. I mean, just look at the damn stitching. Happy New Year!!
But really, though, this is me loving you.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Don't Hate the Playa, Hate the Game!!!
And that game is Hands Up in 2006!
Hands up in 2006!
Gonna spell
The names of
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
Soylent green is PEOPLE!!!!!!!
But seriously, I've finally come up with the perfect pick up line:
"Ok, here's my propositon. I'm alone and awesome. As far as I can tell, you're also alone and awesome. Why not let's get together and be so fucking awesome the entire world has to sheild its eyes a bit?"
I can hear the manties droppiong already.
Hands up in 2006!
Gonna spell
The names of
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
PEOPLE!!!!!!!
Soylent green is PEOPLE!!!!!!!
But seriously, I've finally come up with the perfect pick up line:
"Ok, here's my propositon. I'm alone and awesome. As far as I can tell, you're also alone and awesome. Why not let's get together and be so fucking awesome the entire world has to sheild its eyes a bit?"
I can hear the manties droppiong already.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Like A Diva From the Ashes of Her Coked Out Nostrils...
Still I rise.
So, my roommates are fucking assholes and i just feel the need to write about it and get it out of my system. This catharsis will inevitably be completed by smoking a spliff and donning a mink stole to perform a fancy jig in the streets.
Then everything will be better once again.
And now that I'm finally out of that unimaginative hell, I can pursue my real dream: to start the first lesbian softball team the world has ever known. Some may call me foolish, i say I'm a visionary. Some may have laughed, but they can stick a snausage in their guffaws, because this guy's got plans!
I can hear Ethel Merman cackling "Everyting's Coming Up Roses" already.
So, my roommates are fucking assholes and i just feel the need to write about it and get it out of my system. This catharsis will inevitably be completed by smoking a spliff and donning a mink stole to perform a fancy jig in the streets.
Then everything will be better once again.
And now that I'm finally out of that unimaginative hell, I can pursue my real dream: to start the first lesbian softball team the world has ever known. Some may call me foolish, i say I'm a visionary. Some may have laughed, but they can stick a snausage in their guffaws, because this guy's got plans!
I can hear Ethel Merman cackling "Everyting's Coming Up Roses" already.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!
Well it's been eight months, so you know what that means! It's time for me to find a new apartment!
Or, my roommates are moving out and I need to find a place to stay by February 1st. Something like that, I really wasn't listening.
I've already begun the search for a new room to live out the rest of my pitiful, weeded-out days. In fact, you caught me running in from Queens, where I saw a nice little corner in the world, as hosted by a rather attractive homosexual male ballet dancer. I say it as if any other kind exists. You must pardon this sudden slip into formality, but you see, I am continuing my trek through the literary jungle and have headed to BEAUTIFUL Paris, between the great wars, travelling along with the roguishly handsome Sir Ernest Hemingway. We've had quite a row or two since our time began, this morning on the F train to 4 Avenue. He, the sporting type, always ready for a drink and usually already nearing the finish of one ensconced in his bear hands. I, on the other paw (pardon the pun) am no drinker, not how I used to be. Once I could drink any lady under the table, now the liver needs time. Time for what, I am not sure, but I hope to return to my college weight class sometime in the future.
Wait, what was I saying?
Oh, yeah, I went to see this apartment in Queens with this cute-ish but hot gay ballet dancer. I don't know if I'll get it, but I do think there was some unspoken and unthought sexual tension between us. I hope I at least get an offer for rough, wet sex if I don't end up getting the room. Or even if I do, I'm easy.
I hate doing this, though. The entire process of finding an apartment, like finding a job, is dull, awkward and ultimately, pointless. And also like finding a job, this is done through craigslist. Thank god for craigslist! I've always wanted a one-stop shop for housing, occupations and paid sexual favors, though I swear it's my first time. And if you look hard enough, you can find all three in one convenient spot. Usually in the mustache of some pervy 49-year old husband and father in Jersey or his gay brother in Chelsea. Take for instance, this charming advert I found today:
$550 - 1MEDIUM SIZE BEDROOM AVAIL.2WINDOWS.UTILITIES INCLUDED
Reply to: hous-121156872@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-12-29, 1:20AM EST
IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.
I'AM A 30YO STRAIGHT MALE,IN A 2BEDROOM APARTMENT.SEPERATE BEDROOMS.I'AM IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.1 MEDIUM SIZE ROOM FOR RENT.UTILITIES ARE INCLUDED,SHARED KITCHEN,LIVING ROOM,& BATHROOM.BEAUTIFUL VIEW OF THE CITY.
I'AM LOOKING FOR AN ATTRACTIVE FEMALE WHO IS IN GOOD SHAPE,& NICE BODY.ROOMMATE ONLY TO SHARE WITH ADDED SEX INCLUDED.RENT CAN BE NEGOTIABLE TO A LOWER PRICE WITH ADDED SEX.PLEASE CALL FOR AN INTERVIEW AT (212)240-9?70 ASK FOR MIKE,OR EMAIL ME AT SUGARDADDY4U0077@AOL.COM.YOU CAN TAKE M15 BUS,OR TAKE 4/5/,OR 6TRAINS.TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE CITY HALL.OR A/C/E TRAINS TO FULTON.ROOM IS AVAILABLE ASAP.
SOUTH ST at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL google map yahoo map SOUTH STREET at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL
I love how he tries to sneak the sex in there, just tip it in at the last second. Nimbly. I mean, it sounded a bit suspicious at the start, what with the females only thing. He segues seemlessly, though, describing what sounds like a sweetass apartment that really doesn't exist anywhere in New York. Then there's the second paragraph, with all the qualitities he's looking for in a potential roommate. Now you start to think, there's at least some anal involved in this. The he reveals the magic word, then drops it in a seocnd time just to let you know that you're going to be fucking his fat, greasy Italian sausage. Yes I said Italian. He even has the nerve to set up appointments. Take note, kids. This is the type of hubris and spirit that's missing in our generation. We won't learn this behavior until we are far too old and unattractive to make this less creepy. And just check out that email address. One word: class.
Hopefully by this time next month I'll be living indoors, scrubbing the floor to my papi chulo's kitchen in a pair of cut-offs, fishnets and a smile.
Wish me luck!
Or, my roommates are moving out and I need to find a place to stay by February 1st. Something like that, I really wasn't listening.
I've already begun the search for a new room to live out the rest of my pitiful, weeded-out days. In fact, you caught me running in from Queens, where I saw a nice little corner in the world, as hosted by a rather attractive homosexual male ballet dancer. I say it as if any other kind exists. You must pardon this sudden slip into formality, but you see, I am continuing my trek through the literary jungle and have headed to BEAUTIFUL Paris, between the great wars, travelling along with the roguishly handsome Sir Ernest Hemingway. We've had quite a row or two since our time began, this morning on the F train to 4 Avenue. He, the sporting type, always ready for a drink and usually already nearing the finish of one ensconced in his bear hands. I, on the other paw (pardon the pun) am no drinker, not how I used to be. Once I could drink any lady under the table, now the liver needs time. Time for what, I am not sure, but I hope to return to my college weight class sometime in the future.
Wait, what was I saying?
Oh, yeah, I went to see this apartment in Queens with this cute-ish but hot gay ballet dancer. I don't know if I'll get it, but I do think there was some unspoken and unthought sexual tension between us. I hope I at least get an offer for rough, wet sex if I don't end up getting the room. Or even if I do, I'm easy.
I hate doing this, though. The entire process of finding an apartment, like finding a job, is dull, awkward and ultimately, pointless. And also like finding a job, this is done through craigslist. Thank god for craigslist! I've always wanted a one-stop shop for housing, occupations and paid sexual favors, though I swear it's my first time. And if you look hard enough, you can find all three in one convenient spot. Usually in the mustache of some pervy 49-year old husband and father in Jersey or his gay brother in Chelsea. Take for instance, this charming advert I found today:
$550 - 1MEDIUM SIZE BEDROOM AVAIL.2WINDOWS.UTILITIES INCLUDED
Reply to: hous-121156872@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-12-29, 1:20AM EST
IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.
I'AM A 30YO STRAIGHT MALE,IN A 2BEDROOM APARTMENT.SEPERATE BEDROOMS.I'AM IN SEARCH OF A FEMALE ROOMMATE ONLY.1 MEDIUM SIZE ROOM FOR RENT.UTILITIES ARE INCLUDED,SHARED KITCHEN,LIVING ROOM,& BATHROOM.BEAUTIFUL VIEW OF THE CITY.
I'AM LOOKING FOR AN ATTRACTIVE FEMALE WHO IS IN GOOD SHAPE,& NICE BODY.ROOMMATE ONLY TO SHARE WITH ADDED SEX INCLUDED.RENT CAN BE NEGOTIABLE TO A LOWER PRICE WITH ADDED SEX.PLEASE CALL FOR AN INTERVIEW AT (212)240-9?70 ASK FOR MIKE,OR EMAIL ME AT SUGARDADDY4U0077@AOL.COM.YOU CAN TAKE M15 BUS,OR TAKE 4/5/,OR 6TRAINS.TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE CITY HALL.OR A/C/E TRAINS TO FULTON.ROOM IS AVAILABLE ASAP.
SOUTH ST at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL google map yahoo map SOUTH STREET at SOUTH ST,AND PEARL
I love how he tries to sneak the sex in there, just tip it in at the last second. Nimbly. I mean, it sounded a bit suspicious at the start, what with the females only thing. He segues seemlessly, though, describing what sounds like a sweetass apartment that really doesn't exist anywhere in New York. Then there's the second paragraph, with all the qualitities he's looking for in a potential roommate. Now you start to think, there's at least some anal involved in this. The he reveals the magic word, then drops it in a seocnd time just to let you know that you're going to be fucking his fat, greasy Italian sausage. Yes I said Italian. He even has the nerve to set up appointments. Take note, kids. This is the type of hubris and spirit that's missing in our generation. We won't learn this behavior until we are far too old and unattractive to make this less creepy. And just check out that email address. One word: class.
Hopefully by this time next month I'll be living indoors, scrubbing the floor to my papi chulo's kitchen in a pair of cut-offs, fishnets and a smile.
Wish me luck!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Flirting With Disaster
lefabrat
AIM
8:52
i'm going to see an apt tomorrow in queens
8:52 PM
and the guy's a gay 26 yo ballet dancer
8:52 PM
i'm hoping to at least have sex with him
Boseivous802
AIM
8:52 PM
oh well that will be an eyeful
8:54 PM
be up front and say, i am horny
8:55 PM
http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2257/670/1600/article.jpg
lefabrat
AIM
8:55 PM
i think i'll just go there naked under a trench wishing for the best
8:55 PM
omg, lol
Boseivous802
AIM
8:56 PM
i'd suggest the trench
lefabrat
AIM
8:57 PM
and i'm going to see an apt in north bergen and the gay there even smokes pot
8:57 PM
and really that's all i need in a man
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
is that new jersey?
lefabrat
AIM
8:58 PM
oh god, no
8:58 PM
brooklyn
8:58 PM
i hope it's brooklyn
8:58 PM
omg, is it in new jersey?!
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
i have no idea, it sounds like new jersey
8:59 PM
don't ask me i'm probably wrong
lefabrat
AIM
8:59 PM
o
8:59 PM
m
8:59 PM
g
8:59 PM
it's in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:00 PM
cancel that appointment
lefabrat
AIM
9:00 PM
i'm going to have to
9:00 PM
omg
9:00 PM
i almost went to/ considered living and making out in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:01 PM
i know, just breathe
9:01 PM
you are NOT bridge/tunnel
lefabrat
AIM
9:01 PM
omg, i don't even know what to SAY to that
9:01 PM
i was just thinking how staten island was a trip one only made in the most desperate of emergencies
9:02 PM
i mean NO ONE does the ferry
Boseivous802
AIM
9:02 PM
oh lord, not EVEN
lefabrat
AIM
9:02 PM
well, people do, tons of people, but i'm just way too snobby and gay to go to Shaolin
9:02 PM
but to think of living in Jersey...
9:02 PM
ugh, i dry-heaved a little bit
9:03 PM
where's that blunt?
Boseivous802
AIM
9:03 PM
just suck it down
9:03 PM
the fact you didnt even know it was new jersey proves you werent serious
lefabrat
AIM
9:03 PM
yes!
9:03 PM
yes it does
9:04 PM
and no one can say that it doesn't mean anything cuz it does, ok?!
Boseivous802
AIM
9:05 PM
just sing new york, new york
lefabrat
AIM
9:05 PM
good idea
9:06 PM
and i'll dawn a sequined pantsuit and down 3 'ludes just to be safe
AIM
8:52
i'm going to see an apt tomorrow in queens
8:52 PM
and the guy's a gay 26 yo ballet dancer
8:52 PM
i'm hoping to at least have sex with him
Boseivous802
AIM
8:52 PM
oh well that will be an eyeful
8:54 PM
be up front and say, i am horny
8:55 PM
http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2257/670/1600/article.jpg
lefabrat
AIM
8:55 PM
i think i'll just go there naked under a trench wishing for the best
8:55 PM
omg, lol
Boseivous802
AIM
8:56 PM
i'd suggest the trench
lefabrat
AIM
8:57 PM
and i'm going to see an apt in north bergen and the gay there even smokes pot
8:57 PM
and really that's all i need in a man
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
is that new jersey?
lefabrat
AIM
8:58 PM
oh god, no
8:58 PM
brooklyn
8:58 PM
i hope it's brooklyn
8:58 PM
omg, is it in new jersey?!
Boseivous802
AIM
8:58 PM
i have no idea, it sounds like new jersey
8:59 PM
don't ask me i'm probably wrong
lefabrat
AIM
8:59 PM
o
8:59 PM
m
8:59 PM
g
8:59 PM
it's in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:00 PM
cancel that appointment
lefabrat
AIM
9:00 PM
i'm going to have to
9:00 PM
omg
9:00 PM
i almost went to/ considered living and making out in jersey
Boseivous802
AIM
9:01 PM
i know, just breathe
9:01 PM
you are NOT bridge/tunnel
lefabrat
AIM
9:01 PM
omg, i don't even know what to SAY to that
9:01 PM
i was just thinking how staten island was a trip one only made in the most desperate of emergencies
9:02 PM
i mean NO ONE does the ferry
Boseivous802
AIM
9:02 PM
oh lord, not EVEN
lefabrat
AIM
9:02 PM
well, people do, tons of people, but i'm just way too snobby and gay to go to Shaolin
9:02 PM
but to think of living in Jersey...
9:02 PM
ugh, i dry-heaved a little bit
9:03 PM
where's that blunt?
Boseivous802
AIM
9:03 PM
just suck it down
9:03 PM
the fact you didnt even know it was new jersey proves you werent serious
lefabrat
AIM
9:03 PM
yes!
9:03 PM
yes it does
9:04 PM
and no one can say that it doesn't mean anything cuz it does, ok?!
Boseivous802
AIM
9:05 PM
just sing new york, new york
lefabrat
AIM
9:05 PM
good idea
9:06 PM
and i'll dawn a sequined pantsuit and down 3 'ludes just to be safe
So...I Don't Know How To Say This, But...I'm Reading Again.
Just thought I should let someone know.
Just in case I disappear in the enthralling passages of Augusten Burrough's "Running with Scissors."
Or if I'm touched inappopriately by his heartbreakingly comic pathos and I need an adult.
Then, there's always the possibility that I fall down the well of his love for irony only to be rescued three days later, amidst a flurry of television news cameras.
So, I leave my life in your sweaty, hairy palms.
I hope you have my back on this harrowing literary adventure.
Just in case I disappear in the enthralling passages of Augusten Burrough's "Running with Scissors."
Or if I'm touched inappopriately by his heartbreakingly comic pathos and I need an adult.
Then, there's always the possibility that I fall down the well of his love for irony only to be rescued three days later, amidst a flurry of television news cameras.
So, I leave my life in your sweaty, hairy palms.
I hope you have my back on this harrowing literary adventure.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
The Destitute Say The Darndest Things
So my new favorite site for the next 3 hours is Overheard in New York. Too bad I never overhear anything in New York because I always have my headphones on. I might change my ways though, as I am missing out on some prime hobo gold.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Why, Yes I Did Just Jack Off At Work, Does It Show?
There's a certain glow from it, no? I liken it to emerging from a fresh bubble bath.
The sad thing is I'm proud of it. Sad and awesome.
The sad thing is I'm proud of it. Sad and awesome.
Damn This STRIKE!!
You know, I really don't mind this strike. Sleeping over at my friend's dorm has been pretty fun and walking the 57 blocks to work isn't as soul-crushing as I had anticipated/hoped. However, I feel as if I am going to die. After all, a gal's got needs. Needs that involve me touching myself incessantly, day by day, hour by hour, if not minute by minute. As a 20 year old gay virgin, masturbation is one of the few things that keep me sane. The others being weed, daily Golden Girls marathons and that sweet smell of muffin and danish on my way to work from the countless carts and vendors linging the 3 miles to the good ole grind. Thus I haven't been able to explore the rugged terrain that is the equator of the globe that is my lusicous jackson body.
I don't know how much longer I can hold out, kids, before I just start jacking off every guy who even dares look within 35 degrees of my direction. This must not persist.
I don't know how much longer I can hold out, kids, before I just start jacking off every guy who even dares look within 35 degrees of my direction. This must not persist.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
I Did It!
Well, Kids, I made it. I traversed the icy landscape of Post-Apocalyptic Manhattan, the reefer swimming through my veins and my iPod shuffle ringing in my ears. I could not be stopped. For a near 3 mile walk, it was rather brisk. I felt not only in good cheer as I sashayed with the occasional shauntay to the Upper Eastside, but a certain sense of power as I whizzed by the elderly and infirm as they crawled along these freezing streets. Stepping over the body of a partially frozen bag granny, my pulse jumped with excitement and I'm pretty sure I got a chubby downstairs. MTA strikes are FUN!!!
And this will never ever get old!
Sure, the walk to Brooklyn from Palladium, where I'm currently staying (for all you sexy/marginally attractive stalkers out there) is a 6.5 mile trek that Hopstop predicts will take around 3 hours, this hunting and gathering, Darwinian existence can never grow tired. Even if it will be 23 degrees tonight. Even if I have to walk 11 miles to work in the morning...Hmm, this isn't sounding...eh, well. Guess I'll just have to carjack a nigga and outrun the cops. Thank god Grand Theft Auto has prepared me for just this moment.
So until next time, remember, travel only at night and trust no one who offers you a ride. Especially no one with a thin mustache and a preternaturally high voice.
Death to Metropolis, long live the Jew Flesh!
And this will never ever get old!
Sure, the walk to Brooklyn from Palladium, where I'm currently staying (for all you sexy/marginally attractive stalkers out there) is a 6.5 mile trek that Hopstop predicts will take around 3 hours, this hunting and gathering, Darwinian existence can never grow tired. Even if it will be 23 degrees tonight. Even if I have to walk 11 miles to work in the morning...Hmm, this isn't sounding...eh, well. Guess I'll just have to carjack a nigga and outrun the cops. Thank god Grand Theft Auto has prepared me for just this moment.
So until next time, remember, travel only at night and trust no one who offers you a ride. Especially no one with a thin mustache and a preternaturally high voice.
Death to Metropolis, long live the Jew Flesh!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Here We Go, Kids
Well, it's December 19. By 12:01 tonight, the TWU and the MTA will either come to an agreement or to fist to cuffs. And can I just say that I REALLY hope that the TWU doesn't strike because that will seriously mess up my life. As well as the lives of millions of other people. But mostly mine. So here's what I'm doing to prepare (take notes, Kids, this could save your/Amanda Lepore's life):
1. Stock up: As your average dealer travels by train/bus/the power of Ja, I suggest you pile up and hunker down with as fat a stash as you can acquire. Go in with friends to save money and you can always kill them and smoke their share if New York goes all "Oregon Trail" on our asses.
2. If you a.)live in Brooklyn, as I do, and b.)have to travel extra-burrough to get to work and c.)absolutely can't miss work, as I can't, then I suggest staying with a friend. Thankfully, most of my friends are still subsisting on NYU's bloody teet and I can crash on their crouch and hoof it to work in the morning. Since I've passed out countless times on that couch, and even draped it in my drunk girl vomit, it's like a second home. If you feel uncomfortable, though, it's probably best to pack an overnight bag with toiletries and various sexual toys because masturbation stops for no man.
3. Once you've secured your drugs and your lodgings, in whichever order you prefer, it's time to get sexy with it. We don't know how long this strike is going to last or if it's going to happen at all, but that just means you have to prepare for everything. After four days and we're all wearing the same stank clothes we had on at the beginning of the week, spirits are running low, as are the booze you vacuum-packed for such an occasion, the end might look rather enticing. But no, Sir, do not go gently into that good night. You can get through this. WE can get through this. We're better than the MTA and the TWU, dammit. We can rise above this. Sure, it's almost Christmas/Chanukkah/New Years and everyone travels, but you can't give up hope. There are such things as miracles. Miracles that involve you hopping on the back of the nearest hobo, breaking and branding him, then riding him all the way to California. They'll even name a Midwest Passage after you.
K, here we go, Kids. Snuggle up close to the bong and let's all tell camp tales to pass the time. We'll be out of the woods soon enough.
1. Stock up: As your average dealer travels by train/bus/the power of Ja, I suggest you pile up and hunker down with as fat a stash as you can acquire. Go in with friends to save money and you can always kill them and smoke their share if New York goes all "Oregon Trail" on our asses.
2. If you a.)live in Brooklyn, as I do, and b.)have to travel extra-burrough to get to work and c.)absolutely can't miss work, as I can't, then I suggest staying with a friend. Thankfully, most of my friends are still subsisting on NYU's bloody teet and I can crash on their crouch and hoof it to work in the morning. Since I've passed out countless times on that couch, and even draped it in my drunk girl vomit, it's like a second home. If you feel uncomfortable, though, it's probably best to pack an overnight bag with toiletries and various sexual toys because masturbation stops for no man.
3. Once you've secured your drugs and your lodgings, in whichever order you prefer, it's time to get sexy with it. We don't know how long this strike is going to last or if it's going to happen at all, but that just means you have to prepare for everything. After four days and we're all wearing the same stank clothes we had on at the beginning of the week, spirits are running low, as are the booze you vacuum-packed for such an occasion, the end might look rather enticing. But no, Sir, do not go gently into that good night. You can get through this. WE can get through this. We're better than the MTA and the TWU, dammit. We can rise above this. Sure, it's almost Christmas/Chanukkah/New Years and everyone travels, but you can't give up hope. There are such things as miracles. Miracles that involve you hopping on the back of the nearest hobo, breaking and branding him, then riding him all the way to California. They'll even name a Midwest Passage after you.
K, here we go, Kids. Snuggle up close to the bong and let's all tell camp tales to pass the time. We'll be out of the woods soon enough.
Enough Gay Sex To Braid A Tunisian Bride's Pubic Hair
So this weekend, I finally saw "Brokeback Mountain." And I must say that I was initially unimpressed. Yes it was a beautifully written, acted and directed film, but there wasn't enough sweaty man-squared action for me. Honestly, there's never enough gay sex for me in anything, ever, particularly in my own personal film, "Bitter, Repressed Gays Crying Into Their Own Ejaculate."
There's only one scene of gay sex, and it is hot, but I left the film surprisingly limp. In hindsight, I think the problem was not the lack of sex, but rather the lack of impact the film had on me. It was such a quiet, introspective movie that I kind of waited for that one scene in which everything explodes, implodes or self-destructs. This isn't that kind of film, though, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. It's a piece of subtlety and brilliance amidst a world of "Stealth" and "Kong." So there wasn't an orgy of anulingus,* but that's what the second feature of the weekend was for.
"Gay Sex In The 70s." There really is no better title to guarantee my presence in the theater, other than perhaps "Gay Pot Liza 54 In The 80s Featuring Free Hand Jobs and Snacks." Usually, I skip documentaries, because if I wanted to listen to some half-crazed drunk lecture me for two hours, I would have dated Sean Penn. But this was pretty well done. However, my judgment was automatically impaired by the rush of blood to my pants, but as I remember it, this was clearly the best movie in the history of the universe. After leaving Quad Cinema, I was inspired to find a mustachioed paramour in the wet,hot sticky dungeons of Christopher Street and re-enact one of the many scenes of naked, Disco love. Sweet, pulsing Disco love. But by the time the cold air hit me, any hopes of rectum abuse shriveled in the wind.
Film-wise, this weekend was much like a good date. I had the soft, longing of romance with "Brokeback" on Saturday followed by the staff infection of fulfilled longing with "Gay Sex" on Sunday. Only, this time I won't be in a hurry to get rid of this burning sensation.
Hmm, take that Gene Shalit.
Yeah, right there.
Mmm, that's how I like it.
A tower of eyefuls indeed.
*I'm pretty sure that's [not] a word.
There's only one scene of gay sex, and it is hot, but I left the film surprisingly limp. In hindsight, I think the problem was not the lack of sex, but rather the lack of impact the film had on me. It was such a quiet, introspective movie that I kind of waited for that one scene in which everything explodes, implodes or self-destructs. This isn't that kind of film, though, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. It's a piece of subtlety and brilliance amidst a world of "Stealth" and "Kong." So there wasn't an orgy of anulingus,* but that's what the second feature of the weekend was for.
"Gay Sex In The 70s." There really is no better title to guarantee my presence in the theater, other than perhaps "Gay Pot Liza 54 In The 80s Featuring Free Hand Jobs and Snacks." Usually, I skip documentaries, because if I wanted to listen to some half-crazed drunk lecture me for two hours, I would have dated Sean Penn. But this was pretty well done. However, my judgment was automatically impaired by the rush of blood to my pants, but as I remember it, this was clearly the best movie in the history of the universe. After leaving Quad Cinema, I was inspired to find a mustachioed paramour in the wet,hot sticky dungeons of Christopher Street and re-enact one of the many scenes of naked, Disco love. Sweet, pulsing Disco love. But by the time the cold air hit me, any hopes of rectum abuse shriveled in the wind.
Film-wise, this weekend was much like a good date. I had the soft, longing of romance with "Brokeback" on Saturday followed by the staff infection of fulfilled longing with "Gay Sex" on Sunday. Only, this time I won't be in a hurry to get rid of this burning sensation.
Hmm, take that Gene Shalit.
Yeah, right there.
Mmm, that's how I like it.
A tower of eyefuls indeed.
*I'm pretty sure that's [not] a word.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)