Some people like to drown themselves in layers when they’re feeling fat. Not me. I writhe into a Chinese finger trap of a tank top and run my roll to the gym. Perceived or not, forcing my faults on display serves as motivation to minimize and ultimately eradicate.

“That is the gayest thing you have ever said,” my friend Ande declared upon hearing my masochistic coping method.

Perhaps. But I feel this approach transcends sexuality. This could be why we sometimes see absurdly obese women wearing baby Ts or tube tops far too tiny to even begin to contain their own baker’s dozen. Maybe we’ve had it all wrong. They’re not oblivious or unhygienic or suffering from reverse body dysmorphic disorder, after all. These Quarter Ton-ers should no longer be objects of disgust, but beacons of inspiration.

The one’s establishing residence at Burger King – not so much. Extrapolated data aside, though, it’s not about comparing the jiggle of your belly to that of another. However hefty the poundage from which it need be excavated, there’s a prime physique inside every one of us. This ideal shape varies from person to person; but wherever we are in the process of achieving our fitness destiny, even those of us who will never obtain rock hard abs are entitled to concrete confidence.

If my roommate has a mantra, it’s that. And it was originally sticky tacked to the kitchen quote wall when we looked like this:

Barr(bell)ing a negative self-image from dampening our spirits – or our buzz as is apparent above – can be as rough as an actual work out. It’s always worth the effort, though. More rewarding than any physical activity.

Whenever I look at that picture I smile at the excess of joy on my face, not flub on my frame. In fact, I’m more grateful to be alive than to have that scarf disguising my second chin. We were captured making light of our fear, but at the time odds were in favor of us flying through the windshield over climbing out of the back seat.

I’d suggest not getting into a safety belt-less car. Especially not one with a drunk, meth addicted near-midget behind the wheel. Nothing against little people, but the fact that her feet barely reached the pedals didn’t aid our situation any.

As to our chances of survival, confidence was low; but at least we wouldn’t have asked, “Does this stretcher make me look hippy?” Un – uh, (crazy) girl (I had just met). Because DAMN – did we think we looked to die for.

Filed Under: fitness, Wis(e ass)dom by JJ
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Regardless of parenting style, there are a few bits of advice drilled into all children of the Western world. Look both ways before you cross the street. Don’t get into the car with a stranger. And never assume – it makes an ass out of you and me.

Until puberty, my mother’s delivery of the latter never ceased to send my mouth agape. “Oh!“ I’d gasp. “She said – ass!”

For most, this anal synonym is second only to “damn” as the least shocking profanity. But this was coming from the woman who condemned the use of “Shut up,” “fart,” and “pissed off.” She might as well have erupted with a ferociously spit propelled “FFFUCK.” The impact was certainly equivocal.

Aside from getting into bed with practical strangers, I’ve retained the aforementioned morsels of wis(e ass)dom. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for everyone. More unfortunately, they rarely get hit by a van or pulled into the back of one before inconveniencing the rest of our (social) lives with their ignorance.

“You’re single?” my friend Carla’s friend’s friend from high school asked upon our introduction at Booby Trap, the Wednesday night lesbian dance party. “You have to meet my friend Wyn who’s coming later.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he like?”

“He’s really cute. Blond hair. Very into style,” She paused, inhaling excitedly. “He can be kind of judgmental about it, but I think you’ll like him.”

“Alright. We’ll see what happens. No pressure,” I held my open palms aloft, quickly disclaiming the impending set up. “If we like each other, we like each other. If we don’t, we don’t.”

We didn’t. Well – I didn’t.

Although fashionHEstas aren’t my usual (man)bag, I would have thoroughly enjoyed both conversing and copulating with a dandy like Mark from “Ugly Betty.” Instead, in walked Manny-Kate Olsen. While I’ve been known to romp with fellow twinks, this one made me look like a bear in comparison. Boner kill. The distaste women feel towards being with men whose thighs are dwarfed by their own has been elucidated.

Polite but pointed, I expressed my disinterest. My friend Carla’s friend’s friend, however, didn’t seem to catch the drift. A rather shocking oversight, as it was strong enough to blow the waif back out the door.

“So?“ She implored after two hours of distancing myself from Wyn on the dance floor. “Do you like him?”

“What?“ I was incredulous. “No.”

“Why?” Suddenly as defensive as she was dense.

“He’s just not my type,” I shrugged along to the beat.

“Why?” The thickness was impenetrable.

“Just because we’re both gay -” I leaned in, continuing to dance as I slowed my speech. “Doesn’t mean we’re automatically attracted to each other.”

“Ugh.” She scoffed, her face puckering sourly. “I know that.”

“Do you?” I gladly patronized.

She didn’t.

More perplexing than frustrating, I don’t begrudge her. Nor do I really wish abduction or vehicular pulverization upon her. Actually, if anyone should hold any beef, it’s Wyn. She kept his hopes aloft all evening.

Personally, I’m more worried about his blood sugar. He needs a burger if he needs meat. I know a great place. In fact, I even know a boy who might love to take him there.

We’re no longer friends, this $800 velvet Ralph Lauren slipper wearing fop and I. We weren’t ever more than acquaintances, really. Even then, it was association by default. But still – while I don’t ever want to see him again, I think Wyn might like the lanky, luxury lapping lout a whole lot.

I could be wrong. Perhaps. But unlike an assumption, a notion is worth the risk. Especially one with the potential to prompt an exchange of ass between he and he.

Filed Under: boner killer, people I don't particularly like and you shouldn't either, Wis(e ass)dom by JJ
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Or antibiotics are necessitated. Whichever comes first. Well, not in my case, of course. In the instance of the amendment, I’m only speaking to the rest of you.

I mean, clearly; ’cause, you know, even though its incidence in the United States is second only to chlamydia in terms of bacterial STDS, (fingers crossed) applause is about the closest thing to the clap I’ve ever received after sex.

Filed Under: Wis(e ass)dom by JJ
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Food isn’t the only thing binged upon and subsequently purged here in Los Angeles – phone numbers are also taken en masse and later tossed just as flippantly. It’s a given in any town built on networking, any mecca for free and adventurous spirits, and most certainly, every bar brimming with booze soaked singles. A recent inventory of my own contact list took me on a journey back through a slew of previously forgotten encounters, a hearty cross section of social misadventure through which I may impart, unto you, guidelines towards deletion etiquette.

There are those whose advances you welcomed beneath a liquored haze and have since made your lack of sober interest subtly, but definitively known. You need not worry about them ever attempting to solicit your sexual prowess again.

Randy B@d.
Redheaded something or other.
Keith of whose last name I’m not sure I was ever aware.

Alternately, we all have a few contacts that cannot take a hint, much less a blatant refusal. Lest we get daring and answer a call from an unidentified number, these persistent pests should remain on file until at least six months have passed since their last unwanted advance.

Mario standard Hispanic apellido.

Sometimes their name is too common to be enough of a warning and is best replaced with a nickname that screams, “DO NOT PICK UP!”

Some you thought were flirting with you and you’ve since realized they’re straight (or gay, depending on your own fancy). Best to remove any temptation to test their placement along the Kinsey scale.

Piers Bosley.
Shane blonde guy.

Others are most certainly on your team, but just as obviously lacking any desire to play with you.

Vasyil ethnicity unknown.
Rahm like Emanuel.
Mark that closet door is so weathered it’s about to fall of its hinges.

Sex isn’t always the goal, well, the only goal. I’ve made plenty of platonic connections while prowling for lovers. Like romance, though, acquaintances don’t always evolve into full-fledged friendship. And if so, non-sexual relationships are rarely cultivated through verbal communication, but rather Facebook or email. Even then, we’re usually either too lazy to hunt them down or the window seems to have closed by the time we get around to typing their names into the search field.

Sarah “with an H” Wittle.
Libby ???.
Moises Muñez.
Cassie Lawharm.
Alessandria Ruskie.

Finally, there’s that handful of people of which you haven’t a clue as to who they are, where you met them, or WHAT possessed you to type in their number.

Corrin.
Julie.

All this said; should you decide to text someone from your not so distant past, don’t waste a moment by taking offense if they reply with, “Um…Who is this?” Don’t kid yourself that they’ve lost their phone, either. Almost indubitably, you have been deleted. Just as usually, though, they did so not out of disdain, but in an attempt to minimize disorder.

And if you’re the one asking for clarification, it won’t matter if they’re miffed because either you don’t want to see them again anyways, or your supposed lack in interest will only drive them to dial their way back into your call log – and hopefully your pants – once again.

Filed Under: etiquette, Wis(e ass)dom by JJ
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Don’t have it. Ever. Just don’t, or you WILL end up on People’s Court or the subject of a Lifetime Original Movie when you’re jilted baby mama or daddy sues you for alimony and/or butchers your second spouse or significant other with a pick axe after your shared mistake of a child expresses more affection for the replacement ‘rent than he or she biologically responsible for the mouthy little human pawn.

Gays, don’t think you’re homo free. Heterosexuals aren’t the only people crazy enough to puncture a condom. Plus, pregnancy is daunting, positive is deadly.

Just – say – NO, to the ho you already let go.

Filed Under: Wis(e ass)dom by JJ
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