Let’s pretend I had a lot of homework to do this weekend, say, a three hundred page novel about a trannie communist, the rest of that godawful book I mentioned in a previous post, an article called "I am Your Sister: Black Women Organizing across Sexualities" and starting a paper or two.
So how would I spend a majority of my time on Friday and Saturday?
Reading Harold Bloom, of course. Almost two thousand pages of him.
I suppose I brought this upon myself. Being a GLBT minor, and taking classes like Identity in a Pre-Stonewall America and Race and Sexuality in 20th C American Literature, opens me up to all sorts of whiny "EarthMama" angry lesbian diatribes. But I'm talking about all of my literature classes, not just the ones for GLBT credit.
Which is why I read Harold Bloom, probably the most important literary critic of our time. One of Harold Bloom’s principle philosophies (to date, he has written 21 books and over 500 critical essays, and I make absolutely no claim to be familiar with the majority) is that literature, especially in the university setting, has become inundated by the isms: Feminism, Marxism, Deconstruction, Race-Relations, Neo-Historicism, post-moderism, et all. Bloom also argues vehemently against Foucault’s (idiotic) insistence of the death of the author. But that’s not really the point.
My argument is that I really like dead white guys, and I’m sick of people reclaiming the Canon. Everything I read nowadays is by ‘afrikanamerikan’ women of color, transsexual Asians, Latina “EarthMamas” and Costa-Rican prostitutes.
Barring any sort of amazing scheduling for next semester, I will graduate from a prestigious university (rated 18th in the world) with a degree in English and I will have never read the following people: Charles Dickens, Geoffrey Chaucer, Jane Austen, Stephen Crane, the Brontes, Wallace Stevens, Thomas Mann, Henry James, Flannery O’Conner, Ralph Ellison, Longfellow, the list goes on. Add to that list the people who I have read on my own, and not through school; Whitman, George Eliot, Yeats, Iris Murdoch, Gertrude Stein, Elizabeth Bishop, Shaw, Thomas Hardy, Forester, James Joyce, John Updike, and Tony Kushner. (Being a English major, I'm limited to only American and English liturature, and so I've resigned to never studying Dostoevsky, Rimbaud, Montaigne, Dante, Ibsen or Chekov. At least not until grad school.)
I have, however, read Zami: a Biomythology twice. I will have read three books by Minnie Bruce Pratt. I will have read Indian coming out stories, bad, bad fiction, Chicana whining, and writings by radical Lesbians of color.
Which is why I cling to Harold Bloom so much, the great champion of the classical Canon. Sure, it's a bit outdated, just like Harold Bloom (an aging, bumbling English professor too set in his ways to change). But I agree with him that literature is being overrun by 'cultural studies,' 'minority reclamation' and 'political' works. I want the classics. I want to cleanse my pallet from the blind, African-American Lesbians (Zami) and the half-Chicana biracial "EarthMamas" (Cherrie Morraga). I want good shit. I want the classics. I want the dead white guys.
Of course, if they’re cute and alive, I want them, too.
February 28, 2006
February 27, 2006
Incredibly NSFW text.
So this guy walks into a talent agency, and says that he has this great new act, one that’ll blow everyone away. One of the talent agents had a cancellation, so the secretary penciled him in and showed him to the talent agent’s office.
The agent rises, shakes his hand, and asks what this great new act is.
"Well, it’s a family act."
"I don’t know. Family acts are on their way out."
"No, no no. You’ve never seen a family act like this, I swear. This one’ll blow you out of the water. Honest to goodness."
The talent agent nods his head, and asks what’s so great about this act.
"All right, so it’s a family act, so me, my pregnant wife, and our two kids come out in these hospital gowns. They strap my wife onto a gurney, and she starts to give birth. My son lies on the floor, mouth wide open, catching the placenta and all the extra juices. The baby’s head pops out, and my daughter has a towel ready and wipes off the infant’s face. I lift up my hospital gown and stick my cock in the baby’s mouth, trying to fuck the baby back in while my wife is trying to pop the child out.
While this is happening, my daughter and son go off and get the film projector ready. They’ve been working on this cartoon of Muhammad, wearing go-go boots, neon-pink hot pants, a “No One Knows I Suck Dick” tanktop, a rainbow turban and a feather boa. He strips, and there’s hair everywhere, to the point where you can’t really make out his penis, which is pretty small anyway, and just starts jerking it. That video plays on loop for a while.
All right. My wife’s trying to have a child, and I’m fucking the infant’s face. I get a little too violent and the baby’s head pops off. I grab the head and grab an ice cream scoop, reach in and start scooping up the baby’s brains and flinging them at the audience. (The first few rows have garbage bags to protect themselves, like a Gallagher show.) When the baby’s head is more or less empty, I set it on the floor and take a dump in the head. It’s a pretty creamy load. My wife gets off the hospital gurney and takes a dump in the baby’s head, and lets all the excess juices drip back into the baby. My two kids come and take dumps in the baby’s head. I take the ice cream scoop and stir it all together, so it’s a nice even consistency.
My daughter wheels out grandma, who’s naked and in a wheelchair. My son brings out a xylophone, and he sticks a mallet in grandma’s cootch. She leans back, opens her legs and starts playing “Dixie” with her vaginal muscles.
My son goes and brings out his cousin, who’s got down syndrome (it’s kind of sad, really) and my wife and I spread the crap all over his face and arms, into blackface, and then he goes to the front of the stage and starts singing “Swanee’ with a big grin of his face and does a little dance that he’s been working on.
He sees a seeing eye dog in the audience and gets all excited. He goes to pet the dog, not realizing that we’ve stuck hot dogs and steaks into his back pocket. The dog goes berserk, and starts tearing away huge chunks of my nephew’s flesh. My nephew is screaming really loudly for his mother, but we can’t really understand him because his pronunciation isn’t very good.
While this is going on, my son and daughter goes out into the audience and try to find the most Jewish looking person they can find. They knock him on his head and drag him to the stage. We have a cross on the middle of the stage, and we strip him and nail him up, making sure to hit the wrist and not the palms. We spin him around, like on Wheel of Fortune, and he lands on torture.
We remove all of his fingernails, and fill his anus with miniature driedels. My son is on the foot of the stage with a blender, making a pork and cheese milkshake. He breaks open the Jew’s jaw and pours the concoction down his throat. My daughter goes through his wallet, takes out all of his money, takes the wad of bills and lights them on fire in front of the Jew, which makes him scream out a lot louder than he was before. She uses the flaming wad of money to light the Jewish man’s beard on fire. My son vomits out the placenta to put out the fire.
While this is going on, my wife comes back onto the stage with a shovel and two corpses, those of her mother and father. She wheels a laboratory onto the stage, and sets up the two bodies. My son and daughter strip down, while I attach electrical cords to their nipples, balls, and anuses. My daughter drops to her knees and starts sucking off my son. Once my son is nice and hard, he throws her off of him, and starts fucking her up the ass. The friction travels through the wires to a generator, and once it reaches a fever pitch, the turbine starts working into overdrive, and it’s kind of like in Frankenstein, with the lightning bolt, except this time the electricity comes from the force of my son’s fucking. My son starts smacking her face and choking her while he’s fucking her. She passes out, and hits her head. She's got this big gash on the side of her head, and my son scoops up some of the blood, pulls his dick out of her, and uses it for lube. He keeps fucking her, hard.
My parents-in-law come to life, stand up, and go to the front of the stage and start fucking. His penis falls off while he’s inside her, and so he turns around and bends over. She queefs, and shoots out his penis and it goes right into his anus. He farts, and sends it right back into her vagina. They keep on doing that for a while, until the friction starts to be too much, and the penis lights on fire. My mother- and father-in-law crotches are on fire, and the fire spreads to their entire bodies, and they jump out and run around the aisles of the audience, screaming in this weird jibberish that sorta will remind you of the Japanese after we dropped the bomb.
All right. Mohammad’s jerking off on the screen, my mother has started playing a song she’s written in the memory of Hitler on the xylophone, my nephew’s blackfaced remains are being eaten by a seeing eye dog, the Jew is screaming on the cross, renouncing his religion, my parents in law are running around like little children in Hiroshima, and my son is fucking my daughter, who has by now passed out.
I reach down and pick up the fetus that’s been lying on the floor this whole time. I rip off the baby’s leg, and take a big bite out of the flesh. The muscles are still kind of tinuey, but I’m able to chew them and blow bubbles with the flesh. While I’m blowing bubbles, I walk over and force my cock down my unconscious daughter’s mouth. I start fucking her face. I drag her limp, lifeless body over to my son and my wife. My wife starts eating out my daughter’s cooch while I’m fucking my daughter’s face. I put out, and start peeing in my daughter’s mouth, and occasionally spray my wife with some of my urine. I get up and walk over to my son, who’s still fucking my wife. I grab some Crisco, smear it on my forearm, and slam it into him. I fish in deeply, spreading his anus, grab some flesh, and rip out his lower intestine. I pull out about twenty feet of his intestine, and start to jump rope with it, still blowing bubbles with my child’s muscle.
And now, for the big finish.
On the screen, Muhammad starts to cum in rainbow torrents. My son cums with such force, it travels through my wife, out her mouth, into my daughter’s pussy, and out her mouth like a fountain. I stop jumping rope, walk over, and take a drink.
I walk to the front of the stage, complete with milk mustache, and take a bow. Taa-daa!"
The talent agent just sits there, in the fetal position, sucking his thumb and pressing the silent alarm, waiting for security to come.
"Iii… Wha…my…Wha—What do you call thi...this...?"
"The Aristocrats!"
The agent rises, shakes his hand, and asks what this great new act is.
"Well, it’s a family act."
"I don’t know. Family acts are on their way out."
"No, no no. You’ve never seen a family act like this, I swear. This one’ll blow you out of the water. Honest to goodness."
The talent agent nods his head, and asks what’s so great about this act.
"All right, so it’s a family act, so me, my pregnant wife, and our two kids come out in these hospital gowns. They strap my wife onto a gurney, and she starts to give birth. My son lies on the floor, mouth wide open, catching the placenta and all the extra juices. The baby’s head pops out, and my daughter has a towel ready and wipes off the infant’s face. I lift up my hospital gown and stick my cock in the baby’s mouth, trying to fuck the baby back in while my wife is trying to pop the child out.
While this is happening, my daughter and son go off and get the film projector ready. They’ve been working on this cartoon of Muhammad, wearing go-go boots, neon-pink hot pants, a “No One Knows I Suck Dick” tanktop, a rainbow turban and a feather boa. He strips, and there’s hair everywhere, to the point where you can’t really make out his penis, which is pretty small anyway, and just starts jerking it. That video plays on loop for a while.
All right. My wife’s trying to have a child, and I’m fucking the infant’s face. I get a little too violent and the baby’s head pops off. I grab the head and grab an ice cream scoop, reach in and start scooping up the baby’s brains and flinging them at the audience. (The first few rows have garbage bags to protect themselves, like a Gallagher show.) When the baby’s head is more or less empty, I set it on the floor and take a dump in the head. It’s a pretty creamy load. My wife gets off the hospital gurney and takes a dump in the baby’s head, and lets all the excess juices drip back into the baby. My two kids come and take dumps in the baby’s head. I take the ice cream scoop and stir it all together, so it’s a nice even consistency.
My daughter wheels out grandma, who’s naked and in a wheelchair. My son brings out a xylophone, and he sticks a mallet in grandma’s cootch. She leans back, opens her legs and starts playing “Dixie” with her vaginal muscles.
My son goes and brings out his cousin, who’s got down syndrome (it’s kind of sad, really) and my wife and I spread the crap all over his face and arms, into blackface, and then he goes to the front of the stage and starts singing “Swanee’ with a big grin of his face and does a little dance that he’s been working on.
He sees a seeing eye dog in the audience and gets all excited. He goes to pet the dog, not realizing that we’ve stuck hot dogs and steaks into his back pocket. The dog goes berserk, and starts tearing away huge chunks of my nephew’s flesh. My nephew is screaming really loudly for his mother, but we can’t really understand him because his pronunciation isn’t very good.
While this is going on, my son and daughter goes out into the audience and try to find the most Jewish looking person they can find. They knock him on his head and drag him to the stage. We have a cross on the middle of the stage, and we strip him and nail him up, making sure to hit the wrist and not the palms. We spin him around, like on Wheel of Fortune, and he lands on torture.
We remove all of his fingernails, and fill his anus with miniature driedels. My son is on the foot of the stage with a blender, making a pork and cheese milkshake. He breaks open the Jew’s jaw and pours the concoction down his throat. My daughter goes through his wallet, takes out all of his money, takes the wad of bills and lights them on fire in front of the Jew, which makes him scream out a lot louder than he was before. She uses the flaming wad of money to light the Jewish man’s beard on fire. My son vomits out the placenta to put out the fire.
While this is going on, my wife comes back onto the stage with a shovel and two corpses, those of her mother and father. She wheels a laboratory onto the stage, and sets up the two bodies. My son and daughter strip down, while I attach electrical cords to their nipples, balls, and anuses. My daughter drops to her knees and starts sucking off my son. Once my son is nice and hard, he throws her off of him, and starts fucking her up the ass. The friction travels through the wires to a generator, and once it reaches a fever pitch, the turbine starts working into overdrive, and it’s kind of like in Frankenstein, with the lightning bolt, except this time the electricity comes from the force of my son’s fucking. My son starts smacking her face and choking her while he’s fucking her. She passes out, and hits her head. She's got this big gash on the side of her head, and my son scoops up some of the blood, pulls his dick out of her, and uses it for lube. He keeps fucking her, hard.
My parents-in-law come to life, stand up, and go to the front of the stage and start fucking. His penis falls off while he’s inside her, and so he turns around and bends over. She queefs, and shoots out his penis and it goes right into his anus. He farts, and sends it right back into her vagina. They keep on doing that for a while, until the friction starts to be too much, and the penis lights on fire. My mother- and father-in-law crotches are on fire, and the fire spreads to their entire bodies, and they jump out and run around the aisles of the audience, screaming in this weird jibberish that sorta will remind you of the Japanese after we dropped the bomb.
All right. Mohammad’s jerking off on the screen, my mother has started playing a song she’s written in the memory of Hitler on the xylophone, my nephew’s blackfaced remains are being eaten by a seeing eye dog, the Jew is screaming on the cross, renouncing his religion, my parents in law are running around like little children in Hiroshima, and my son is fucking my daughter, who has by now passed out.
I reach down and pick up the fetus that’s been lying on the floor this whole time. I rip off the baby’s leg, and take a big bite out of the flesh. The muscles are still kind of tinuey, but I’m able to chew them and blow bubbles with the flesh. While I’m blowing bubbles, I walk over and force my cock down my unconscious daughter’s mouth. I start fucking her face. I drag her limp, lifeless body over to my son and my wife. My wife starts eating out my daughter’s cooch while I’m fucking my daughter’s face. I put out, and start peeing in my daughter’s mouth, and occasionally spray my wife with some of my urine. I get up and walk over to my son, who’s still fucking my wife. I grab some Crisco, smear it on my forearm, and slam it into him. I fish in deeply, spreading his anus, grab some flesh, and rip out his lower intestine. I pull out about twenty feet of his intestine, and start to jump rope with it, still blowing bubbles with my child’s muscle.
And now, for the big finish.
On the screen, Muhammad starts to cum in rainbow torrents. My son cums with such force, it travels through my wife, out her mouth, into my daughter’s pussy, and out her mouth like a fountain. I stop jumping rope, walk over, and take a drink.
I walk to the front of the stage, complete with milk mustache, and take a bow. Taa-daa!"
The talent agent just sits there, in the fetal position, sucking his thumb and pressing the silent alarm, waiting for security to come.
"Iii… Wha…my…Wha—What do you call thi...this...?"
"The Aristocrats!"
February 24, 2006
The Purge
During the 1962-3 school year at UW-Madison, men suspected or accused of being gay were contacted by the Department of Protection and Security, charged with homosexual conduct, questioned and threatened with suspension, expulsion, and criminal charges.
Tell me about the man who stole you.
Tell me about your thief.
Did he decode you like a ring
Or insist your skin held Braille
If you would please let him read?
Did he fill your head with sinister thoughts
Of a twisted misogyny--
Or just fill you with vaseline?
Tell me about the man who scammed you
Tell me about his deceit
Did he fill you with fictions
Addictions and visions
Of a manly hyperbole?
Did he want to keep things clean--
Or were you his latrine?
Tell me about the man who sacrificed you.
Tell me about your idolatry.
Late at night, before you went to sleep
Did he turn your heavenly prayers
Into something sin-filled and obscene?
Are you infected with plagues
More dangerous than any disease?
Was he your vaccine?
Tell me about the man who scored you.
Tell me about your athlete
Did he force you to your knees?
Did he turn you from a golden boy
Into a golden shower queen?
Were you once a solid oil painting
But now a watercolor scene?
Was he bedeviling?
Tell me.
Tell me about the man who stole you.
Tell me about your thief.
Did he decode you like a ring
Or insist your skin held Braille
If you would please let him read?
Did he fill your head with sinister thoughts
Of a twisted misogyny--
Or just fill you with vaseline?
Tell me about the man who scammed you
Tell me about his deceit
Did he fill you with fictions
Addictions and visions
Of a manly hyperbole?
Did he want to keep things clean--
Or were you his latrine?
Tell me about the man who sacrificed you.
Tell me about your idolatry.
Late at night, before you went to sleep
Did he turn your heavenly prayers
Into something sin-filled and obscene?
Are you infected with plagues
More dangerous than any disease?
Was he your vaccine?
Tell me about the man who scored you.
Tell me about your athlete
Did he force you to your knees?
Did he turn you from a golden boy
Into a golden shower queen?
Were you once a solid oil painting
But now a watercolor scene?
Was he bedeviling?
Tell me.
February 23, 2006
A Flor de Labios
One of the many things that sucks about minoring in GLBT studies is that it is obnoxiously lesbian-of-color centered, which means I have to put up with shit like this:
I don't know why, but after reading over one hundred fifty pages of such grandiose woman-centered, manhating, drivel, it was that sentence which I circled, wrote 'godawful' in the margins, and threw the book back into my backpack, deciding that it would pain me, mentally, physically, and spiritually, to finish reading this book.
Cherrie Moraga can suck my balls.
Except, as a dirty lesbian, she probably wouldn't.
A young man in the audience is outraged. He accuses me of feigning shamanhood, playing "some kind of curandera" role. I do not mind. He is only angry for he is white enough to move forward, effortlessly, into amerikanmanhood, and I am his earthmama, reeling him back in and forwards. Into darkness.
I don't know why, but after reading over one hundred fifty pages of such grandiose woman-centered, manhating, drivel, it was that sentence which I circled, wrote 'godawful' in the margins, and threw the book back into my backpack, deciding that it would pain me, mentally, physically, and spiritually, to finish reading this book.
Cherrie Moraga can suck my balls.
Except, as a dirty lesbian, she probably wouldn't.
February 22, 2006
Good, Bad, and Ugly.
Good: Having both Wednesdays and Fridays off is, theoretically, a good idea. I'm able to catch up on my sleep. I'm able to spend a few hours on homework without ruining my night or interrupting my day. Plus, I love rubbing it into other peoples faces. Plus, in case of bad weather, like last Thursday, it means I have a five day weekend, which is just plain obnoxious.
Bad: I feel really bad about wasting the day. It adds ammunition to my parents plea that I need a job. I usually end up sleeping til noon at least, then once I'm done eating, showering, checking up on email and blogs, and getting my fix on gay.com, it's close to dinnertime, and I've yet to accomplish anything.
I've even been known to watch 7 hours of the various Law & Order which are invariably marathoned on multiple cable stations on a daily basis.
Ugly: Just kidding about the ugly. Sure, Jerry Orbach and Richard Belzer aren't exactly going to be winning any beauty contests, but Christopher Meloni is a total DILF.
Bad: I feel really bad about wasting the day. It adds ammunition to my parents plea that I need a job. I usually end up sleeping til noon at least, then once I'm done eating, showering, checking up on email and blogs, and getting my fix on gay.com, it's close to dinnertime, and I've yet to accomplish anything.
I've even been known to watch 7 hours of the various Law & Order which are invariably marathoned on multiple cable stations on a daily basis.
Ugly: Just kidding about the ugly. Sure, Jerry Orbach and Richard Belzer aren't exactly going to be winning any beauty contests, but Christopher Meloni is a total DILF.
February 21, 2006
Sissy Boy Blues
Each night, too excited for sleep, I escape.
The car shifts into first, second, first again, and then park. I arrive and I am arrived.
It is landscapes and weather and vegetation as much as bodies. It is a second home.
I’m due for a moist trembling emotion, don’t you think?
The night covers my face, as anonymity turns to flesh.
The only light comes from the stars, glimmering like engagement rings that will stay in their boxes.
There is no choice but to salivate in the wings.
The hustler is a lifesaver in a world where silence equals death.
I find a street Adonis. He can turn Caravaggio into a bored pornographer, as far as I can tell.
It is all in my head anyway. We twitch like a nerve.
We fall into the grass; the flowers are our ambulances, shrieking violets, knowing our pain.
He shifts and opens into iconography, as I inhale and my heart relaxes.
The alkyl nitrites turn him into an exotic Christmas tree. I unwrap him.
My genitals are bounded and bandaged, wrapped like a mummy. I know better.
I kiss and multiply. I advanced and I am advanced. I motor.
Oscillations.
The stimulation tears at my heart and breaks it. My petit mort spreads and infects.
For several minutes the boy lays there, not realizing that man above and in him is that of a dead man.
He is not a participant, but a survivor.
This is a game where everyone loses.
The car shifts into first, second, first again, and then park. I arrive and I am arrived.
It is landscapes and weather and vegetation as much as bodies. It is a second home.
I’m due for a moist trembling emotion, don’t you think?
The night covers my face, as anonymity turns to flesh.
The only light comes from the stars, glimmering like engagement rings that will stay in their boxes.
There is no choice but to salivate in the wings.
The hustler is a lifesaver in a world where silence equals death.
I find a street Adonis. He can turn Caravaggio into a bored pornographer, as far as I can tell.
It is all in my head anyway. We twitch like a nerve.
We fall into the grass; the flowers are our ambulances, shrieking violets, knowing our pain.
He shifts and opens into iconography, as I inhale and my heart relaxes.
The alkyl nitrites turn him into an exotic Christmas tree. I unwrap him.
My genitals are bounded and bandaged, wrapped like a mummy. I know better.
I kiss and multiply. I advanced and I am advanced. I motor.
Oscillations.
The stimulation tears at my heart and breaks it. My petit mort spreads and infects.
For several minutes the boy lays there, not realizing that man above and in him is that of a dead man.
He is not a participant, but a survivor.
This is a game where everyone loses.
February 20, 2006
I Hope it Means My Body Is Too Bootylicious
So it turns out, I'll never know what "wanna head out tonite" means, if it's a polite request for a booty call, or an honest-to-god date, or drinks, or whatver.
Because he never called.
The bastard.
To top things off, I made the mistake of having some wine earlier in the evening. And some wine turned to more wine. And, since in vino veritas, when my friends asked what I was doing after dinner that night, I unfortunately told them. And I was excited, because I liked the guy, and it looked like he liked me, too. I was dressed in my cute new tshirt and my favorite pair of jeans and everything.
And so later, as the night grew darker and darker, and I started turning down refills of wine to make sure everything downstairs would work later, and so that I could answer the phone coherently when he did call. My friends, however, kept knocking them back. And kept asking me if he'd called yet, even though they were sitting in the same room as I was.
And you know, I'm fine with it. But being asked about it is pretty awful.
I did however, find this hot pic online, which is a much better way to end a post.
I don't know why, but this really pops my cork. Or grinds my gears. Or tickles my funny bone. Or strings my cheese. Or whatever odd saying you prefer. I like it.
Because he never called.
The bastard.
To top things off, I made the mistake of having some wine earlier in the evening. And some wine turned to more wine. And, since in vino veritas, when my friends asked what I was doing after dinner that night, I unfortunately told them. And I was excited, because I liked the guy, and it looked like he liked me, too. I was dressed in my cute new tshirt and my favorite pair of jeans and everything.
And so later, as the night grew darker and darker, and I started turning down refills of wine to make sure everything downstairs would work later, and so that I could answer the phone coherently when he did call. My friends, however, kept knocking them back. And kept asking me if he'd called yet, even though they were sitting in the same room as I was.
And you know, I'm fine with it. But being asked about it is pretty awful.
I did however, find this hot pic online, which is a much better way to end a post.
I don't know why, but this really pops my cork. Or grinds my gears. Or tickles my funny bone. Or strings my cheese. Or whatever odd saying you prefer. I like it.
February 17, 2006
Kool Thing, Walking Like a Panther
Again, I'm postponing the other whiny single post I had for this week. I was all ready to post it, but I've got other news for today.
I'm not sure if I should refer to him as the 'infamous' or the 'famous' or what his epithet should be, but CoolKid and I are going on a date.
I think.
I woke up this morning, and as soon as I take down my away message, I get the loud "incoming message" beep thing, which is quite imposing as the first thing I hear in the morning.
«CoolKid» hey Bob, wanna head out tonite??
I, of course, say sure.
He's going to call me after work. I'm not entirely sure what 'head out tonight' means, whether head out and chill with his friends, or if he and I are going to hit a bar together, or find a party, or head back to his place for an encore/second try. I mean, any would work for me.
«CoolKid» i need a break, ive been busting my ass with work and school the last 2 weeks
«CoolKid» i had 34 hours of overtime on my check today from the last few weeks
So that explains why he hasn't called (that, and his phone fell in the toilet) or how he's usually terrible with IM conversations, rarely sticking around for anything other than pleasantries. I'm just pleased that I didn't come on too strong before, and after our disastrous sexual encounter he's willing for a second go.
And this time, I'm going to bring along an extra trial-packet of normal lube. Fortunately, it's National Condom Week, and there's been a booth at the union handing out free condoms and lube. I'll just have to make sure to head out there (in the snow) and pick some up, and make sure its not going to make my penis feel like its going to fall off.
I'm not sure if I should refer to him as the 'infamous' or the 'famous' or what his epithet should be, but CoolKid and I are going on a date.
I think.
I woke up this morning, and as soon as I take down my away message, I get the loud "incoming message" beep thing, which is quite imposing as the first thing I hear in the morning.
«CoolKid» hey Bob, wanna head out tonite??
I, of course, say sure.
He's going to call me after work. I'm not entirely sure what 'head out tonight' means, whether head out and chill with his friends, or if he and I are going to hit a bar together, or find a party, or head back to his place for an encore/second try. I mean, any would work for me.
«CoolKid» i need a break, ive been busting my ass with work and school the last 2 weeks
«CoolKid» i had 34 hours of overtime on my check today from the last few weeks
So that explains why he hasn't called (that, and his phone fell in the toilet) or how he's usually terrible with IM conversations, rarely sticking around for anything other than pleasantries. I'm just pleased that I didn't come on too strong before, and after our disastrous sexual encounter he's willing for a second go.
And this time, I'm going to bring along an extra trial-packet of normal lube. Fortunately, it's National Condom Week, and there's been a booth at the union handing out free condoms and lube. I'll just have to make sure to head out there (in the snow) and pick some up, and make sure its not going to make my penis feel like its going to fall off.
February 16, 2006
Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other
There's been a bit of recent broo-ha-ha about Willie Nelson's release of a little ditty called "Cowboys are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other."
Being the cultural zeitgeist of the upper Midwest, I posted an earlier version of that song about three months ago, which was recorded about ten years ago by the queercore band Pansy Division. (lyrics)
And so, in the interest of riding this gay cowboy song wave while I'm working on a better post for tomorrow, (two whiny posts in a row about being single is too much, I'm guessing) I'm going to repost this song, via yousendit.com. Valid for one week, though I may repost it if I keep getting the requests.
Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other (mp3)
Rocknroll, everybody.
Being the cultural zeitgeist of the upper Midwest, I posted an earlier version of that song about three months ago, which was recorded about ten years ago by the queercore band Pansy Division. (lyrics)
And so, in the interest of riding this gay cowboy song wave while I'm working on a better post for tomorrow, (two whiny posts in a row about being single is too much, I'm guessing) I'm going to repost this song, via yousendit.com. Valid for one week, though I may repost it if I keep getting the requests.
Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other (mp3)
Rocknroll, everybody.
February 14, 2006
Fighting for the Rebound
For my English 630 class (Race and Sexuality in 20th Century American Literature) we're reading Bharati Mukherjee, who I find to be somewhat overrated, but whatever. I guess stories about sexually confused recent immigrants struggling with the "American" dream don't really do much for me. At any rate, one of the short stories is called "Fighting for the Rebound," and I guess the project of the piece, other than the middle class white man falling for the recent Indian imigrant narrative, is that after a certain age, everyone becomes the sum of their former (romantic) relationships. Not just who he is in his current relationship, but his whole life.
I'm single and it's Valentine's day. No real suprises, there. But I thought I'd follow Mukerjee's project, and see if I can identify the ways in which former relationships have influenced me, and what ex-boyfriends have taught me about myself. If I were a different sort of person, I would put this as the beginnings of a meme, but I won't, but if you want you're more than likely to follow this conceit.
Sure, there have been others, guys with whom I've gone on a date or two, or guys on whom I've had major crushes, and those crushes are what got me into trying beer for the first time, auditioning (and starring in) the school play my senior year (even though I was in a play at the local college at the same time) and just how much I'm willing to reveal of myself to guys online. But these are the few guys who you might remember.
I suppose a better, more encompassing view would be that we are the sum of all our relationships, familial, romantic, platonic, business, scholastic, et all. But that would take too long, and as it is, this is getting awfully deep, and I use that word in the "I'm a freshman in college and I'm taking a philosophy class and now my brain is blown and I feel the need to misuse the vocabulary in every single conversation I have and explain it to my friends using Matrix references because I feel much smarter than everyone else now that I'm taking this class."
Not that I'm thinking of anyone in particular when I write that. Certainly not my roommate's girlfriend (not the roommate/girlfriend of yesterday's post, but a different roommate). Definitely not her.
Maybe I should post a pic of some cute guys who are about to kiss.
Aaaahhh. That's a much better way to end a Valentine's Day post.
I'm single and it's Valentine's day. No real suprises, there. But I thought I'd follow Mukerjee's project, and see if I can identify the ways in which former relationships have influenced me, and what ex-boyfriends have taught me about myself. If I were a different sort of person, I would put this as the beginnings of a meme, but I won't, but if you want you're more than likely to follow this conceit.
Peter was my first boyfriend, and I found out just how clingy of a person I can be (though I like to think that all guys are like that with their first real relationship, especially if they've just come out). Also, just how much my self-worth is tied to relationships, and how I can blur the line between old-fashioned values and contemporary gay dating world and not feel guilty about anything. He was around when I came out to my family, and helped me construct my gay self as perceived by others, and to be less... secretive around my friends. Well, not secretive, but to realize just how much of my self is dictated by my sexual orientation, and that while my friends knew, it was ok to talk about it.
Heart taught me how easily I can be manipulated, and how much of myself I'm willing to give up for the other guy. Turns out, it's a lot. (It's not very comforting, knowing that you make someone a good abused wife someday.) It wasn't all bad, though, as Heart made me feel the most comfortable about my body (Toby's not the only twentysomething gay blogger with Body Dysmorphic Disorder).
Billy made me realize that I definitely don't suffer fools gladly, no matter how cute they are. He also brought me to my first gay bar and into the world of gay drama (his, not mine), both of which I quickly learned get too boring and repetitive for my tastes. I've also developed a more lassez-faire attitude towards other people's relationship through my interactions with Billy.
DPB and CoolKid taught me that I jump head over heels into infatuation way too easily, growing too comfortable on the first few dates, and getting too close too soon, scaring guys off. (That's what happened wth DPB, and what I'm pretty sure happened with CoolKid.)
Sure, there have been others, guys with whom I've gone on a date or two, or guys on whom I've had major crushes, and those crushes are what got me into trying beer for the first time, auditioning (and starring in) the school play my senior year (even though I was in a play at the local college at the same time) and just how much I'm willing to reveal of myself to guys online. But these are the few guys who you might remember.
I suppose a better, more encompassing view would be that we are the sum of all our relationships, familial, romantic, platonic, business, scholastic, et all. But that would take too long, and as it is, this is getting awfully deep, and I use that word in the "I'm a freshman in college and I'm taking a philosophy class and now my brain is blown and I feel the need to misuse the vocabulary in every single conversation I have and explain it to my friends using Matrix references because I feel much smarter than everyone else now that I'm taking this class."
Not that I'm thinking of anyone in particular when I write that. Certainly not my roommate's girlfriend (not the roommate/girlfriend of yesterday's post, but a different roommate). Definitely not her.
Maybe I should post a pic of some cute guys who are about to kiss.
Aaaahhh. That's a much better way to end a Valentine's Day post.
February 13, 2006
If this were a Garfield comic, I would mention how Monday the 13th is a good day this time
So I guess what Im saying is as of this line, ---------------- I can no longer conseder us together"
I come back from a pretty uneventful date sort of thing last night, (details maybe to come if I can't think of anything better later this week) to find a note taped on the door, with my roommate's name in chickenscratch.
I, of course, read it before I walk in the door.
It's hilarious. I never liked this girl, so I'm extremely pleased. I've noticed she hasn't been around in a few weeks, but I mostly thought that was because I had thrown a fit and had her banned from our floor. (If she lives in our building, there's no reason for her to stay in his bed and on our couch all day long while she had mono, taking showers in our bathroom and wiping her ugly pink hair dye on my towels, ruining them.)
I won't type up the entire thing again, as it hurts my eyes to read, her penmanship, her spelling and her grammar. Here's the annotated, edited jist of it.
I know you haven't returned any of my voicemails, and you walk the other way when you see me coming, and I know you said that you didn't want to see me anymore. But I think we need to talk, or really, I need to talk to you. I hate to do this in a letter, but you won't return any of my voicemails and you walk the other way when you see me coming. You are a very nice person and I like you as a friend, but as of this line ----------- I can no longer consider us together.
Today is going to be a good day.
February 9, 2006
My Meat is Murder!
Do you ever wake up somedays and feel more... pronounced than usual? Bigger even, as if your underwear is fitting more snugly than it usually does, especially in the front? Do you ever get get up out of bed, talk to your roommate a bit, head to the bathroom and realize that your visible penis line is one of two objects that can be seen from space (along with the Great Wall of China)? And then, after realizing why your roommate acted so weirdly earlier, you change into a different pair of underwear (a cute pair, white trunks with red trim) and realize that the white clingy fabric only makes it worse? Ever had trouble buttoning up a pair of jeans that didn't fit so snugly the day before?
If I were ever to take naked pictures of myself, today would be the day, since I'm busting out all over.
Not me, but you get the jist
I'm hoping this means that today is a good day. Maybe CoolKid will IM me and actually stay for an entire conversation (his IM etiquette leaves little to be desired, which makes it harder to schedule a followup). Or maybe Dorothy Parker Boy will come up to me in class and apologize for being a douche. Or maybe...
The male penis can continue growing until the age of 25. I already do pretty well in that region already, but who would say no to another inch or two?
If I were ever to take naked pictures of myself, today would be the day, since I'm busting out all over.
Not me, but you get the jistI'm hoping this means that today is a good day. Maybe CoolKid will IM me and actually stay for an entire conversation (his IM etiquette leaves little to be desired, which makes it harder to schedule a followup). Or maybe Dorothy Parker Boy will come up to me in class and apologize for being a douche. Or maybe...
The male penis can continue growing until the age of 25. I already do pretty well in that region already, but who would say no to another inch or two?
February 8, 2006
My Boyfriend
Yeah, I don't have anything for today. Fortunately, I can use YouTube, just like everyone else.
February 7, 2006
of eggs and eggshells
I have a poetry class that meets once a week. I've posted in the past about how there is a cute guy in that class with a beard who eyefucks me until my orifices bleed. In fact, the title of today's post comes from the title of the poem he wrote and had workshopped yesterday. It's not a very good poem.
Anyways...
I woke up late yesterday. I'd been sick all weekend, and am still taking it easy, more or less. I had trouble sleeping the night before, and consequently hit the snooze button more than I should. 11 o'clock is early.
I rushed to class, arriving with a few minutes to spare, only to find that someone had taken my spot. The bastard.
I had to sit on the other side of the conference table. The guy with the beard and his ugly lesbian friend came and walked through the door, sitting down next to him.
I don't know how familiar you guys are with Seinfeld, but there's an episode where one of them (I think George) dates a woman who only looks good in certain lighting. She and George sit in another booth in the restaurant so that she's nowhere near as garish as she is under less flattering light.
Beard guy is like that.
Sitting next to him, I realized that he doesn't have much of a profile, a hooked nose and a weak jaw. He grew the beard to compensate, which was a good idea, but only emphasized his baby face from the side. He practically cradled his pen while writing, as if he were afraid of breaking it, his pinkie practically lifted in an effeminate tea-sipping motion. He wrote in a flowery script, with superfluous curlicues covering the page to the point where looking over his shoulder, I couldn't make out his handwriting. He clandestinely put his hand down his pants often (at least four times which I saw) to adjust himself, to the point where I felt really weird sitting next to him.
Also, he kind of smelled.
Oh well.
T minus seven days until Valentines.
The rush is on.
Anyways...
I woke up late yesterday. I'd been sick all weekend, and am still taking it easy, more or less. I had trouble sleeping the night before, and consequently hit the snooze button more than I should. 11 o'clock is early.
I rushed to class, arriving with a few minutes to spare, only to find that someone had taken my spot. The bastard.
I had to sit on the other side of the conference table. The guy with the beard and his ugly lesbian friend came and walked through the door, sitting down next to him.
I don't know how familiar you guys are with Seinfeld, but there's an episode where one of them (I think George) dates a woman who only looks good in certain lighting. She and George sit in another booth in the restaurant so that she's nowhere near as garish as she is under less flattering light.
Beard guy is like that.
Sitting next to him, I realized that he doesn't have much of a profile, a hooked nose and a weak jaw. He grew the beard to compensate, which was a good idea, but only emphasized his baby face from the side. He practically cradled his pen while writing, as if he were afraid of breaking it, his pinkie practically lifted in an effeminate tea-sipping motion. He wrote in a flowery script, with superfluous curlicues covering the page to the point where looking over his shoulder, I couldn't make out his handwriting. He clandestinely put his hand down his pants often (at least four times which I saw) to adjust himself, to the point where I felt really weird sitting next to him.
Also, he kind of smelled.
Oh well.
T minus seven days until Valentines.
The rush is on.
February 6, 2006
Homo Schooled
If I've said it once, I've said it for the past three semesters, but this time, I'm pretty sure I mean it.
I have the gayest schedule possible.
To begin with, my schedule is tres sexy. No classes on Wednesdays or Fridays. (Tuesday nights are chicken nights at the local gay club, and since this is the number once party school in the universe, Thirsty Thursdays are more mandatory than you might think.) No classes before eleven. No classes that meet after 3:30. Not only that, I have less papers I need to write this year. More reading, but very few papers, and even fewer tests. It's a pretty awesome schedule; and I rub it into everyone's face. As Martha Stewart says, it's a good thing.
ENGLISH 302: Creative Writing. Poetry. Almost three times as many boys as girls in the class. 'Nuff said.
COM LIT 372: Shakespeare and the Invention of Modernity. Shakespeare was a total 'mo. Plus, all we do is read plays. The professor is gay, limp-wristed and everything.
ENGLISH 630: Race and Sexuality in 20th C American Literature. Mostly about transsexuals and whiny black lesbians in the south, but it's still pretty gay.
HISTORY 475: Topics in GLBT History: Sexuality and Identity in PostStonewall Society. Again, a lot about transsexuals and whiny lesbians, but still pretty gay.
CLASSICS 554: Classical Backgrounds to English Literature. We read translations of greek man/boy love, and then read poems with allude to the hot perversion.
I'm already designing my business cards for when I gradutate. So far, I think "Professional Homosexualist" has a nice ring to it, printed in a flowery font on hot-pink paper. I may or may not have them scented.
I have the gayest schedule possible.
To begin with, my schedule is tres sexy. No classes on Wednesdays or Fridays. (Tuesday nights are chicken nights at the local gay club, and since this is the number once party school in the universe, Thirsty Thursdays are more mandatory than you might think.) No classes before eleven. No classes that meet after 3:30. Not only that, I have less papers I need to write this year. More reading, but very few papers, and even fewer tests. It's a pretty awesome schedule; and I rub it into everyone's face. As Martha Stewart says, it's a good thing.
ENGLISH 302: Creative Writing. Poetry. Almost three times as many boys as girls in the class. 'Nuff said.
COM LIT 372: Shakespeare and the Invention of Modernity. Shakespeare was a total 'mo. Plus, all we do is read plays. The professor is gay, limp-wristed and everything.
ENGLISH 630: Race and Sexuality in 20th C American Literature. Mostly about transsexuals and whiny black lesbians in the south, but it's still pretty gay.
HISTORY 475: Topics in GLBT History: Sexuality and Identity in PostStonewall Society. Again, a lot about transsexuals and whiny lesbians, but still pretty gay.
CLASSICS 554: Classical Backgrounds to English Literature. We read translations of greek man/boy love, and then read poems with allude to the hot perversion.
I'm already designing my business cards for when I gradutate. So far, I think "Professional Homosexualist" has a nice ring to it, printed in a flowery font on hot-pink paper. I may or may not have them scented.
February 2, 2006
I Can Throw A Football Through A Tire Swing, Honest!
So I guess this story starts out, begrudgingly, like most of my posts about boys do.
I was chatting online this weekend, and started flirting with a guy who will be known as the Cool Kid, as his screen name implied just how cool he was. After a short little conversation, late on a Saturday night, I made the conscious decision that, you know, masturbation is losing its fun, I’m fucking breaking, if not broken, and when he asked if I would like to head over to his place to "watch a movie" I threw all caution to the wind and agreed. "Watch a movie" being the "Wanna come up to my place for a cup of coffee" for the college crowd. Sure, he had roommates, and didn’t have a TV in his bedroom yet (he’s subletting and just moved in a few days earlier) but what’s a few details?
I walked over to his place, conveniently located across the street from our favorite liquor store. I called when I was across the street, and he met me in the lobby to let me in. A little shorter than his picture led me to believe (I often don’t really realize my own height, and so I didn’t think much of my 6'2" to his 5'9") but still cute and weight proportionate. He’s half-Hawaiian, tan skin, dark hair, perpetual 5 o’clock shadow, dark eyes, and comes up to my shoulder.
His building is this massive, oppressive apartment building; with security that beats anything I’d ever seen. Not only were there cameras everywhere, on the porch, in the lobby, in the hallways, in the elevator, but channels 100-120 allowed anyone in the building to see who was around, who was drunk and passing out, who was bringing up a boy he met online up to his room for a late-night bout of hootchi-cootchi.
Up the elevator to his apartment. Pretty standard chit-chat, mostly about how it was drizzling out and he felt bad that I had to walk the few blocks to his place, and me shrugging it off, saying that bumping into random, festively drunk people on a Saturday night amused me enough to make up for it. Then explaining why I was home alone and online on a Saturday (one of my best friends had some friends from home visiting for the weekend, and I didn’t get along with them, so I politely excused myself from hitting the bars with them) and then why he was home alone (he got home from a long day of waiting on tables and wasn’t in the mood to hit the bars). My lips feel dry but I think it would feel too weird and forward of me to be putting on chapstick.
In his room, same room number as mine (first coincidence of the night). A pretty nice place, lots of foliage for a place with one straight-acting gay guy and three straight guys. A fair amount of cardboard boxes around, mostly empty. Pretty swanky place, overall. To the left, down the hall, last door. An awkwardly shaped room, lots of angles, only one 90*. Three alcoves, if such a thing is possible. Double bed, with a body pillow (have I told you how much I love body pillows?), an empty tv stand, a boombox on the dressers, lightly playing the local college station, a desk with books piled on top, with a desk light on and facing the wall, two candles lit (possibly vanilla), and a butterfly chair with some clothing piled haphazardly.
Continuing with the small talk. I take off my jacket and throw it on the butterfly chair, take off my ring and watch and stick them in my jeans pocket, and kick off my shoes. CoolKid sits on the bed, and I follow. He's an accounting major, all right brain. He doesn’t like going to the gay clubs either. He grew up in the small town where I went to school my freshman year before I transferred, and moved to a suburb of my hometown, working at my mall throughout high school. He’s a transfer student too, 24 years old, and graduating in a few months. He’s taken a few semesters off due to a family emergency and to make money. I brag about how I don’t have classes on Wednesdays and Fridays, mostly because I try and bring it up in every conversation and rub it into everyone else’s face. We’re sitting on the bed, and I scoot back on the bed, and we lie down together, on our sides, continuing our conversation. We still haven’t touched.
We have a few friends in common. Acquaintances, really, including one who just found out he was HIV+ the day earlier. We both felt kinda awkward since neither of us liked him, but still. Silence, and the specter of AIDS. Some crappy song came on the radio, and we talked about that. I lean towards him more, and let my knee rest against his. He mentions how he still feels kind of grimy, even though he took a shower after work. I reach over and run my fingers through his hair, saying he looked fine. He leans in, I lean in, mouths touch, tongues explore, except that explore is a dumb word to use in this situation. Soft lips, tasting of chapstick.
He rolls on top, the body pillow buffering us from the wall. We roll again, still kissing, deeply but not forcefully. His hands up my shirt, the small of my back. My hand still at his head, the other around this back. My hand reaches around, and up his shirt to his somewhat defined, hairless chest. He runs his hands on my jeans, tracing my outer then inner thighs. We’re still kissing. He reaches his hands up, and starts to lift up my shirt. Our kiss breaks for the first time, and I pull off my shirt while he helps somewhat, or at least tries to help. I throw my gray sweatshirt off the foot of the bed, then start to pull his red tshirt over his head, making him sit up in order to get it off. We kiss some more, my chesthair probably feeling scratchy against his chest.
Our hands explore downward. We unbutton buttons, we unzip flies. CoolKid tugs on my jeans, and I get up, stand at the foot of the bed, and let my jeans fall to my ankles, and step out of them as I grab his denim and start to pull, making his hips up to let the denim pass. He’s wearing grey boxers, I’m wearing grey trunks. As I pull off his jeans, I grab one of his socks and rip it off his foot, then take off his other sock, while I do that cool little thing taking off my socks without using my hands, sliding my toe between the elastic band and my hairy calves, sliding off one sock, then the other. I run my hands up his legs, under his boxers slightly but never touching his cock, climbing back onto the bed, on top of him. Dry humping, thrusting, kissing more. My right hand on his nipple, twiddling. I don’t really think he particularly likes this, but whatever. CoolKid grabs my ass as we frot, grinding our cocks together though the thin fabrics. He takes off my underwear first, and then I his. I don’t really take a look at his cock yet. We’re still dry humping, now cock to cock directly, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, legs somewhat intertwined.
I kiss my way down his body, spending more time on his nipple than I probably should, to his shaved cock. I prefer body hair, in all honesty. Too much attention to that sort of stuff just makes me feel uncomfortable. Trimming is fine, encouraged, even, but a shaved pubic reason always feels weird.
And his cock. Thick, uncut, or possibly cut with a bit left over. CoolKid’s is the first guy I’ve slept with with a cock as thick as mine, if not maybe a bit thicker. Not much foreskin, to the point where even now I’m not really sure if it was a sloppy circumcision or what. Big curve to it. We’re talking banana, 120* angle, give or take. (Later, he’ll tell me how he’s never been able to top a guy successfully, he’s either too thick, or can only slip it in an inch or two before the anal cavity doesn’t bend in ways to let his cock fully in.) Incredibly awkward to suck, but I manage. Not quite deep-throating, but I do my best.
I kiss my way up, and let him taste his precum on my lips and tongue. I roll off him, he slightly pushing me, as he makes his way down to reciprocate. Very nice. He comes back up, and we kiss, letting me taste my own precum. I get one of my pubic hairs in my mouth. I pull off of him, fish it out with my tongue, and protract it with my fingers. I show him, he’s only able to see it barely in the dimmed bedroom, and we giggle.
I kiss my way down again, this time putting my body at a t, hoping that this position will make sucking his cock easier. It doesn’t; the curve is still too awkward, too sharp an angle to glide down the throat easily. He runs his hands on my thighs, but is unable to grab my cock. After a minute or two, I get on all fours over him, my knees and calves somewhat cramped against the wall as my cock dangles over his mouth. We sixty-nine for a bit. I’m a bit too tall for this to work successfully, so I play with his taint and balls. (I think rimming is kind of gross.)
CoolKid’s got skills, he’s able to deepthroat and more, his lips extending over, grabbing some pubes, his nose pushing deep into my balls. It’s amazing. I give up on his cock, and just watch him go to town, grabbing more and more of mine. I lean up and straddle his face, amazed at his abilities. He starts to gag, taps my thigh a few times and I pull up. My cock never leaves his mouth, though, just a few seconds on the head before he pushes his head up and forward for more. Damn he’s good.
I lean down again, playing with his cock more, slipping my fingers down, tracing his ring, pushing gently against it. He’s really into it, letting my cock escape from his lips and starts grunting in a high-pitch. I climb off him, and start stroking his cock and playing with his taint. I align ourselves missionary again, and we dry-hump, this time my cock between his legs, poking at his scrotum as we hump (I am about 6 inches taller than him, after all.)
He whispers "One sec" and rolls over, scrounging under the bed. He can’t find his lube. He sits up and grabs his boxers. "I think my roommate has some in his bathroom. He’s asleep, let me go check." And he does, boxerclad, leaving the door slightly ajar as he leaves.
I try and position myself sexily, but in the end all I can think of is how much fun I’m having, and how... comfortable this all is. I don’t want to say that this feels ‘safe’ or like ‘home’ or anything dumb like that but it definitely feels...comfortable.
He returns, and I squirt some on my hands, and finger him for a while. One finger in, and he’s contorting. Gasps, little uh-huhs, little ohs. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex so I can’t be sure how accurate my gage is, but it feels tight. I try slipping in a second finger, and fail. I twist my hand around, feeling his ring expand and contract around my finger. I slip in my middle finger, and this time it works. I wish I would have cut my fingernails beforehand, but he doesn’t say anything, so I’m hoping it wasn’t a problem.
I remove my fingers, and squirt more lube in my hand, and stroke my cock, mixing the precum with the lube, which has a slight warming sensation.
“Do you want to wear something?”
“Huh? Oh yeah—I just usually put lube on first. Feels better.”
He rolls over and searches under his bed again. He pulls up a condom.
“I don’t think I have any extra-larges. Is just a regular ok?”
I say I’ve never tried an extra-large, so it should be no problem. I’m grinning like a motherfucker, because, well, it’s awesome that he thought I needed to use extra-larges.
So awesome.
I hate putting on condoms, if only because my hands are usually all lubey, but I’m able to rip it open with my teeth and slide on the condom. I squirt more lube in my hands, and apply liberally to my condomed cock. I rub the rest on his cock, stroking gently, getting him ready.
I lift his legs, and ready myself, only to find that I’m starting to go soft. Not completely soft, but after pressing against his hole I’m not rigid enough to get inside him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck panic mode sets in. Sure, it may happen to all men, but it doesn’t happen to me goddamnit motherfuck.
With his legs on my shoulders I start stroking, thinking of anything, of CoolKid, of Jake Gyllenhaal, of the videoclip of a really hot facial I downloaded the day earlier, anything, anything. This is not the way hookups are supposed to go, especially my first one. I’m a good boy. I am owed. This should be a scene right out of the Great Cock Hunt, not a commercial for Cialis. Fuck fuck.
I’m pretty sure he notices. I mean, how could he not? I’m not going to dignify this with words. He clears his throat.
"Maybe we should try a different position." If anything, his voice is warmer.
"Um, how about with me standing?"
"Like what?"
"Like I’m standing on the edge of the bed, and you’re at the edge, you know?"
He gets onto his hands and knees, his shins dangling off the side of the bed.
I get up, and stand at the ready. Even though it’s pretty dark in his room, lit only by a few candles and a lamp that’s pointed directly at the wall, I can still tell that this is a wonderful sight.
I’m standing, stroking my cock, starting to worry about the condom sliding off. No response. Jake Gyllenhaal, that hot video of a facial, former sex partners, nothing. I say, "You can get on your back. That’ll work too." I don't want him to get uncomfortable. I think I’m hard enough, and I push between his cheeks, but it keeps sliding around and not able to push through.
I sigh, exasperated, and climb onto the bed, on my back.
"I should’ve looked harder and found an extra large."
"No, I don’t think that’s it. I’ve never used an extra large." I don’t mention how I haven’t fucked a guy in almost 18 months, and how the male penis can keep growing until the age of 25, and I’ve always been somewhat thick, but that’s not relevant. "I don’t know what." I think about saying This has never happened to me before but I don’t. It’s just too dumb-sounding. I don’t want to be that guy.
I’m stroking, I grab more lube, hoping that will work. He straddles my thighs, one of his hands on my balls, the other on one of my nipples. I’m slapping my cock against his legs, gripping the base for a makeshift cock-ring, anything. The condom’s still on, I’ve never gone completely soft, but I’ve never been a good sturdy rock since we started trying.
I’m somewhat hard, and he climbs up and on. No luck. He starts to, I guess dry-hump, letting my cock slide between his legs, pumping at his scrotum, but to no avail. I half-heartedly play with his cock, which has grown flaccid. I sigh, and push him off of me, so that he lies next to me.
"I’m sorry. I just don’t… It just feels..."
"Are you sure it’s not the condom?"
"I’m pretty sure that’s not it. It’s like, I don’t know."
I roll the condom up and crumple it into a small ball and shove it back into its original wrapper, which is lying next to one of his pillows.
"Let’s just worry about you, ok?"
I sit up a bit, and reach my hand over to CoolKid’s groin, slipping past his balls and down to his hole. I tap my finger against his ring, and he doesn’t gasp this time.
I cock my head, and sit up more. I start pushing my finger in, but he’s still just lying there, not really responding. He motions for me to pull out, so I do and lie next to him, both of us staring at his ceiling.
"I’m feeling kind of... numb, I guess, down there." He says after a few seconds of breathing.
"Yeah, me too! That’s the word I was looking for. Something just wasn’t feeling right."
He grabs the lube, stands up, and makes his way to the lamp. He adjusts it, letting more light permeate the room.
"Maintain Desensitizing Lubricant. Blah blah …slightly deadens the nerve endings to give you staying power for all night long."
"Slightly deadens nerve endings?" I sit up as I ask the question.
"Slightly deadens the nerve endings." He sets the lube down on the desk, readjusts the lamp, and comes back to bed. I’m running my hand through my hair, trying to regain some composure, and he lies down, his head on my shoulder, turning his body towards mine. I extend my arm out, and wrap it around him. The nook.
He’s in the nook. He’s in my nook. He’s in my nook! I fucking love the nook. His head is dangerously close to my heart, we’re breathing in rhythm, his head is floating up and down as I breathe in and out.
I lean my head down, resting my face against the crown of his head. This definitely feels... comfortable. More than it probably should.
I break the silence. "Well, I guess that explains it."
"Yeah."
"I’m still kinda embarrassed, though."
"Why should you feel embarrassed? I feel embarrassed. I mean it was my stuff."
"No, it was your roommates. And I still feel dumb." I mean, after all, it was my flaccid cock. I didn’t say that, but I was thinking it pretty audibly.
He yawns. "So what are you doing tomorrow?"
"I dunno. I’ve got some homework I should be doing. A couple hour’s worth."
"Um... I work from 7-3, and then I should probably do some homework too, but nothing that important."
"You have to be at work at 7 AM tomorrow?" I looked over at his alarm clock and it’s almost 3. "I’ll leave and let you get some sleep." I’m pretty embarrassed, but not very tired. I’ve never been the kind of person who has sex and then turns over and falls asleep. I always get a second wind, which more than one former boyfriend has found annoying.
We get out of bed, and try to determine our clothing situation. He finds my socks, and throws them to me. I put on my underwear, and am trying to figure out which pair were my jeans when I realize that he’s getting dressed too.
"Why are you getting dressed? You should go to bed."
"I’ll walk you out."
"Aww… You don’t have to do that." I still grin, though.
"Nah, it’s no problem." Still grinning, and he is too.
I'm dressed before he is, and I make sure that the bathroom is the door right outside his room, to the right. "I just want to wash my hands. They’re still kind of lubey."
I’m washing my hands, looking at myself in the mirror. I’m not crushing on this guy. That’s not the way hookups work. I’m just trying to project a sense of connection to quell any sort of guilt I’m feeling about sleeping with a guybefore the first date I barely know. Right? Right?
He walks me out, and I’m still all apologies. I mean, what else can you say when your troops weren’t ready for battle? Sure, it may not be entirely my fault, but still: I saw, but I didn't conquer, and I certainly didn't come. He’s shrugging it off, a perfect gentleman, telling me not to worry about it. I’m suddenly super self-conscious, walking into the elevator and reminded of the cameras, and how everyone in the building could be watching us at that very moment.
We step off the elevator, and walking toward the lobby.
"I’ve got a fair amount of homework to do tomorrow, but if you call me and hang out or something, that'd be cool." I like the way CoolKid thinks. I’ll get a chance to redeem myself, but what’s more, I’ll get to see CoolKid again.
"Yeah, or I’m just doing homework tomorrow. Feel free to call me if you get bored or whatever."
We’re in the front lobby, right outside the doors. I fumble around, and can see three security cameras. I want to kiss him goodbye, and I’m pretty sure he wanted to kiss me goodbye too, but it just felt too weird.
Fortunately, two drunks, a girl in a dress and heels and a fairly unattractive black guy in a suit and corsage, bumped into the front door, the girl trying desperately to fit her key into the lock. She’s failing, miserably. They’re both laughing loudly.
We’re smiling, both smiling, and glad that they broke the tension. He says he’ll see me later, I say sweet dreams. I then open the door for the inebriated couple, and make my way home.
(NB--All artwork by the incomprable Steve Walker
Also, this post is almost 15 pages, double-spaced, in a word document. If you made it all the way through, good for you.)
I was chatting online this weekend, and started flirting with a guy who will be known as the Cool Kid, as his screen name implied just how cool he was. After a short little conversation, late on a Saturday night, I made the conscious decision that, you know, masturbation is losing its fun, I’m fucking breaking, if not broken, and when he asked if I would like to head over to his place to "watch a movie" I threw all caution to the wind and agreed. "Watch a movie" being the "Wanna come up to my place for a cup of coffee" for the college crowd. Sure, he had roommates, and didn’t have a TV in his bedroom yet (he’s subletting and just moved in a few days earlier) but what’s a few details?
I walked over to his place, conveniently located across the street from our favorite liquor store. I called when I was across the street, and he met me in the lobby to let me in. A little shorter than his picture led me to believe (I often don’t really realize my own height, and so I didn’t think much of my 6'2" to his 5'9") but still cute and weight proportionate. He’s half-Hawaiian, tan skin, dark hair, perpetual 5 o’clock shadow, dark eyes, and comes up to my shoulder.
His building is this massive, oppressive apartment building; with security that beats anything I’d ever seen. Not only were there cameras everywhere, on the porch, in the lobby, in the hallways, in the elevator, but channels 100-120 allowed anyone in the building to see who was around, who was drunk and passing out, who was bringing up a boy he met online up to his room for a late-night bout of hootchi-cootchi.
Up the elevator to his apartment. Pretty standard chit-chat, mostly about how it was drizzling out and he felt bad that I had to walk the few blocks to his place, and me shrugging it off, saying that bumping into random, festively drunk people on a Saturday night amused me enough to make up for it. Then explaining why I was home alone and online on a Saturday (one of my best friends had some friends from home visiting for the weekend, and I didn’t get along with them, so I politely excused myself from hitting the bars with them) and then why he was home alone (he got home from a long day of waiting on tables and wasn’t in the mood to hit the bars). My lips feel dry but I think it would feel too weird and forward of me to be putting on chapstick.
In his room, same room number as mine (first coincidence of the night). A pretty nice place, lots of foliage for a place with one straight-acting gay guy and three straight guys. A fair amount of cardboard boxes around, mostly empty. Pretty swanky place, overall. To the left, down the hall, last door. An awkwardly shaped room, lots of angles, only one 90*. Three alcoves, if such a thing is possible. Double bed, with a body pillow (have I told you how much I love body pillows?), an empty tv stand, a boombox on the dressers, lightly playing the local college station, a desk with books piled on top, with a desk light on and facing the wall, two candles lit (possibly vanilla), and a butterfly chair with some clothing piled haphazardly.
Continuing with the small talk. I take off my jacket and throw it on the butterfly chair, take off my ring and watch and stick them in my jeans pocket, and kick off my shoes. CoolKid sits on the bed, and I follow. He's an accounting major, all right brain. He doesn’t like going to the gay clubs either. He grew up in the small town where I went to school my freshman year before I transferred, and moved to a suburb of my hometown, working at my mall throughout high school. He’s a transfer student too, 24 years old, and graduating in a few months. He’s taken a few semesters off due to a family emergency and to make money. I brag about how I don’t have classes on Wednesdays and Fridays, mostly because I try and bring it up in every conversation and rub it into everyone else’s face. We’re sitting on the bed, and I scoot back on the bed, and we lie down together, on our sides, continuing our conversation. We still haven’t touched.
We have a few friends in common. Acquaintances, really, including one who just found out he was HIV+ the day earlier. We both felt kinda awkward since neither of us liked him, but still. Silence, and the specter of AIDS. Some crappy song came on the radio, and we talked about that. I lean towards him more, and let my knee rest against his. He mentions how he still feels kind of grimy, even though he took a shower after work. I reach over and run my fingers through his hair, saying he looked fine. He leans in, I lean in, mouths touch, tongues explore, except that explore is a dumb word to use in this situation. Soft lips, tasting of chapstick.
He rolls on top, the body pillow buffering us from the wall. We roll again, still kissing, deeply but not forcefully. His hands up my shirt, the small of my back. My hand still at his head, the other around this back. My hand reaches around, and up his shirt to his somewhat defined, hairless chest. He runs his hands on my jeans, tracing my outer then inner thighs. We’re still kissing. He reaches his hands up, and starts to lift up my shirt. Our kiss breaks for the first time, and I pull off my shirt while he helps somewhat, or at least tries to help. I throw my gray sweatshirt off the foot of the bed, then start to pull his red tshirt over his head, making him sit up in order to get it off. We kiss some more, my chesthair probably feeling scratchy against his chest.
Our hands explore downward. We unbutton buttons, we unzip flies. CoolKid tugs on my jeans, and I get up, stand at the foot of the bed, and let my jeans fall to my ankles, and step out of them as I grab his denim and start to pull, making his hips up to let the denim pass. He’s wearing grey boxers, I’m wearing grey trunks. As I pull off his jeans, I grab one of his socks and rip it off his foot, then take off his other sock, while I do that cool little thing taking off my socks without using my hands, sliding my toe between the elastic band and my hairy calves, sliding off one sock, then the other. I run my hands up his legs, under his boxers slightly but never touching his cock, climbing back onto the bed, on top of him. Dry humping, thrusting, kissing more. My right hand on his nipple, twiddling. I don’t really think he particularly likes this, but whatever. CoolKid grabs my ass as we frot, grinding our cocks together though the thin fabrics. He takes off my underwear first, and then I his. I don’t really take a look at his cock yet. We’re still dry humping, now cock to cock directly, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, legs somewhat intertwined.
I kiss my way down his body, spending more time on his nipple than I probably should, to his shaved cock. I prefer body hair, in all honesty. Too much attention to that sort of stuff just makes me feel uncomfortable. Trimming is fine, encouraged, even, but a shaved pubic reason always feels weird.
And his cock. Thick, uncut, or possibly cut with a bit left over. CoolKid’s is the first guy I’ve slept with with a cock as thick as mine, if not maybe a bit thicker. Not much foreskin, to the point where even now I’m not really sure if it was a sloppy circumcision or what. Big curve to it. We’re talking banana, 120* angle, give or take. (Later, he’ll tell me how he’s never been able to top a guy successfully, he’s either too thick, or can only slip it in an inch or two before the anal cavity doesn’t bend in ways to let his cock fully in.) Incredibly awkward to suck, but I manage. Not quite deep-throating, but I do my best.
I kiss my way up, and let him taste his precum on my lips and tongue. I roll off him, he slightly pushing me, as he makes his way down to reciprocate. Very nice. He comes back up, and we kiss, letting me taste my own precum. I get one of my pubic hairs in my mouth. I pull off of him, fish it out with my tongue, and protract it with my fingers. I show him, he’s only able to see it barely in the dimmed bedroom, and we giggle.
I kiss my way down again, this time putting my body at a t, hoping that this position will make sucking his cock easier. It doesn’t; the curve is still too awkward, too sharp an angle to glide down the throat easily. He runs his hands on my thighs, but is unable to grab my cock. After a minute or two, I get on all fours over him, my knees and calves somewhat cramped against the wall as my cock dangles over his mouth. We sixty-nine for a bit. I’m a bit too tall for this to work successfully, so I play with his taint and balls. (I think rimming is kind of gross.)
CoolKid’s got skills, he’s able to deepthroat and more, his lips extending over, grabbing some pubes, his nose pushing deep into my balls. It’s amazing. I give up on his cock, and just watch him go to town, grabbing more and more of mine. I lean up and straddle his face, amazed at his abilities. He starts to gag, taps my thigh a few times and I pull up. My cock never leaves his mouth, though, just a few seconds on the head before he pushes his head up and forward for more. Damn he’s good.
I lean down again, playing with his cock more, slipping my fingers down, tracing his ring, pushing gently against it. He’s really into it, letting my cock escape from his lips and starts grunting in a high-pitch. I climb off him, and start stroking his cock and playing with his taint. I align ourselves missionary again, and we dry-hump, this time my cock between his legs, poking at his scrotum as we hump (I am about 6 inches taller than him, after all.)
He whispers "One sec" and rolls over, scrounging under the bed. He can’t find his lube. He sits up and grabs his boxers. "I think my roommate has some in his bathroom. He’s asleep, let me go check." And he does, boxerclad, leaving the door slightly ajar as he leaves.
I try and position myself sexily, but in the end all I can think of is how much fun I’m having, and how... comfortable this all is. I don’t want to say that this feels ‘safe’ or like ‘home’ or anything dumb like that but it definitely feels...comfortable.
He returns, and I squirt some on my hands, and finger him for a while. One finger in, and he’s contorting. Gasps, little uh-huhs, little ohs. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex so I can’t be sure how accurate my gage is, but it feels tight. I try slipping in a second finger, and fail. I twist my hand around, feeling his ring expand and contract around my finger. I slip in my middle finger, and this time it works. I wish I would have cut my fingernails beforehand, but he doesn’t say anything, so I’m hoping it wasn’t a problem.
I remove my fingers, and squirt more lube in my hand, and stroke my cock, mixing the precum with the lube, which has a slight warming sensation.
“Do you want to wear something?”
“Huh? Oh yeah—I just usually put lube on first. Feels better.”
He rolls over and searches under his bed again. He pulls up a condom.
“I don’t think I have any extra-larges. Is just a regular ok?”
I say I’ve never tried an extra-large, so it should be no problem. I’m grinning like a motherfucker, because, well, it’s awesome that he thought I needed to use extra-larges.
So awesome.
I hate putting on condoms, if only because my hands are usually all lubey, but I’m able to rip it open with my teeth and slide on the condom. I squirt more lube in my hands, and apply liberally to my condomed cock. I rub the rest on his cock, stroking gently, getting him ready.
I lift his legs, and ready myself, only to find that I’m starting to go soft. Not completely soft, but after pressing against his hole I’m not rigid enough to get inside him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck panic mode sets in. Sure, it may happen to all men, but it doesn’t happen to me goddamnit motherfuck.
With his legs on my shoulders I start stroking, thinking of anything, of CoolKid, of Jake Gyllenhaal, of the videoclip of a really hot facial I downloaded the day earlier, anything, anything. This is not the way hookups are supposed to go, especially my first one. I’m a good boy. I am owed. This should be a scene right out of the Great Cock Hunt, not a commercial for Cialis. Fuck fuck.
I’m pretty sure he notices. I mean, how could he not? I’m not going to dignify this with words. He clears his throat.
"Maybe we should try a different position." If anything, his voice is warmer.
"Um, how about with me standing?"
"Like what?"
"Like I’m standing on the edge of the bed, and you’re at the edge, you know?"
He gets onto his hands and knees, his shins dangling off the side of the bed.
I get up, and stand at the ready. Even though it’s pretty dark in his room, lit only by a few candles and a lamp that’s pointed directly at the wall, I can still tell that this is a wonderful sight.
I’m standing, stroking my cock, starting to worry about the condom sliding off. No response. Jake Gyllenhaal, that hot video of a facial, former sex partners, nothing. I say, "You can get on your back. That’ll work too." I don't want him to get uncomfortable. I think I’m hard enough, and I push between his cheeks, but it keeps sliding around and not able to push through.
I sigh, exasperated, and climb onto the bed, on my back.
"I should’ve looked harder and found an extra large."
"No, I don’t think that’s it. I’ve never used an extra large." I don’t mention how I haven’t fucked a guy in almost 18 months, and how the male penis can keep growing until the age of 25, and I’ve always been somewhat thick, but that’s not relevant. "I don’t know what." I think about saying This has never happened to me before but I don’t. It’s just too dumb-sounding. I don’t want to be that guy.
I’m stroking, I grab more lube, hoping that will work. He straddles my thighs, one of his hands on my balls, the other on one of my nipples. I’m slapping my cock against his legs, gripping the base for a makeshift cock-ring, anything. The condom’s still on, I’ve never gone completely soft, but I’ve never been a good sturdy rock since we started trying.
I’m somewhat hard, and he climbs up and on. No luck. He starts to, I guess dry-hump, letting my cock slide between his legs, pumping at his scrotum, but to no avail. I half-heartedly play with his cock, which has grown flaccid. I sigh, and push him off of me, so that he lies next to me.
"I’m sorry. I just don’t… It just feels..."
"Are you sure it’s not the condom?"
"I’m pretty sure that’s not it. It’s like, I don’t know."
I roll the condom up and crumple it into a small ball and shove it back into its original wrapper, which is lying next to one of his pillows.
"Let’s just worry about you, ok?"
I sit up a bit, and reach my hand over to CoolKid’s groin, slipping past his balls and down to his hole. I tap my finger against his ring, and he doesn’t gasp this time.
I cock my head, and sit up more. I start pushing my finger in, but he’s still just lying there, not really responding. He motions for me to pull out, so I do and lie next to him, both of us staring at his ceiling.
"I’m feeling kind of... numb, I guess, down there." He says after a few seconds of breathing.
"Yeah, me too! That’s the word I was looking for. Something just wasn’t feeling right."
He grabs the lube, stands up, and makes his way to the lamp. He adjusts it, letting more light permeate the room.
"Maintain Desensitizing Lubricant. Blah blah …slightly deadens the nerve endings to give you staying power for all night long."
"Slightly deadens nerve endings?" I sit up as I ask the question.
"Slightly deadens the nerve endings." He sets the lube down on the desk, readjusts the lamp, and comes back to bed. I’m running my hand through my hair, trying to regain some composure, and he lies down, his head on my shoulder, turning his body towards mine. I extend my arm out, and wrap it around him. The nook.
He’s in the nook. He’s in my nook. He’s in my nook! I fucking love the nook. His head is dangerously close to my heart, we’re breathing in rhythm, his head is floating up and down as I breathe in and out.
I lean my head down, resting my face against the crown of his head. This definitely feels... comfortable. More than it probably should.
I break the silence. "Well, I guess that explains it."
"Yeah."
"I’m still kinda embarrassed, though."
"Why should you feel embarrassed? I feel embarrassed. I mean it was my stuff."
"No, it was your roommates. And I still feel dumb." I mean, after all, it was my flaccid cock. I didn’t say that, but I was thinking it pretty audibly.
He yawns. "So what are you doing tomorrow?"
"I dunno. I’ve got some homework I should be doing. A couple hour’s worth."
"Um... I work from 7-3, and then I should probably do some homework too, but nothing that important."
"You have to be at work at 7 AM tomorrow?" I looked over at his alarm clock and it’s almost 3. "I’ll leave and let you get some sleep." I’m pretty embarrassed, but not very tired. I’ve never been the kind of person who has sex and then turns over and falls asleep. I always get a second wind, which more than one former boyfriend has found annoying.
We get out of bed, and try to determine our clothing situation. He finds my socks, and throws them to me. I put on my underwear, and am trying to figure out which pair were my jeans when I realize that he’s getting dressed too.
"Why are you getting dressed? You should go to bed."
"I’ll walk you out."
"Aww… You don’t have to do that." I still grin, though.
"Nah, it’s no problem." Still grinning, and he is too.
I'm dressed before he is, and I make sure that the bathroom is the door right outside his room, to the right. "I just want to wash my hands. They’re still kind of lubey."
I’m washing my hands, looking at myself in the mirror. I’m not crushing on this guy. That’s not the way hookups work. I’m just trying to project a sense of connection to quell any sort of guilt I’m feeling about sleeping with a guy
He walks me out, and I’m still all apologies. I mean, what else can you say when your troops weren’t ready for battle? Sure, it may not be entirely my fault, but still: I saw, but I didn't conquer, and I certainly didn't come. He’s shrugging it off, a perfect gentleman, telling me not to worry about it. I’m suddenly super self-conscious, walking into the elevator and reminded of the cameras, and how everyone in the building could be watching us at that very moment.
We step off the elevator, and walking toward the lobby.
"I’ve got a fair amount of homework to do tomorrow, but if you call me and hang out or something, that'd be cool." I like the way CoolKid thinks. I’ll get a chance to redeem myself, but what’s more, I’ll get to see CoolKid again.
"Yeah, or I’m just doing homework tomorrow. Feel free to call me if you get bored or whatever."
We’re in the front lobby, right outside the doors. I fumble around, and can see three security cameras. I want to kiss him goodbye, and I’m pretty sure he wanted to kiss me goodbye too, but it just felt too weird.
Fortunately, two drunks, a girl in a dress and heels and a fairly unattractive black guy in a suit and corsage, bumped into the front door, the girl trying desperately to fit her key into the lock. She’s failing, miserably. They’re both laughing loudly.
We’re smiling, both smiling, and glad that they broke the tension. He says he’ll see me later, I say sweet dreams. I then open the door for the inebriated couple, and make my way home.
(NB--All artwork by the incomprable Steve Walker
Also, this post is almost 15 pages, double-spaced, in a word document. If you made it all the way through, good for you.)
February 1, 2006
Answers to yesterday’s question:
A: I’m not really into breaking the law, so second degree sexual assault of a minor and solicitation of a 16 year old isn’t my cup of tea. But he did exist.
E: This guy exists, though I don’t think his boyfriend is in the country anymore.
C: Yeah, I don’t really know what a ‘safe bareback’ movie is, but I’m pretty sure I’d rather not sleep with a former porn star. I have enough problems with my body as it is.
D: I can’t be actually sure that he’s a professor, but he did ask me to stop by the science building on a Saturday evening and make for the bathrooms on the fourth floor. I may be exaggerating, but whatever.
B: Yeah, this guy was made up. We don’t really have black people in Madison.
But! Speaking of resolutions, I did (almost) fulfill another resolution.
My three resolutions (or goals for the year, rather, since I think resolution is a stupid word) were, in case you’ve forgotten, were to lose a few pounds, stay out of the gay.com chatrooms, and not be such a prude when it comes to fooling around.
Well, the salad bar hasn’t been looking too appetizing lately and as yesterday’s post makes evident, I’m still logging in more than I would like to. Which only leaves one thing...
Check back later today, or possibly tomorrow, for all of the sordid, not-so-sleazy, somewhat humorous details of my sexcapade. Or rather, my failed attempt at a sexcapade. It’s a doozy, just to warn you. Copied and pasted into a word document, I’m at 4.5 pages and I’m not even at penetration yet. This may be a two-parter.
E: This guy exists, though I don’t think his boyfriend is in the country anymore.
C: Yeah, I don’t really know what a ‘safe bareback’ movie is, but I’m pretty sure I’d rather not sleep with a former porn star. I have enough problems with my body as it is.
D: I can’t be actually sure that he’s a professor, but he did ask me to stop by the science building on a Saturday evening and make for the bathrooms on the fourth floor. I may be exaggerating, but whatever.
B: Yeah, this guy was made up. We don’t really have black people in Madison.
But! Speaking of resolutions, I did (almost) fulfill another resolution.
My three resolutions (or goals for the year, rather, since I think resolution is a stupid word) were, in case you’ve forgotten, were to lose a few pounds, stay out of the gay.com chatrooms, and not be such a prude when it comes to fooling around.
Well, the salad bar hasn’t been looking too appetizing lately and as yesterday’s post makes evident, I’m still logging in more than I would like to. Which only leaves one thing...
Check back later today, or possibly tomorrow, for all of the sordid, not-so-sleazy, somewhat humorous details of my sexcapade. Or rather, my failed attempt at a sexcapade. It’s a doozy, just to warn you. Copied and pasted into a word document, I’m at 4.5 pages and I’m not even at penetration yet. This may be a two-parter.
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