I dance like a stripper.
Perhaps that’s why everyboidy tends to look more than touch. It’s okay gentleman, I’m only a patron of these clubs. I want your dick, not your dollars.
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Ain’t (tat)too bad I didn’t do that.
Back in college, I had the bongrilliant idea to ink the title of the 1940s jazz standard, “I got it bad and that ain’t good,” on my inner thigh.
Then I woke up – amongst a fall out of cheese puff powder – and recognized the slew of incurable STDs that particular strain of lyrics might imply. Thankfully so, because no matter how good a(n un)certain number of Los Angelenos can attest me to be, there ain’t many anywhere who would still want it bad after unveiling such a flagrant forewarner. At least not without proof of recently and officially documented sexual health.
A jungle cat it is, then. An ode to my carnal ferocity AND a nod towards my fascination with magnetic and libidinous, middle aged women. All tat jazz…
None of the eluded secretions.
Ass your age.
If your punch line falls flat because no one around is old enough to get it, the sound you should be making is WOOSH! as you head out the door.
MEN who can rent cars in all 50 states should not date boiz who can’t yet legally drink. There are 25-or-so-year-old sexual deviants with pierced tongues, too. And if anyone who was first able to vote (Kerry) when Bush ran for his second Presidential term is really too old for your licking, then stick to the malleable twinks you could find in a bar, at least.
Sheesh.
I’m not sorry, did I offend you?
It is my philosophy that when people let you in on their interpersonal drama, they are also granting you permission to offer your opinions on the situation. All those close to me subscribe to this same point of view. Practical strangers, however, don’t take as kindly to my candor.
“That’s AWFUL,” I interjected as a sparkly T-shirt wearing boi – the lover of my friend Rina’s friend, Prisstopher – finished telling us of his open relationship with another man. Another man who happened to be out on the patio of that very same bar. Another man to whom he had just introduced Prisstopher as the other man.
“Noitisn’t!” Tommy Sparkles bristled. “He’s okay with it. He’s ready to settle down and I’m not. He knows I love him, but I can’t be with just him, just yet.”
“Still – that’s got to kill,” I pounded my fist against my left pec, “him, seeing you with your other lover like that. That would kill anyone.”
T. Spark glanced away towards the jukebox, looking like he smelled something as disgusting as I thought his actions to be.
“How was that for you,” I challenged Prisstopher, “running into his boyyy – friennnd?“
“Awkward,” he scrunched up his face, sourly. More in response to my lack of boundaries than his lover’s lover’s sanctioned reprieve.
I turned to Rina, rolled my eyes, and – due to the deluge of liquor I consumed that night – ceased in being capable of recalling any more of the conversation.
The next thing I do remember is Tommy Sparkles’ greeting of, “Heeey. It’s that guy that thinks I’m awful,” when we ran into him again an hour or so later.
“I didn’t say you were awful,” I corrected him. “I said the situation is awful.”
And whether or not my $0.73 was warranted, (Betch, please. My insight is worth far more than a couple of pennies.) I’m right.
Fortunately for Sparkles, comma, T. and his actual man, they’re likely to move past this HEccup. It’s Prisstopher about whom we should be most concerned.
Having just recently come out at 24 – he’s a white male from Orange County – Tommy Sparkles is the first boi with whom Priss has ever shared a KISS – much less plans to do anything below the belt. One could argue that this freshness makes him ripe for all that commitment free activity that Sparkles has in mind; but I disagree.
Although predominantly hypersexual, gay men are still susceptible to emotional erosion. And despite his attitude – which, I admit, was somewhat called for – Prisstopher’s psyche is also hyper-delicate. There is a chance that Tommy Sparkles will do nothing more than teach him a good dick trick or two; but in casually breaking in one hole, T. Spark is almost sure to tear another in the hearts of both of his lovers.
Take my word, y’all. But just know – for once, I hope I’m wrong.
Three and a half hours in purgatory.
I am always up for a costume party. On my calendar, Halloween is just the kick off to another 365 days ripe to be themed. That extolled, it wasn’t the suggested attire, so much as the promise of a designated seven minutes in heaven room, that had me most revved up for the 1980s junior high re-enactment dance at Freak City, in Hollywood, Saturday night.
“I don’t care if there are only three other gay men here to choose from -” I proclaimed upon strutting into the venue around 11 p.m., before I’d even drank my first glass of spiked, fruit punch. “I WILL be taking someone behind that curtain to make out.”
I didn’t.
We danced until almost 2:30 a.m., and throughout that whole time I don’t remember seeing ONE other gay man in attendance.
Not. A single. One.
No definitive homosexuals, at least. I might have been able to coax a celestial minute or two out of the more libidinous and blacked out straight guys. And I’m sure I could have gotten even drunker, myself, and charmed (read: browbeaten) a female friend into giving me a few pity pecs. But we were only pretending to be back in eighth grade.
While it’s unfortunate that I wasn’t mature enough to experiment then, no one with less than equal skills of seduction or pride in their identity – not to mention a vagina – is going to get their hands beneath this authentic, 1984, Christine McVie solo tour T, now.
The mullet wig, though. Anyone’s free to run their fingers through that.
