I sometimes read my mom's old issues of People magazine while I'm waiting for the damn dialup internet to load, and I recently found out that Colin Farrell is being treated for exhaustion. I'm going to have to say that lately, I've been feeling exhausted too, but I'm glad that it's Colin who is taking a rest.
Now, being an English major might not seem strenuous to some people, but it is. Trust me. Those eight page papers on the religious implications of Derrida or a deconstruction of escape don't just write themselves, you know. It can get to be hard work. Not as hard as say, staying out until all hours of the night in strip clubs, drinking, drugging and having sex with strippers, but it's still difficult.
I don't envy Colin's position. I mean, it's hard to stay up all hours of the night. Have you tried it? Sure, it's fun when you're a kid, struggling hard not to pass out before midnight on December 31, or when you're in your twenties, drinking cheap beer with your buddies. But to make a habit of it, day in and day out? That's not just good for the system. Colin has to wait until he gets tired to go to sleep then waking up when he's ready, unlike the rest of us, who blindly conform to sleeping at night and spending our daylight hours being productive. It's hard to rebel against any system, especially a diurnal society, but Colin is doing his best. I commend him for that.
I mean, I find it hard to stay up until 2 or 3 in the morning, watching tv and just hanging around my room, chilling with my roommates and people from the building. But no. He's out there, hitting the hottest clubs, drinking the shots, dancing it up. When I stay up late working on a paper, that's one thing, but when Colin stays up, he's doing his patriotic duty by stimulating the economy. Colin is improving lives. I'm just putting words down.
It's hard work to be Hollywood's bad boy. The stakes are eternally rising. Gone are the days when public intoxication gets you on the front pages of a gossip magazine. Even consorting with strippers and hookers gets a pass in this town these days. If someone as goodnatured and all-American as Tom Cruise could deflower Katie Holmes, or someone as pristine as Mandy Moore could be caught drinking underage at a club, or someone as innocent as the Olsen girls are scoring cocaine and sexing it up with millionare playboys, what is left for the true bad boy? There's a fine line between the excesses of someone like Marilyn Manson, who ground up human bones and snorted them, and the banal hijinks of Ashton Kutcher, who occasionally plays practical jokes on other celebrities. The pressure to come up with new ways to rebel against social and sexual norms must be exhausting. No wonder he needs a rest.
Sure, I've been instilled with a guilt unheard of for my religion and socio-economic status. I'm the victim of my own sexual repression, eternally feeling guilt for things, and too scared of losing control to get drunk or have sex with guys I just meet or experiment with pot or anything like that. But my neuroses are purely in my head. Colin's problems consume his whole body, from his alcohol-soaked liver to his cocaine-induced nosebleeds to his dancing sore feet to his sleazy sexually transmitted diseases. He must be drained, night after night, continuing with this debauchery. Let the man rest.
In fact, if it were Colin and me instead of Adam and Eve when God made the world, when God came down on the seventh day and said "Today we rest. We must remember this day, and keep it holy," I would let Colin rest while I continued doing the daily necessary chores, like learning how to control fire, preparing the food and cleaning out our little love hovel. (For, if it were Colin and me instead of Adam and Eve, we would have quite a time trying to get the whole 'procreation' thing down.)
Though I must say, I don't believe that Colin is taking a complete rest. It's hard to imagine him just lying in bed for days on end, watching soap operas and writing poems to try and alleviate his spirits, and sharing his feelings in group therapy. No, I think by the end of the first day, he would have canoozled with at least three young girls also in the clinic, possibly getting his hands on some whiskey. He's probably sprawled out on his bed right now, in his boxers, a cigarette in his hand and a broad passed out by his side. That just seems to be the way the guy relaxes.
Do I blame him? Oh, goodness no. Colin plays an important role in our Hollywood system, and without his cog, the wheel of celebrity rides a little bumpier.
I wish you the best of luck, Colin Farrell, and godspeed!
December 29, 2005
December 27, 2005
a-Wassailing
My family, being the unkempt mess that we are, arrived late for Christmas service at church. We had to sit in two groups: my mom, my dad and my younger sis near the front, and me and my other sister (my favorite of the two) near the back.
Now, in all modesty, my sister and I got the talent in the family. We're the ones who find school really interesting and easy, who never study and usually get As, I'm the one who practically owned the local theatre community in high school, she's a clarinet prodigy, I've won awards for my poetry, she's drum major for the city's all-star high school band, I was allowed to teach a few classes in high school under the supervision of a real teacher, she has the greatest fashion sense of pretty much anyone I know, and we both had solos in choral performances more often than not.
And, between the two of us, we've been in every single Christmas choir production known to man. Choir, plays, caroling, you name it, we've done it. Between the two of us, we've done more harmonies for "Silent Night" than times you've even heard the damn song. As a result, we both really fucking hate Christmas. When you spend your childhood involved in every single school choir, Christmas play, and usually a local boys/girls choir, you pretty much learn to grit your teeth when December rolls around and learn to hate Christmas music, and any tidings the season may bring.
My sister and I sitting in the back row unsupervised was probably not a good idea. As I've mentioned, both of us grew up doing musical theatre and choir, and we can really belt out a number. And so when we both decide to go for broke during the service, and harmonize our asses off, it makes a big difference. Big enough to turn a crowd of mostly-decent at singing church-goers into a big "Away in a Manger" mess. We sounded good. It's just that everyone else couldn't keep the melody against our elaborate vocal stylings.
Which of course, made us start laughing. And so we sang louder, grinning litle shit-eating grins. We toned it down after the first two songs, as I think people were starting to figure out it was us creating those loud, yet beautiful, harmonies.
And no, we didn't get coal in our stockings. Surprisingly.
Now, in all modesty, my sister and I got the talent in the family. We're the ones who find school really interesting and easy, who never study and usually get As, I'm the one who practically owned the local theatre community in high school, she's a clarinet prodigy, I've won awards for my poetry, she's drum major for the city's all-star high school band, I was allowed to teach a few classes in high school under the supervision of a real teacher, she has the greatest fashion sense of pretty much anyone I know, and we both had solos in choral performances more often than not.
And, between the two of us, we've been in every single Christmas choir production known to man. Choir, plays, caroling, you name it, we've done it. Between the two of us, we've done more harmonies for "Silent Night" than times you've even heard the damn song. As a result, we both really fucking hate Christmas. When you spend your childhood involved in every single school choir, Christmas play, and usually a local boys/girls choir, you pretty much learn to grit your teeth when December rolls around and learn to hate Christmas music, and any tidings the season may bring.
My sister and I sitting in the back row unsupervised was probably not a good idea. As I've mentioned, both of us grew up doing musical theatre and choir, and we can really belt out a number. And so when we both decide to go for broke during the service, and harmonize our asses off, it makes a big difference. Big enough to turn a crowd of mostly-decent at singing church-goers into a big "Away in a Manger" mess. We sounded good. It's just that everyone else couldn't keep the melody against our elaborate vocal stylings.
Which of course, made us start laughing. And so we sang louder, grinning litle shit-eating grins. We toned it down after the first two songs, as I think people were starting to figure out it was us creating those loud, yet beautiful, harmonies.
And no, we didn't get coal in our stockings. Surprisingly.
December 26, 2005
Humbuggery
My family is pretty fucked up, I'll be the first to admit. Other questions, like just how white trash we probably are (check!) are usually vaguely coded, but fucked up? Most definitely.
I wish I could remember exactly how we determined this, it's days like these I wish I had a wire tap to recall the dialogue verbatim. I ended up summarizing a lot, especially near the end. You should be able to get the jist, anyway.
At any rate, we all gathered around the Christmas tree, doling out the various lowkey gifts we were given. Since my father's operation, six month medical leave of absense, and the accompanying minutia that went along with it were more expensive than people would have liked (e.g. motel for my mother to stay at during the operation, which she only used to drop off a change of clothes and then return the next morning to change, the gas needed for doctor's visits around the midwest, spoiling the emotionally fragile youngest sister, trying to eat organic for the week or two following the procedure, etc) we decided to keep Christmas fairly low key.
Fuck, we didn't even have lights on the tree, just some garland.
At any rate, even though we don't really celebrate Christmas (I'm not sure anyone in the nuclear family has any particular feelings for Jesus Christ), we don't really know how to stop. It just ends up being awkward, with some relatives super-religious, and talking with other people, and stuff like that. The whole concept of Christmas and Santa Claus is fun when you're dealing with little kids, but when the youngest is 15 with no cousins or relatives knocking out new babies, you're still expected to put out gifts and put on a big show because no one really knows how to say no, or tone things down multiple notches.
So there we were. The nuclear family, Ma and Pa and Bro (me) and two younger sisters, all around the dim, Charlie Brown-esque Christmas tree, very much an off stade of Norman Rockwell, like a screen printing that had seen better days. We tried to determine who would open gifts first, and then go in a circle, or whatever. Growing up it was always the oldest or the youngest who went first, which made the middle sibling always very upset as a toddler, and so we still try and mix things up on occasion. Sometimes we'd pick numbers or roll the die, or play a little "Name that Tune" sort of thing, or I don't know. They were always pretty dumb.
My mom's suggestion, which we ended up taking: Let's let your father go first, he's had the most traumatic year.
Which led to debates as to who had the most 'traumatic' year.
Yes, the word is 'debates.'
Dad: Had a heart attack this summer, which proved too much for his nervous system, causing digestive problems, and going in and out of the hospital for most of first semester. He then had a gastric pacemaker put in at the end of October, and now is on a completely restrictive diet: low fat, low fiber, low salt, low etc etc.
Littlest Sis (age 15): Is manic depressive and will probably be on welfare for the rest of her life. She was pulled out of school her freshman year, and has been 'homeschooled' ever since. (The scare quotes indicate how little 'schooling' is actually going on.) After tweaking with her meds in April, she went a little off the handle, and was institutionalized for a weekend, eventually released.
Mom: In addition to dealing with Dad, she's going through the menopause.
Middle Sister (Age 18): She's my favorite out of the family. Most of the stories that come from these next few weeks before spring semester starts up are going to be about her. She went next because she's a senior and hasn't made up her mind where she wants to go yet next year. She didn't really make that big of a case for herself.
And then me. I didn't make a case, so I ended up last. For what my family knows, I had a fairly quiet, easy year. At least in contrast to everyone else, and also due to that I don't really tell my parents about a lot of things, like how Heart broke up with me in an AIM conversation while Dad was prepping for surgery, or how my best friend moved to Kalamazoo one weekend and forgot to call me, or how your estranged grandfather, who got out of prison next year and now works in a suburb of Madison drunk dials you and asks if you can hook him up with some hot pussy, or just how painful the single life can be when you're not exactly the most emotionally-confident person on earth, or how you're not quite out to every relative, and this is the season for uncles and third-cousins on your mom's side to be asking if you've found 'the one' yet, and just what exactly do you want to do with a BA in English?
Whee.
Establishing just how much you've suffered over the past year, and then ranking your pain against your family to get to open your presents; I'm sure Jesus would be proud.
My mom's side of family is pretty conservative Lutheran, and my dad's side comprises of staunch atheists, and we're a pretty mixed bag of agnosticism, deism, and humanism. But it still seems to me that we sure came up with one Jewish Christmas.
I wish I could remember exactly how we determined this, it's days like these I wish I had a wire tap to recall the dialogue verbatim. I ended up summarizing a lot, especially near the end. You should be able to get the jist, anyway.
At any rate, we all gathered around the Christmas tree, doling out the various lowkey gifts we were given. Since my father's operation, six month medical leave of absense, and the accompanying minutia that went along with it were more expensive than people would have liked (e.g. motel for my mother to stay at during the operation, which she only used to drop off a change of clothes and then return the next morning to change, the gas needed for doctor's visits around the midwest, spoiling the emotionally fragile youngest sister, trying to eat organic for the week or two following the procedure, etc) we decided to keep Christmas fairly low key.
Fuck, we didn't even have lights on the tree, just some garland.
At any rate, even though we don't really celebrate Christmas (I'm not sure anyone in the nuclear family has any particular feelings for Jesus Christ), we don't really know how to stop. It just ends up being awkward, with some relatives super-religious, and talking with other people, and stuff like that. The whole concept of Christmas and Santa Claus is fun when you're dealing with little kids, but when the youngest is 15 with no cousins or relatives knocking out new babies, you're still expected to put out gifts and put on a big show because no one really knows how to say no, or tone things down multiple notches.
So there we were. The nuclear family, Ma and Pa and Bro (me) and two younger sisters, all around the dim, Charlie Brown-esque Christmas tree, very much an off stade of Norman Rockwell, like a screen printing that had seen better days. We tried to determine who would open gifts first, and then go in a circle, or whatever. Growing up it was always the oldest or the youngest who went first, which made the middle sibling always very upset as a toddler, and so we still try and mix things up on occasion. Sometimes we'd pick numbers or roll the die, or play a little "Name that Tune" sort of thing, or I don't know. They were always pretty dumb.
My mom's suggestion, which we ended up taking: Let's let your father go first, he's had the most traumatic year.
Which led to debates as to who had the most 'traumatic' year.
Yes, the word is 'debates.'
Dad: Had a heart attack this summer, which proved too much for his nervous system, causing digestive problems, and going in and out of the hospital for most of first semester. He then had a gastric pacemaker put in at the end of October, and now is on a completely restrictive diet: low fat, low fiber, low salt, low etc etc.
Littlest Sis (age 15): Is manic depressive and will probably be on welfare for the rest of her life. She was pulled out of school her freshman year, and has been 'homeschooled' ever since. (The scare quotes indicate how little 'schooling' is actually going on.) After tweaking with her meds in April, she went a little off the handle, and was institutionalized for a weekend, eventually released.
Mom: In addition to dealing with Dad, she's going through the menopause.
Middle Sister (Age 18): She's my favorite out of the family. Most of the stories that come from these next few weeks before spring semester starts up are going to be about her. She went next because she's a senior and hasn't made up her mind where she wants to go yet next year. She didn't really make that big of a case for herself.
And then me. I didn't make a case, so I ended up last. For what my family knows, I had a fairly quiet, easy year. At least in contrast to everyone else, and also due to that I don't really tell my parents about a lot of things, like how Heart broke up with me in an AIM conversation while Dad was prepping for surgery, or how my best friend moved to Kalamazoo one weekend and forgot to call me, or how your estranged grandfather, who got out of prison next year and now works in a suburb of Madison drunk dials you and asks if you can hook him up with some hot pussy, or just how painful the single life can be when you're not exactly the most emotionally-confident person on earth, or how you're not quite out to every relative, and this is the season for uncles and third-cousins on your mom's side to be asking if you've found 'the one' yet, and just what exactly do you want to do with a BA in English?
Whee.
Establishing just how much you've suffered over the past year, and then ranking your pain against your family to get to open your presents; I'm sure Jesus would be proud.
My mom's side of family is pretty conservative Lutheran, and my dad's side comprises of staunch atheists, and we're a pretty mixed bag of agnosticism, deism, and humanism. But it still seems to me that we sure came up with one Jewish Christmas.
December 24, 2005
loading....loading....
At home, on my parent's dialup connection (46.6k), it takes eight minutes and thirty-four seconds to log into blogger.
(Unfortunately, with our internet browser, we can tell exactly how long it takes for a page to load. It's a mixed blessing at best.)
I was going to update before work yesterday, but I ran out of time. And I was going to update right now, but for the life of me, I cannot remember what it was I was going to write about.
I'm at home, more or less, until Martin Luther King day. It's going to be a long couple of weeks.
And, no, I don't have any holiday spirit.
(Unfortunately, with our internet browser, we can tell exactly how long it takes for a page to load. It's a mixed blessing at best.)
I was going to update before work yesterday, but I ran out of time. And I was going to update right now, but for the life of me, I cannot remember what it was I was going to write about.
I'm at home, more or less, until Martin Luther King day. It's going to be a long couple of weeks.
And, no, I don't have any holiday spirit.
December 21, 2005
Booo
You'd think I'd be in a good mood, what with turning in my last final paper about an hour ago.
But no. I come back from dropping off the 12 page paper and return to my desk to check out blogs and veg out before starting to pack for tomorrow's dreaded trip home for break.
I start clicking on links, and find that kinja has FINALLY finished its updates, and came up with one of the clunkiest, self-importance, superfluous websites. I've played with it for the past forty-five minutes, and it just doesn't serve my needs anymore. There's no way to access to actual site, only just get caught in a loop of self-important, irrelevant kinja drivel.
I suppose that the fact that something as little as a website's remodeling could ruin my day proves that I'm addicted to the internet. Of course, the fact that I think I've got an AIM virus isn't helping either. Then again, I'm tired and kind of horny, but my roommate is packing so I can't take a nap and I can't take care of business. Some of this is just misdirected anger, but whatever. I still think the new kinja upgrade is an embarassment to the Gawker Empire.
But no. I come back from dropping off the 12 page paper and return to my desk to check out blogs and veg out before starting to pack for tomorrow's dreaded trip home for break.
I start clicking on links, and find that kinja has FINALLY finished its updates, and came up with one of the clunkiest, self-importance, superfluous websites. I've played with it for the past forty-five minutes, and it just doesn't serve my needs anymore. There's no way to access to actual site, only just get caught in a loop of self-important, irrelevant kinja drivel.
I suppose that the fact that something as little as a website's remodeling could ruin my day proves that I'm addicted to the internet. Of course, the fact that I think I've got an AIM virus isn't helping either. Then again, I'm tired and kind of horny, but my roommate is packing so I can't take a nap and I can't take care of business. Some of this is just misdirected anger, but whatever. I still think the new kinja upgrade is an embarassment to the Gawker Empire.
December 20, 2005
All You Need Are Kisses To Start A Makeout Party
I want to make out with someone so much. For the past couple of days, that's all I've wanted to do. Not sex, not a date, just a good old-fashioned makeout session, on someone's couch while 'watching tv,' just like in junior high (except I didn't get my first kiss until I was a senior in high school, and even then it was a girl, but you get the idea).
I can't even go online and leave a "looking" in my gay.com bioline, since no one kisses on hookups. I don't even think I want to. I mean, bad sex is still sex, but a bad kisser and you're stuck.
I started to look fo a picture of gay boys kissing for this post, but staring at the google image search screen just filled me with even more envy.
I can't even go online and leave a "looking" in my gay.com bioline, since no one kisses on hookups. I don't even think I want to. I mean, bad sex is still sex, but a bad kisser and you're stuck.
I started to look fo a picture of gay boys kissing for this post, but staring at the google image search screen just filled me with even more envy.
December 19, 2005
Three Strikes and I'm Out
1. I had a study date with Footsie Boy this weekend. It didn't really go well. Well, I guess it did go well, as I'm pretty sure I'm well-versed in TV and Cinema history. We were sitting together at a table and went over all our notes. Or rather, I went over my notes and retaught him the entire semester, as he kinda didn't get a lot of it. And then one of his friends came along and sat with us, and then they went for a cigarette, and then we finished going over my notes, and that was it. No footsie, no flirting, nothing. It's okay, though. Over the course of the study session, I realized that Footsie Boy really isn't that smart, which knocked him down multiple pegs. Strike One.
2. Remember how I said that there was a guy online who wanted to give me a foot massage, and I was thinking about letting him? Well, I talked to him online once or twice, but he said he was going to go take a nap or had friends coming over soon. He hasn't initiated any conversations since then, and I think he's lost interest. Strike two.
3. A friend of a friend was staying here for the weekend, taking a pit stop on the drive from Savannah to Minnesota. My friend invited me over, since she always thought he had gay tendencies, and she wanted to find out for sure.
I walked in, and saw that he had an impeccably coiffed fauxhawk, multiple rings, a white belt, bracelets, and a habit of rolling his eyes.
At the bars (which were really empty due to it being finals week), his phone rang, and I went in for the kill: "Wow. That's a really gay ringtone."
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not trying that hard to be straight."
"Good, because you're failing."
We kept talking, and then we all went back to her place to grab some vodka to bring to a holiday party. I don't remember the conversation exactly (damn that special on cherry old fashioneds) but I remember enough. I made fun of him for wearing a white belt with his outfit, and then he replied "Well, if you don't like it, why don't you take it off for me?" He thrust his hips towards me.
With a drink my drink in my right hand, I awkwardly undid his ugly white belt. "Then you'll have to undo my button." Again, tricky with only one hand, but I managed. "And then unzip my pants" I did. He was wearing ugly bluish grey boxerbriefs. "And then.... " I snapped the elastic waistband. I didn't get to see anything, except that I'm pretty sure he's shaved.
"Let's just wait until later, big boy." I said with a wink.
I suppose I should mention a couple things at this point. Yes, there were other people in the room at the moment. And no, I wasn't attracted to him in the slightest, personality-wise or physically. But this was a 'straight' boy, and he wanted me to unzip his pants. What else was I going to do?
This all changed when we got to the party, being held by his cousin. As soon as we walked in the door, it was a total 180. Butcher than a sports metaphor. He was jocular, fake wrestling, boob talk, football references, the whole ball of wax. It was fascinating.
At least it was fascinating until after the party, when a bunch of us went back to my friend's house to watch a movie and for him to pass out. Unfortunately, while we were watching Fight Club (his choice), I left the couch to go to the bathroom, and he was making out with this other girl by the time I got back.
Of course, she moved from the floor to my empty spot, and he was pretty out of it at the moment, and, according to the story I got the next morning he passed out after about 2 minutes of making out, and there was no grabbing of her boobs or anything. Oh well. It's still strike three.
I'm out.
2. Remember how I said that there was a guy online who wanted to give me a foot massage, and I was thinking about letting him? Well, I talked to him online once or twice, but he said he was going to go take a nap or had friends coming over soon. He hasn't initiated any conversations since then, and I think he's lost interest. Strike two.
3. A friend of a friend was staying here for the weekend, taking a pit stop on the drive from Savannah to Minnesota. My friend invited me over, since she always thought he had gay tendencies, and she wanted to find out for sure.
I walked in, and saw that he had an impeccably coiffed fauxhawk, multiple rings, a white belt, bracelets, and a habit of rolling his eyes.
At the bars (which were really empty due to it being finals week), his phone rang, and I went in for the kill: "Wow. That's a really gay ringtone."
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not trying that hard to be straight."
"Good, because you're failing."
We kept talking, and then we all went back to her place to grab some vodka to bring to a holiday party. I don't remember the conversation exactly (damn that special on cherry old fashioneds) but I remember enough. I made fun of him for wearing a white belt with his outfit, and then he replied "Well, if you don't like it, why don't you take it off for me?" He thrust his hips towards me.
With a drink my drink in my right hand, I awkwardly undid his ugly white belt. "Then you'll have to undo my button." Again, tricky with only one hand, but I managed. "And then unzip my pants" I did. He was wearing ugly bluish grey boxerbriefs. "And then.... " I snapped the elastic waistband. I didn't get to see anything, except that I'm pretty sure he's shaved.
"Let's just wait until later, big boy." I said with a wink.
I suppose I should mention a couple things at this point. Yes, there were other people in the room at the moment. And no, I wasn't attracted to him in the slightest, personality-wise or physically. But this was a 'straight' boy, and he wanted me to unzip his pants. What else was I going to do?
This all changed when we got to the party, being held by his cousin. As soon as we walked in the door, it was a total 180. Butcher than a sports metaphor. He was jocular, fake wrestling, boob talk, football references, the whole ball of wax. It was fascinating.
At least it was fascinating until after the party, when a bunch of us went back to my friend's house to watch a movie and for him to pass out. Unfortunately, while we were watching Fight Club (his choice), I left the couch to go to the bathroom, and he was making out with this other girl by the time I got back.
Of course, she moved from the floor to my empty spot, and he was pretty out of it at the moment, and, according to the story I got the next morning he passed out after about 2 minutes of making out, and there was no grabbing of her boobs or anything. Oh well. It's still strike three.
I'm out.
December 16, 2005
Sex and Drugs and RocknRoll!
In honor of yet ANOTHER weekend of Brokeback Mountain not playing within the tri-state area, I've uploaded a little MP3 to sate the need for gay cowboys. (Yousendit.com link, valid for one week.)
(NB--In regards to recent events, i.e. Willie Nelson's cover of this song, I've re-uploaded this song, so for the second/third week of February the link should be good.)
Cowboys are Frequently Secretly Fond Of Each Other by Pansy Division (lyrics)
Also, today marks the first day of finals, so send good wishes (or Starbucks gift cards) my way. Also, posting might be a bit sporadic next week: these final papers aren't going to write themselves, you know. Massive amounts of caffeine would be greatly appreciated.
Now here it is... the moment you've all been waiting for....
My secret fetish.
Or should I say, fascination? Technically I haven't participated in this action, so I don't know for sure if it would turn me on. I just know that I'd like to try it, and while I wouldn't mind trying one or two of the other fetishes, I wouldn't eagerly seek them out, or seek out videos featuring them.
Balloons: Nope. The only rubber in the bedroom is the condom.
Spanking: While I do love the facial expressions during sex, especially at the moment of first penetration or the moment of orgasm, I don't think I'd really get into spanking or bondage play. I definitely wouldn't get into being spanked, but I do suppose that at some point, I could be talked into some light bondage if the other guy was really hurting for it (the pun was intended, unfortunately).
Feet: I'm more of a leg man, really. Though I am going to put a starred asterisk by this, since there is a young gentleman from gay.com who is a foot fetishist, and has offered me a footrub this weekend. No sex, just a footrub/light foot worship. And you know what? I think I'm tempted to let him. I'll get a foot massage, and he'll have something to jerk off to later. I think I'm okay with that. Details possibly next week.
Sleep: Ding Ding Ding! That's right, I think I could really get into sleep sex.
I trace it all back to a blog post I read, gosh, it must be close to 4 years ago. I believe it was at 2xy, but I'm too lazy to check the archives. Basically, J woke up from having the most amazing dream, only to find in the morning that his ass was sore, his cheeks smelled of lube, and a condom wrapper on the side of the bed. (J was happily coupled for a couple years at this point.)
Also, I vaguely remember a Mad About You episode that went something along these lines.
Ever since then, I'd always wondered if having sex while sleeping was feasible. Top/Bottom/blowjob, it doesn't really matter. Well, I suppose giving a blowjob could be difficult, but everyone gets hard while they sleep, so topping shouldn't be a problem, and when you sleep your muscles are relaxed, so bottoming should be as easy as Paris Hilton. I just wonder if I could be manipulated to orgasm without my knowledge. I wonder if I would recognize it subconsciously, giving me fantastic dreams, or if I'd wake up in the middle and be in a sort of sex daze, or if I'd wake up and be invigorated for the day, or what. I don't even think I've been woken up by a blowjob. Sure, I've had morning sex (who hasn't?) but I don't think I've ever first opened my eyes because my cock down someone's throat (though that sure would beat my alarm).
I'd never go about fooling around with someone else while they were asleep unless they specifically said they were into that sort of thing, and it's not like I'm trolling gay.com for guys willing to come into my room late at night for some somnasex. This is definitely a fetish to wait at least 6 months into the relationship to indulge in, or even mention.
Of course, I could have already had sex while I was asleep and not known about it, but I think going about and polling exboyfriends and exroommates could get awkward.
(NB--In regards to recent events, i.e. Willie Nelson's cover of this song, I've re-uploaded this song, so for the second/third week of February the link should be good.)
Cowboys are Frequently Secretly Fond Of Each Other by Pansy Division (lyrics)
Also, today marks the first day of finals, so send good wishes (or Starbucks gift cards) my way. Also, posting might be a bit sporadic next week: these final papers aren't going to write themselves, you know. Massive amounts of caffeine would be greatly appreciated.
Now here it is... the moment you've all been waiting for....
My secret fetish.
Or should I say, fascination? Technically I haven't participated in this action, so I don't know for sure if it would turn me on. I just know that I'd like to try it, and while I wouldn't mind trying one or two of the other fetishes, I wouldn't eagerly seek them out, or seek out videos featuring them.
Balloons: Nope. The only rubber in the bedroom is the condom.
Spanking: While I do love the facial expressions during sex, especially at the moment of first penetration or the moment of orgasm, I don't think I'd really get into spanking or bondage play. I definitely wouldn't get into being spanked, but I do suppose that at some point, I could be talked into some light bondage if the other guy was really hurting for it (the pun was intended, unfortunately).
Feet: I'm more of a leg man, really. Though I am going to put a starred asterisk by this, since there is a young gentleman from gay.com who is a foot fetishist, and has offered me a footrub this weekend. No sex, just a footrub/light foot worship. And you know what? I think I'm tempted to let him. I'll get a foot massage, and he'll have something to jerk off to later. I think I'm okay with that. Details possibly next week.
Sleep: Ding Ding Ding! That's right, I think I could really get into sleep sex.
I trace it all back to a blog post I read, gosh, it must be close to 4 years ago. I believe it was at 2xy, but I'm too lazy to check the archives. Basically, J woke up from having the most amazing dream, only to find in the morning that his ass was sore, his cheeks smelled of lube, and a condom wrapper on the side of the bed. (J was happily coupled for a couple years at this point.)
Also, I vaguely remember a Mad About You episode that went something along these lines.
Ever since then, I'd always wondered if having sex while sleeping was feasible. Top/Bottom/blowjob, it doesn't really matter. Well, I suppose giving a blowjob could be difficult, but everyone gets hard while they sleep, so topping shouldn't be a problem, and when you sleep your muscles are relaxed, so bottoming should be as easy as Paris Hilton. I just wonder if I could be manipulated to orgasm without my knowledge. I wonder if I would recognize it subconsciously, giving me fantastic dreams, or if I'd wake up in the middle and be in a sort of sex daze, or if I'd wake up and be invigorated for the day, or what. I don't even think I've been woken up by a blowjob. Sure, I've had morning sex (who hasn't?) but I don't think I've ever first opened my eyes because my cock down someone's throat (though that sure would beat my alarm).
I'd never go about fooling around with someone else while they were asleep unless they specifically said they were into that sort of thing, and it's not like I'm trolling gay.com for guys willing to come into my room late at night for some somnasex. This is definitely a fetish to wait at least 6 months into the relationship to indulge in, or even mention.
Of course, I could have already had sex while I was asleep and not known about it, but I think going about and polling exboyfriends and exroommates could get awkward.
December 15, 2005
Weather.com Is the new Gay.com!
I read online that we would get 8-10 inches yesterday.
Weather.com must be using AOL inches, since we ended up with only 5.5 inches of snow.
Still respectable, but nowhere near as impressive, and certainly not enough to justify skipping classes.
(Check back tomorrow for the answer to find out which fetish pops my top)
Weather.com must be using AOL inches, since we ended up with only 5.5 inches of snow.
Still respectable, but nowhere near as impressive, and certainly not enough to justify skipping classes.
(Check back tomorrow for the answer to find out which fetish pops my top)
December 14, 2005
Blogworld Miscellania
1. Jason over at fiveoclockbot has written an article about the rise in amateur gay porn: Every Bedroom is a Porn Studio. Check it out.
2. Let's not forget about Lyon.
3. News Flash. Starting a anonymous-mostly-fictional-sex-blog is the new becoming-jaded-with-blogging-and-taking-a-break. I'm tempted to start my own. It'd be heavy on the fiction, random naked guys, and porn site endorsements, but then again, aren't they all like that anyway?
4. If you haven't heard yet, but Ethan over at Brat Boy Bulletin is going to strip for the blogosphere if he wins some award.
5. Shirtless roommate gave me this holiday link. It's kind of a big file, and very inapproriate, but loads of fun never the less. If your kind of Christmas story revolves around Rudolph's giant penis, which helps him save the world from a secret Nazi Elf organization, well, here you go.
6. All Hooked Up has a protoge, Making Satan Blush, the story of a horny twentysomething son of a preacherman. Should turn out to be interesting once he gets into the swing of things. It's an interesting project, fact or fiction based.
7. Viva half-naked Thursdays!
8. And, most importantly, possibly, is that I have a study date/coffee break thing with Footsie Boy on Saturday.
2. Let's not forget about Lyon.
3. News Flash. Starting a anonymous-mostly-fictional-sex-blog is the new becoming-jaded-with-blogging-and-taking-a-break. I'm tempted to start my own. It'd be heavy on the fiction, random naked guys, and porn site endorsements, but then again, aren't they all like that anyway?
4. If you haven't heard yet, but Ethan over at Brat Boy Bulletin is going to strip for the blogosphere if he wins some award.
5. Shirtless roommate gave me this holiday link. It's kind of a big file, and very inapproriate, but loads of fun never the less. If your kind of Christmas story revolves around Rudolph's giant penis, which helps him save the world from a secret Nazi Elf organization, well, here you go.
6. All Hooked Up has a protoge, Making Satan Blush, the story of a horny twentysomething son of a preacherman. Should turn out to be interesting once he gets into the swing of things. It's an interesting project, fact or fiction based.
7. Viva half-naked Thursdays!
8. And, most importantly, possibly, is that I have a study date/coffee break thing with Footsie Boy on Saturday.
December 13, 2005
Which Fetish Am I?
(NB--The pics in this post might not be appropriate for work, guys. Of course, there's the whole question of whether reading blogs is appropriate worktime behavior, but that's a whole 'nother topic.)
Rather than take some silly quizilla test about "Which sexual fetish are you?" I decided to make my own, and let you guys guess.
(Actually, I did take some silly quiz about which sexual fetish I am, and I was unimpressed, unaroused and unsatisfied with the test's findings: while syrup and ice cream can be fun when licked off a taut torso, there's a line somewhere around the 'penetration' mark that I don't think I'll be indulging anytime soon.)
At any rate, which of the following pictures turns me on? (click for links)
All right. I know these are all fairly weak in the realm of BDSM/leather daddies/watersports/ et all, but this is me we're talking about.
Rather than take some silly quizilla test about "Which sexual fetish are you?" I decided to make my own, and let you guys guess.
(Actually, I did take some silly quiz about which sexual fetish I am, and I was unimpressed, unaroused and unsatisfied with the test's findings: while syrup and ice cream can be fun when licked off a taut torso, there's a line somewhere around the 'penetration' mark that I don't think I'll be indulging anytime soon.)
At any rate, which of the following pictures turns me on? (click for links)
All right. I know these are all fairly weak in the realm of BDSM/leather daddies/watersports/ et all, but this is me we're talking about.
December 12, 2005
More gay.com conversations
«him» did you clean your pants with windex?
«him» cuz i can see myself in them
«me» wait.
«me» did you really just use that line?
«him» depends
«him» did it work?
«me» hahahahaha no
«him» cuz i can see myself in them
«me» wait.
«me» did you really just use that line?
«him» depends
«him» did it work?
«me» hahahahaha no
December 9, 2005
No Brokeback for Me
Oh, and in case you were wondering, Brokeback Mountain is only released in select cities this weekend, and my city was not selected.
I'll be getting none of this for at least another week.
(via fleshseeker)
If the weather weren't so bad (boo snow) I'd debate hotwiring a car and driving down to Chicago, but alas, Mother Nature doesn't want me to see the movie either. The tramp.
I'll be getting none of this for at least another week.
(via fleshseeker)
If the weather weren't so bad (boo snow) I'd debate hotwiring a car and driving down to Chicago, but alas, Mother Nature doesn't want me to see the movie either. The tramp.
Top Ten iTunes Most Played
1. Striptease by Hawksley Workman
2. Mississippi Goddamn by Nina Simone
3. Jesus Walks by Kanye West
4. Clark Gable by the Postal Service
5. Mr. Brightside by the Killers
6. Jude Law and a Semester Abroad by Brand New (mp3)
7. I'm Sorry by Jude
8. Potential New Boyfriend by Dolly Parton
9. Born in the 70s by Ed Harcourt (mp3)
10. Hyperballad by the Brodsky Quartet (with Bjork)
Leave a comment and I'll upload any of these songs for your aural pleasures.
(PS. Sorry for the lazy post. I haven't been sleeping well lately.)
2. Mississippi Goddamn by Nina Simone
3. Jesus Walks by Kanye West
4. Clark Gable by the Postal Service
5. Mr. Brightside by the Killers
6. Jude Law and a Semester Abroad by Brand New (mp3)
7. I'm Sorry by Jude
8. Potential New Boyfriend by Dolly Parton
9. Born in the 70s by Ed Harcourt (mp3)
10. Hyperballad by the Brodsky Quartet (with Bjork)
Leave a comment and I'll upload any of these songs for your aural pleasures.
(PS. Sorry for the lazy post. I haven't been sleeping well lately.)
December 7, 2005
I give up.
Sorry forearms. You'll be working overtime this week.
I have this awkward period of time before my class witth Footsie Boy on Tuesdays. There's like, an hour and 10 minutes inbetween classes. Take into account fifteen minutes walking back from class and a ten minute walk to my next class, if I go home for lunch I really only have fortyfive minutes, which is still kind of awkward amount of time, even when taking lunch into account.
Today I decided to grab a quick lunch at the Union and spend that lunch period in the library, getting some reading done. As I was walking up the stairs, I hear this loud bounding, someone leaping up multiple stairs in one step. I look down the spiral staircase, and its Footsie Boy. He recognizes me before I recognize him.
"Hey"
"Oh, hey"
"I don't know if I'll be in class, but I'll see you around"
And with that, he opened the door and whooshed through. He was in a hurry, but I don't know for what. I didn't have a chance to say "See ya" or "ok" or whatever I would have said in that situation. I took a note of which floor he went in, and continued on my way.
After about five minutes of pretending to study, I got really bored. For some reason, I decided to go search out Footsie Boy. I found him in one of the cages, the one right next to the sketchy bathrooms.
(A geographic note: Lining the walls of the stacks are desks with wire doors. Grad students are given keys to be able to keep their stuff there while doing their studies (though there are always some extra), and they're notorious, especially on the upper upper floors, for public sex. Once you hang your coat on the door, you're pretty much golden. Also, every floor has a single person bathroom in the back corner. One some floors the doors have locks, which makes them popular with for craigslist encounters.)
While walking, I saw him, and saw that his door was left open and he was studying. I wasn't sure if he saw me or not, but I just kept on walking and went to the bathroom, where I checked my hair and tried desperately to put myself in a mental position to put myself in a physical position, should he follow me in the room.
He didn't. And as I stood there in that small, somewhat decrepit bathroom, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I walked out, quickly, and went to class, arriving in the room about 15 minutes early.
I watched the door, half working on the crossword in the school newspaper. Ten minutes pass by, and he's not here yet. Five more minutes, and class is starting, and he's not there. Five minutes into class, some fat guy plomps up the stairs and sits in the spot I'm saving for Footsie Boy, just in case. I say "Seat's taken" to which he replies "Class has started" and moves my stuff out of the way anyway.
UUUrrrgghh. He's chubby, with a really round boyish face, which he offsets by growing a long goatee, big grey-red bush growing off his chin like a chia pet. His body odor makes me sad.
But what makes me even sadder is seeing Footsie Boy entering, just as fat guy is sitting down. Fuck Fuck Fuck.
I don't catch eye contact, but he sits in the open spot directly in front of me. I stick my foot out slightly, and he puts his backpack down on top of it. He whispers "sorry," turning his head slightly, but I'm not sure he realizes it's me. He gets out his stuff and sits forward, taking notes on the postmodernism of 90s television.
This picture has nothing to do with anything.
I stick my foot out, and try lightly kicking his chair, sliding my shoe into the crack in the chair's back. I can't get enough of my adidas all-stars in there, so I can't tell if he can feel my advances or not. He occasionally holds his head upright with his arm, and I think he glances in my direction, but I can't tell.
Only ten minutes left in the class, and we get our first viewing. Lights out. Moment of truth. He leans back in his chair, getting closer, yet still an awkward distance.
The back of his head isn't very attractive. His ears seem to stick out more from a backward angle. I stick my hand out, lazily off the front of the desk, trying to play suave. I lightly trace my fingers on the back of his neck, feeling the awkward hairs that trace down the sides of his neck that signify that he needs a trim.
I trace my hands, twinkle my fingertips. No real response, either positive or negative. I keep going, grazing my fingers along the edge of his sweatshirt, up to his jawline. I can't reach past his ear, and he's not budging to make it easier for me.
Clip ends. Lights up. My hand retreats. He slides back up to the table to continue taking notes.
Class is dismissed a few minutes early. We pack up our stuff, and walk down the steps and out the door, silent after our first "heys." He looks jaded today, face harsher, like a French existentialist, and not in a good way.
To top it off the French philophy movement comparison, he lights a cigarette as we exit the building. More awkward small talk, "How was your weekend" and "Have you started the paper yet?" with responses that don't really amount to anything.
We get to the corner and go our separate ways. I shout a "See ya" but he's already walking, the smoke from his cigarette magnified by the cold weather.
I'm done.
I have this awkward period of time before my class witth Footsie Boy on Tuesdays. There's like, an hour and 10 minutes inbetween classes. Take into account fifteen minutes walking back from class and a ten minute walk to my next class, if I go home for lunch I really only have fortyfive minutes, which is still kind of awkward amount of time, even when taking lunch into account.
Today I decided to grab a quick lunch at the Union and spend that lunch period in the library, getting some reading done. As I was walking up the stairs, I hear this loud bounding, someone leaping up multiple stairs in one step. I look down the spiral staircase, and its Footsie Boy. He recognizes me before I recognize him.
"Hey"
"Oh, hey"
"I don't know if I'll be in class, but I'll see you around"
And with that, he opened the door and whooshed through. He was in a hurry, but I don't know for what. I didn't have a chance to say "See ya" or "ok" or whatever I would have said in that situation. I took a note of which floor he went in, and continued on my way.
After about five minutes of pretending to study, I got really bored. For some reason, I decided to go search out Footsie Boy. I found him in one of the cages, the one right next to the sketchy bathrooms.
(A geographic note: Lining the walls of the stacks are desks with wire doors. Grad students are given keys to be able to keep their stuff there while doing their studies (though there are always some extra), and they're notorious, especially on the upper upper floors, for public sex. Once you hang your coat on the door, you're pretty much golden. Also, every floor has a single person bathroom in the back corner. One some floors the doors have locks, which makes them popular with for craigslist encounters.)
While walking, I saw him, and saw that his door was left open and he was studying. I wasn't sure if he saw me or not, but I just kept on walking and went to the bathroom, where I checked my hair and tried desperately to put myself in a mental position to put myself in a physical position, should he follow me in the room.
He didn't. And as I stood there in that small, somewhat decrepit bathroom, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I walked out, quickly, and went to class, arriving in the room about 15 minutes early.
I watched the door, half working on the crossword in the school newspaper. Ten minutes pass by, and he's not here yet. Five more minutes, and class is starting, and he's not there. Five minutes into class, some fat guy plomps up the stairs and sits in the spot I'm saving for Footsie Boy, just in case. I say "Seat's taken" to which he replies "Class has started" and moves my stuff out of the way anyway.
UUUrrrgghh. He's chubby, with a really round boyish face, which he offsets by growing a long goatee, big grey-red bush growing off his chin like a chia pet. His body odor makes me sad.
But what makes me even sadder is seeing Footsie Boy entering, just as fat guy is sitting down. Fuck Fuck Fuck.
I don't catch eye contact, but he sits in the open spot directly in front of me. I stick my foot out slightly, and he puts his backpack down on top of it. He whispers "sorry," turning his head slightly, but I'm not sure he realizes it's me. He gets out his stuff and sits forward, taking notes on the postmodernism of 90s television.
This picture has nothing to do with anything.
I stick my foot out, and try lightly kicking his chair, sliding my shoe into the crack in the chair's back. I can't get enough of my adidas all-stars in there, so I can't tell if he can feel my advances or not. He occasionally holds his head upright with his arm, and I think he glances in my direction, but I can't tell.
Only ten minutes left in the class, and we get our first viewing. Lights out. Moment of truth. He leans back in his chair, getting closer, yet still an awkward distance.
The back of his head isn't very attractive. His ears seem to stick out more from a backward angle. I stick my hand out, lazily off the front of the desk, trying to play suave. I lightly trace my fingers on the back of his neck, feeling the awkward hairs that trace down the sides of his neck that signify that he needs a trim.
I trace my hands, twinkle my fingertips. No real response, either positive or negative. I keep going, grazing my fingers along the edge of his sweatshirt, up to his jawline. I can't reach past his ear, and he's not budging to make it easier for me.
Clip ends. Lights up. My hand retreats. He slides back up to the table to continue taking notes.
Class is dismissed a few minutes early. We pack up our stuff, and walk down the steps and out the door, silent after our first "heys." He looks jaded today, face harsher, like a French existentialist, and not in a good way.
To top it off the French philophy movement comparison, he lights a cigarette as we exit the building. More awkward small talk, "How was your weekend" and "Have you started the paper yet?" with responses that don't really amount to anything.
We get to the corner and go our separate ways. I shout a "See ya" but he's already walking, the smoke from his cigarette magnified by the cold weather.
I'm done.
December 6, 2005
My forearm hurts.
Fingers crossed, everyone. I play footsie with the boy in class this afternoon.
If all goes well, I'll probably be too busy to write a decent post for tomorrow.
If all goes to pot, well, I'll probably be too busy with the petit mort (see sample, second row far right) to write a decent post for tomorrow, too.
I mean, it's not like I played footsie with a boy yesterday, but this post isn't exactly my best.
If all goes well, I'll probably be too busy to write a decent post for tomorrow.
If all goes to pot, well, I'll probably be too busy with the petit mort (see sample, second row far right) to write a decent post for tomorrow, too.
I mean, it's not like I played footsie with a boy yesterday, but this post isn't exactly my best.
December 5, 2005
Fortune Cookie Say
Once again, I found myself at the sketchy Chinese Buffet for dinner this weekend and this time no one I once had a crush on was there to see me gorge myself on wontons and deliciously fattening buttered potatoes. It was wonderful, and I'll probably have to buy a new pair of jeans with a little more give to compensate.
While my fortune cookie was accurate (or at least I'd like to think so), I have to wait and see how things go with footsie guy in class tomorrow to see just how accurate the fortune turns out to be. It would be 'fortunate' for me to find out, though. (Yeah, I groaned too)
Versatility is one of your outstanding traits (in bed).
EDIT:: Maybe I'm just not that talented
While my fortune cookie was accurate (or at least I'd like to think so), I have to wait and see how things go with footsie guy in class tomorrow to see just how accurate the fortune turns out to be. It would be 'fortunate' for me to find out, though. (Yeah, I groaned too)
Versatility is one of your outstanding traits (in bed).
EDIT:: Maybe I'm just not that talented
December 1, 2005
Riiiiiiing!
Do you know what's worse than having the fire alarm go off at 11:30 at night?
Standing out in the cold, huddled like masses yearning to be free from the tyranny of 21 degree weather.
And then.... waiting ten minutes for the fire truck to come. It would have been faster if we would have walked to the fire station and gotten the hoses ourself.
(Actually, the alarm went off because another one of the new ovens installed this summer malfunctioned. Second time it's happened this semester. We were never in any real danger. However, we have fancy new fire alarms that require that someone from the fire station turn it off. No one at the building has the ability to turn off the alarm.)
What's worse is the fact that the firetrucks turned the wrong way on our street, and we watched them drive away.
To top it off, once the fire truck realized its mistake, a few blocks down, they decided to do a Y-turn and got stuck in the process, blocking off the road, just sitting there in the middle of the road, turning its wheels and inching back to make its way over to our place to turn off our fire alarm.
And then it began to snow.
And you know what's even worse?
No cute firemen.
Standing out in the cold, huddled like masses yearning to be free from the tyranny of 21 degree weather.
And then.... waiting ten minutes for the fire truck to come. It would have been faster if we would have walked to the fire station and gotten the hoses ourself.
(Actually, the alarm went off because another one of the new ovens installed this summer malfunctioned. Second time it's happened this semester. We were never in any real danger. However, we have fancy new fire alarms that require that someone from the fire station turn it off. No one at the building has the ability to turn off the alarm.)
What's worse is the fact that the firetrucks turned the wrong way on our street, and we watched them drive away.
To top it off, once the fire truck realized its mistake, a few blocks down, they decided to do a Y-turn and got stuck in the process, blocking off the road, just sitting there in the middle of the road, turning its wheels and inching back to make its way over to our place to turn off our fire alarm.
And then it began to snow.
And you know what's even worse?
No cute firemen.
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