Well I NEVER…
Mix whiskey and wine.
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New appetite suppressant:
Toggling through People You May Know on Facebook and taking note of the ever-increasing quantity of obscenely ripped gay boiiiz between whom my degrees of separation continue to shrink.
Trust me. It totally werrrqs.
It Gets Better.
“We’re not really different from you [straight people], we just want to love a different person. And even if we are different than you, well fuck off; you’re fucking different as well.”
Eloquence, y’all. In it’s tipsiest form.
WHATEVER! SHUT UP! The message is still there:
It gets better. Really and truly, it does.
Promiscuity on ice.
Moving your Grindr app from the home screen to the third page of your iPhone…
SO the sexual, technological equivalent of freezing your credit card in a block of ice and burying it beneath a stack of Thin Mints at the back of your Kenmore Elite.
You know that at some point you’re going to need-slash-want to use it again; but until desperation strikes, diminishing the ease of use is going to help you stick to a budget –
Or a man. One man. Exclusively.
Good luck. And remember: all of your downloads need not go to waste.
In fact, the more you get to know the person you’re fucking, the greater the likelihood that they will agree to explore your desire to pull up the Lightsaber app and engage in a bit of intergalactic roleplay.
Plus – it’s free at the apple store. Win-win, you thrifty supah freak.
Lechers in love.
It always prompts my smile, seeing the sweet, subtle signs of a couple in love. Especially gay couples. Should they look my way, I nod: silent congratulations for their romantic success, a thank you for the encouragement it provides the rest of us still striving to achieve such blissful intimacy.
Usually, my acknowledgment is met with a modest blush, the sheepish lowering of eyes, and a guiltily giddy grin. They appreciate me appreciating them appreciating each other. Then we leave it at that.
Usually…
The other night, I spotted a pair of 40-something gay men marching playfully through Target, one in front of the other, carrying a large, long, flat box in tandem. The lead was sporting a purple tiara from the Dollar Spot, the tag flip-flopping in sync with their bouncy step. I couldn’t help but beam. They were fucking adorable –
“MMM, sexy legs! Where are you going, baby? Can we come with?”
– at first.
“I’m boy crazy…” the crowned one read from a pin on my bag, “Us too. This line is shorter. Come over here.”
“I’m good,” I stayed put, continuing to unload my cart.
“What’s on your butt on?” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “What’s on your butt on?”
“Hmm?” I inquired politely, but reluctantly, turning around and glancing at the flare dotting the flap of my satchel. “Oh, it’s –”
“What’s on your butt – on?” The lead interrupted as his companion began to snicker. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“A lover,” my phone baRRRANG, sounding the receipt of a new text message. “That’s him, now.”
“What’s he doing? He should be here shopping with you.”
“Not that kind of lover.”
“Boooooty calllll! Mmm, boi,” they all but licked their lips; visions of my impending dalliance clearly flickering – fast, past foreplay and right into fucking – behind their increasingly lecherous eyes. “Look at all that TP. 24 rolls. You’re stocking UP. He must be keeping you busy.”
Annnd – “Heh.” I was done. “Have a good night, gentleman.”
“Oh we will,” he adjusted his tiara as they began to back pedal, begrudgingly, away. “Not as good as you –” their shit eating grins grew even wider, “but we will.”
And I’m sure they did. I’m sure they will have a lifetime of GREAT nights. Because you know what those in the polyandrous and fetish communities say:
The couple that cruises together…
