Calling all Asians.
Some say “fetish,” I prefer “affinity.”
Regardless, I don’t expect this fever to break anytime soon.
If ever.
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Take it all, betch.
“I’m looking at pictures of you from 2006,” my friend Kirstie messaged me on Facebook chat, a couple months ago.
“Yikes!” I began to disclaim. “I was a soggy mess of baby fat and bad haircuts.”
“Well, why do you still have them up?” She seemed boggled – and to concur.
“Because if you don’t like me for how I used to look, you sure as fuck don’t deserve the hot piece of ass that I am now.”
Un – uh, boiz. Quality control. In front of my heart, amongst my most recently posted photos, stands a sentinel:
And her name is Roz, the lesbian art teacher, as my former roommate and I dubbed this photo the moment after it was captured back in the spring of 2006.
Love her – or leave me.
Musical cocks.
Closing time at a West Hollywood bar is like a game of musical cocks.
Just when you think you know whose lap you’re going to sit on – the lights go up and you’re left standing alone, outside of the circle, impatiently waiting for your friend to finish flirting and drive you home so you can make yourself a grilled cheese sandwich.
Gotta stuff at least one of your orifices with something.
Uncertainty in numbers.
“Chris,” the boi with a booty as solid and symmetrical as two eight pound bowling balls spoke into his phone, Monday morning. “He drove me.”
I peered at him curiously; pulling on my underwear and plucking my DIY ay-yi-YI-those-are-short cut offs up off of the floor of my bungalow as he wrapped up the call.
“You do know my name isn’t Chris, right?” I smirked, but the question was legitimate.
“Yes –” he paused, grinning teasingly, “JJ. He was asking about yesterday afternoon.”
“Just checking,” I laughed.
One can never be completely sure how much a new lover remembers when you solicit their pro boner services after 3 a.m. Even when the inquiry is made via Facebook chat and, thus, appears in print, below both your first and last name and profile photo.
Especially not when you’re just one of their 1,883 friends – and counting.
Wet screams.
“Are you okay?” My next-door neighbor asked as I walked outside, Friday morning.
“Uh…Yeah. What?”
“I heard you scream last night,” she explained.
“Oh Gawd,” I knew it was just a matter of time.
“I thought maybe it was a bug. Or a bad dream.”
“Probably a mix of both. I have night terrors,” I shrugged nonchalantly, having long since abandoned any need to feel embarrassed. “Usually about spiders.”
“Oh no. I’ve woken up with a spider on my face before,” she raised her eyebrows as my own features fell in response to her failed attempt at commiseration. “Uh-oh! I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Uhhh –” I grimaced exaggeratedly. “It certainly isn’t going to help. But I’m sure you would – you WILL – hear them again, regardless. Sorry!”
The real question is whether or not she’ll ever mention overhearing my other sleep disorder: night pleasures.
“‘Oh yeah! Yeah harder!” I have apparently hollered during the night. “HARDER! PUT IT IN MY ASS! Yeah!”
“I thought you had someone over,” my former roommate told me the next day. “Then I saw your retainer case, open and empty in the bathroom, and I realized you were alone.”
Thus far, that has been the only documented occurrence of this particular – and, according to my Google research, scientifically unrecognized – nocturnal outburst. So, it may be that my neighbor will only ever have to listen to my screams of terror, not titillation.
However –
While I am courteous enough to curtail my conscious expressions of ecstasy, it is good to know that I have already established a plausible out should I be unable to restrain the urge to moan and shout.
