To myself on Valentine’s Day.
Rosebuds are red,
but your balls will NOT be blue,
because tonight
– every night –
you at least
have
you.
-
|
|
Hunk-fil-A.
The only fast food staple in my diet is the smell of grease
Just the scent is enough
It’s gotta be
if I want top choice of with whom to get rough.
Get that dick.
To some, birthdays are an unwelcome reminder that they’re that much closer to death. For others, it’s all about the presents or the cards with cash. Personally, I won’t say no to a gift of money. But it is the sentiment that I savor most.
Love. Support. Encouragement. Validation. On the latest anniversary of my crowning, I experienced a luxuriant expression of them all. The most poetic and pertinent to my present lifestyle, of which, came from my friend Alexis.
My following such direction has Momma Wienkers worried I won’t make it to 25. However literally I intend to take it, though, Alexis’ haiku should serve as inspiration to all. Cock hungry, 20-something Taurus or not, everyone need remember their right to “Get that [metaphorical] dick.”
Romance. Career. Family. Self. Whatever your aspirations may currently be, never wait for a new year to start working towards a new you.
Oh. And, of course – aforementioned, suggested intent to procreate excluded – always wear a condom.
Necking in near-hybrids with homos.
While a friend who may or may be my roommate lost both her half and whole virginity in a car, until last night I’d yet to even make out in a vehicle, stationary or otherwise.
“This is you?”
“This is me.”
Open, open.
Shut, shut.
Buckle up.
Glance over,
grin,
annnd -
we’re
“Two men kissing in West Hollywood,” Sid36 smirked as a lone civilian strolled past his Civic.
“Fancy boy that.” I ensnared his lips in mine once again.
Despite the ease in his groping of my bulge that satin dodgeball shorts indulged, the most titillating public display occurred on the way from the bar to his car.
Is he – I watched him begin to unzip his hoodie. Is he gonna give my his JACKET?
“You don’t have to do that.” He slipped the cozy cotton over my shoulders. “You’re only wearing a T-shirt, too.”
“Yeah,” he smirked, “but I’m going to fuck you first.”
“Oh – that’s right.” I snuggled into his sweatshirt and the crook of his arm.
It may not have been a letterman’s jacket, and the pinning he had in mind for our future was more of a salacious innuendo than a traditional declaration of commitment, but in terms of referring to a state of mind so tangible it’s almost a physical destination – I was most certainly in Pleasantville.
And you can relax, mom, we’ve yet to penetrate the Bonertown border. That’s still a few dates up the thighway.
Speed 3: A Curse Accelerated.
On Monday news of Kate Winslet’s split from her husband Sam Mendes surfaced and a friend, Liana, drew my attention to the supposed curse of the Best Actress Academy Award. Before I could find the time to further Google this conspiracy theory, Sandra Bullock was blindsided by her husband Jesse James’ infidelity and People magazine confirmed her exodus from their Southern California family home. Winslet’s heart went on for a whole year after her victory, but Bullock made it less than two weeks, leaving Helen Mirren as the only woman of the last decade to have maintained the relationship she was in at the time Oscar made three.
Superstitious or otherwise, the greater intrigue is whether or not opposites can uphold the adage and nurture an attraction. Paula Abdul may be so whacked out she’s still coming together with MC Skat Kat. Woody Harrelson has an Asian wife. And for all we know the most divergent aspect of Bullock and James’ union, for each aforementioned union, could be their outward appearances. But there in lies the conundrum an’it don’t seem tah wanna budge.
Sandy’s sorrows aside, what does this mean for me with my explorative sexual palate? Are the rakishly ratty denizens of Silver Lake a lost cause? What about West Hollywood’s most chic and chiseled? The athletes? The academics? The occasional bear or business-minded boi? Oy gay, WHAT – is a hippie homo to do?
Rage on,
rage on hard on.
While a condom,
I hope not,
a heart can stand to be broken.
But fool me,
fool me once,
and
FUCKYOUGETOUTOFMYLIFE!
