I work in a sprawling, flourescently lighted building that was built about two months ago. The building is laid out awkwardly, and we've been having problems with flow patterns and technology that isn't up to par. As a result, our 3+ million dollar store isn't doing as well as expected.
Yesterday, our fire alarms decided that there were too many customers in our store, and so they decided to randomly go off to ensure that we would continue in our quest to not turn a profit. These are new fire alarms, heavy-duty, state of the art, alarms that are so annoying they insist that everyone vacates the building. We're talking Fran-Drescher-reincarnated-as-a-cat-being-castrated-while-watching-the-WB annoying.
The store manager quickly came over the loudspeakers and informed our patrons that there was no real danger, and they could continue shopping as the problem would soon be fixed.
Of course, the alarm pretty much guaranteed that everyone vacated the store, leaving all of their stuff behind.
And so, for the next twenty minutes or so while the technicians were on their way from another store, the mildly attractive co-worker from this post laid down some funky techno beats and another co-worker supplied the falsetto "doo-doo-a-dook dook" while I repeated my mantra in my best "Cookie Monster" voice:
"The System. Is Down. The System. Is Down.
The System. Is Down. The System. Is Down."
I am a terrible employee.
July 30, 2004
July 29, 2004
Ponderable.
Anyone else think that the crowd shouting "KERRY! KERRY! KERRY!" at the convention sounded a bit too much like a popular chant from a late nineties cultural embarrassment-cum-theatre sensation?
I mean, I didn't see any potbellied, tweaked-out cross-dressers in bikini tops and eyeliner throwing chairs at their transexual extra-terrestial pimps, but then again, I only saw tonight's televised speeches.
I guess I'll just have to wait and scour some blogs tomorrow for the inside scoop.
I can't wait until there's a "Elitist, Overly-Literate, Slightly Puritanical Gay Convention" so I can be on the cutting edge and blog from the floor. That way, people can take unflattering pictures of me and compare them to washed-up stars from the Eighties. That would really make my day.
I mean, I didn't see any potbellied, tweaked-out cross-dressers in bikini tops and eyeliner throwing chairs at their transexual extra-terrestial pimps, but then again, I only saw tonight's televised speeches.
I guess I'll just have to wait and scour some blogs tomorrow for the inside scoop.
I can't wait until there's a "Elitist, Overly-Literate, Slightly Puritanical Gay Convention" so I can be on the cutting edge and blog from the floor. That way, people can take unflattering pictures of me and compare them to washed-up stars from the Eighties. That would really make my day.
July 28, 2004
Hump Day.
Today's the day when I'll be talking all about the sex. Or lack thereof. This post will soon be deleted, so if you're going to get your rocks off, do it quick. Quickly. Damn. I just mention the word sex and I turn stupid. I guess I really am a teenage boy. Not for long, though--soon I'll be in my early-twenties, and then you can bet your sweet bippy I'll be mature and elegant like all the other guys in their early-twenties. Erm.
Speaking of sweet bippies, I've never rimmed nor been rimmed. I sort of want to, but only if there's a shower involved first. Maybe if we're in the shower. I read things and watch things and guys really seem to like it, so it can't be all bad, but then again, there are some guys into piss and scat, and that's a definite "thanks but no thanks" situation.
I've only had sex with one person in my life, with the guy creatively referred to as "the ex."
I don't like to sixty-nine, as it's too distracting. I like to either revel in the bliss I'm giving or receiving.
A guy's face is the first thing that attracts me. I really like smiles, and expressive eyes. My favorite part of sex (not including post-coital cuddling) is the expression on his face. As a result, movies and pictures where the guy is penetrated for the first time or about to cum are my favorite, as the contorted faces are my favorite. I don't really know if that's a fetish, but it's the closest I've got.
Because I like facial expressions so much, most of my favorite positions involve the ability to make out during the dirty deed. I also like positions with as much body parts touching as possible.
My ex's favorite position was me laying on top of him. I don't have much flesh on my bones, and apparently I shake and quiver a lot when I cum, and that way he got to feel my vibrations.
I think I have really ugly legs, pale and hairy, so I really like tan and smooth legs. They're probably the second thing I notice about the fellows.
Just because I've only had sex with one person doesn't mean I don't have my share of piggy moments. I've given road head, and have given and received blowjobs in the back seat of a car (with the driver not knowing). I've done it in two parks, a nature preserve, a bathroom (with a line outside waiting), and a church bathroom. Both bathrooms were singles, with locks on the door, so I guess it's not that piggy.
The ex was renting a room from a gay couple, and two times we went on a tour of the house, from the basement to the attic, having sex in every room: me on the kitchen counter, him on the bar, on the couch, in the study, on the dining room table, stairs (well, the landing), jacuzzi, the three bedrooms, on exercise equipment,
The ex had a papasan in his room, which we used often because the angles made penetration easier.
I've only kissed two people in my life. A third kissed me: you can read that
story in an older blog here.
I don't believe in having sex before marriage, or at least love. I'm perfectly willing to wait for Mr. Right.
I don't think I've ever been properly fingered.
I need to do some trimming. The word 'manscaping' is a turnoff.
I'm slightly larger than average. Nothing that you'd gawk at in the shower, but nothing to scoff at either. For those of you who like numbers, it's between 17-19 cm, depending on where I stop and start measuring.
Buttsex is kind of disgusting when you think about it.
I've had sex six times over the course of twenty-four hours. Six times to completion each. We pretty much spent the entire day lounging around the house naked. I loved it.
I've had sex on a car roof. It was awkward.
I have absolutely no idea what to say when asked what I like to do in bed.
I enjoy the nifty erotic story archive.
The ex and I rarely used condoms. Even though he was my first and I his third, we both got tested early in the relationship and then were monogamous.
I don't understand how people can have open relationships.
I had an erection while I wrote this, but not when I edited it.
Speaking of sweet bippies, I've never rimmed nor been rimmed. I sort of want to, but only if there's a shower involved first. Maybe if we're in the shower. I read things and watch things and guys really seem to like it, so it can't be all bad, but then again, there are some guys into piss and scat, and that's a definite "thanks but no thanks" situation.
I've only had sex with one person in my life, with the guy creatively referred to as "the ex."
I don't like to sixty-nine, as it's too distracting. I like to either revel in the bliss I'm giving or receiving.
A guy's face is the first thing that attracts me. I really like smiles, and expressive eyes. My favorite part of sex (not including post-coital cuddling) is the expression on his face. As a result, movies and pictures where the guy is penetrated for the first time or about to cum are my favorite, as the contorted faces are my favorite. I don't really know if that's a fetish, but it's the closest I've got.
Because I like facial expressions so much, most of my favorite positions involve the ability to make out during the dirty deed. I also like positions with as much body parts touching as possible.
My ex's favorite position was me laying on top of him. I don't have much flesh on my bones, and apparently I shake and quiver a lot when I cum, and that way he got to feel my vibrations.
I think I have really ugly legs, pale and hairy, so I really like tan and smooth legs. They're probably the second thing I notice about the fellows.
Just because I've only had sex with one person doesn't mean I don't have my share of piggy moments. I've given road head, and have given and received blowjobs in the back seat of a car (with the driver not knowing). I've done it in two parks, a nature preserve, a bathroom (with a line outside waiting), and a church bathroom. Both bathrooms were singles, with locks on the door, so I guess it's not that piggy.
The ex was renting a room from a gay couple, and two times we went on a tour of the house, from the basement to the attic, having sex in every room: me on the kitchen counter, him on the bar, on the couch, in the study, on the dining room table, stairs (well, the landing), jacuzzi, the three bedrooms, on exercise equipment,
The ex had a papasan in his room, which we used often because the angles made penetration easier.
I've only kissed two people in my life. A third kissed me: you can read that
story in an older blog here.
I don't believe in having sex before marriage, or at least love. I'm perfectly willing to wait for Mr. Right.
I don't think I've ever been properly fingered.
I need to do some trimming. The word 'manscaping' is a turnoff.
I'm slightly larger than average. Nothing that you'd gawk at in the shower, but nothing to scoff at either. For those of you who like numbers, it's between 17-19 cm, depending on where I stop and start measuring.
Buttsex is kind of disgusting when you think about it.
I've had sex six times over the course of twenty-four hours. Six times to completion each. We pretty much spent the entire day lounging around the house naked. I loved it.
I've had sex on a car roof. It was awkward.
I have absolutely no idea what to say when asked what I like to do in bed.
I enjoy the nifty erotic story archive.
The ex and I rarely used condoms. Even though he was my first and I his third, we both got tested early in the relationship and then were monogamous.
I don't understand how people can have open relationships.
I had an erection while I wrote this, but not when I edited it.
July 27, 2004
...yeah.
Do you know what's a decently creative idea in theory but dreadfully boring and tedious in practice?
My plan to answer all of your questions this week as part of a stupid gimmick.
Don't worry, you'll still get your answers eventually. We can't have Kevin having wet dreams about things he knows nothing about, now, can we?
Plus, with all the high-profile bloggers going on hiatus due to friends and family finding their blogs, I'm beginning to think that taking a step back from using names and giving away personal history might not be such a bad idea.
When my computer gets back from the doctor's, expect a post on sex, a post on how boring my days really are, and a third a hodge-podge of any other questions I haven't answered yet. They may or may not be interspersed throughout the next week or two. I realize posts have been hit or miss lately, but hopefully things will start looking up.
And no, this isn't me stalling. I'll tell you, but a lot of it is just too boring to take in all at once. Chances are, I'll delete them relatively soon (especially the sex one). We can't have future boyfriends knowing about the times I had sex in nature preserves, now, can we?
My plan to answer all of your questions this week as part of a stupid gimmick.
Don't worry, you'll still get your answers eventually. We can't have Kevin having wet dreams about things he knows nothing about, now, can we?
Plus, with all the high-profile bloggers going on hiatus due to friends and family finding their blogs, I'm beginning to think that taking a step back from using names and giving away personal history might not be such a bad idea.
When my computer gets back from the doctor's, expect a post on sex, a post on how boring my days really are, and a third a hodge-podge of any other questions I haven't answered yet. They may or may not be interspersed throughout the next week or two. I realize posts have been hit or miss lately, but hopefully things will start looking up.
And no, this isn't me stalling. I'll tell you, but a lot of it is just too boring to take in all at once. Chances are, I'll delete them relatively soon (especially the sex one). We can't have future boyfriends knowing about the times I had sex in nature preserves, now, can we?
July 26, 2004
Mea culpa.
Sorry guys. My computer has a boo-boo and will be taken in to the computer doctor's at some point this week, hopefully tomorrow. If posting is sporadic this week, I'm sorry. All of your questions will be answered, but probably in three long posts, as opposed to 5 medium sized ones.
My birthday is coming up. I was born on the anniversary of the day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima (otherwise known as a week from Friday). My favorite food is sushi. There is a connection there, I know it.
I am a greedy git (well, not really)-- here is my Amazon.com wish list. If you have one of these items in your collection already that you wish to send me, or if you have something else you think I'd like but Amazon doesn't cover (porn, cabana boy, dildos, boyfriends, drinking ability, a night with Jake Gyllenhaal, vacation to London, etc.), send me an email and ask for my address. I promise to pretend that you are sending a Hallmark card. Really.
I never broke a bone, but I did sprain my knee twice from generic "I am a ten-year-old-boy" hijinx.
In elementary school, my neighbor Jake and I used to play doctor every day during the summer. To be fair, we usually built a treefort (how butch of me!) and then played doctor.
I was on Accutane for a while. It's genetic: my dad's acne was so bad it kept him out of the army.
I had celiac's disease until I was in second grade.
Current books checked out from the library:
Girl with the Pearl Earring (Tracy Chevalier)
La fleur du mal (DVD)
Big blonde (DVD)
Glamorama (Bret Easton Ellis)
The Faber Book of Modern Verse
Complete stories of Dorothy Parker
Steal this Album (System of a Down)
My Aim is True (Remastered, Elvis Costello)
Symphony no 5 (Rochberg)
Symphony no 6 (B minor) and 12 (D minor) (Shostakovich)
Skinned Alive (Edmund White)
I spent a week in London during high school to study with Edward Petherbridge and Emily Richards. I'd definately revisit.
I spent a month in Russia designing the entrance to the Chemical Weapons Treatment Plant. I was accosted by the Russian Mafia while in Moscow. I wouldn't go back.
I speak Spanish almost fluently, Latin so-so, and Russian only a bit. I can read French and Portugese, and I know a few nouns and key phrases in Japanese. I also know a fair amount of sign language (i.e. more than just the alphabet).
I'm a polyglot.
I'm an English Major, Creative Writing Minor. Originally I double-majored in English and History (with Teacher's emphasis) but I decided against it.
I have two sisters, one sixteen and the other fourteen. The fourteen year old is the one with that blurty journal from before.
I don't think I ever realized I was gay, I think it was more realizing that it wasn't a phase, and even then it wasn't a big deal. I've known at least since 1st grade.
I kept five blogs during the 2003 calendar year: a xanga (which I left in January), a diaryland (which I left during the summer when I started getting death threats), a blogspot (which I shared with the ex), a second blogspot for poetry, and a livejournal in November. I still keep the livejournal for people who know me in real life. I then started RawYouth this January, though I started working on HTML in December.
I wrote in each blog at least once a day. It's only recently that I started taking the occasional weekend off.
My birthday is coming up. I was born on the anniversary of the day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima (otherwise known as a week from Friday). My favorite food is sushi. There is a connection there, I know it.
I am a greedy git (well, not really)-- here is my Amazon.com wish list. If you have one of these items in your collection already that you wish to send me, or if you have something else you think I'd like but Amazon doesn't cover (porn, cabana boy, dildos, boyfriends, drinking ability, a night with Jake Gyllenhaal, vacation to London, etc.), send me an email and ask for my address. I promise to pretend that you are sending a Hallmark card. Really.
I never broke a bone, but I did sprain my knee twice from generic "I am a ten-year-old-boy" hijinx.
In elementary school, my neighbor Jake and I used to play doctor every day during the summer. To be fair, we usually built a treefort (how butch of me!) and then played doctor.
I was on Accutane for a while. It's genetic: my dad's acne was so bad it kept him out of the army.
I had celiac's disease until I was in second grade.
Current books checked out from the library:
Girl with the Pearl Earring (Tracy Chevalier)
La fleur du mal (DVD)
Big blonde (DVD)
Glamorama (Bret Easton Ellis)
The Faber Book of Modern Verse
Complete stories of Dorothy Parker
Steal this Album (System of a Down)
My Aim is True (Remastered, Elvis Costello)
Symphony no 5 (Rochberg)
Symphony no 6 (B minor) and 12 (D minor) (Shostakovich)
Skinned Alive (Edmund White)
I spent a week in London during high school to study with Edward Petherbridge and Emily Richards. I'd definately revisit.
I spent a month in Russia designing the entrance to the Chemical Weapons Treatment Plant. I was accosted by the Russian Mafia while in Moscow. I wouldn't go back.
I speak Spanish almost fluently, Latin so-so, and Russian only a bit. I can read French and Portugese, and I know a few nouns and key phrases in Japanese. I also know a fair amount of sign language (i.e. more than just the alphabet).
I'm a polyglot.
I'm an English Major, Creative Writing Minor. Originally I double-majored in English and History (with Teacher's emphasis) but I decided against it.
I have two sisters, one sixteen and the other fourteen. The fourteen year old is the one with that blurty journal from before.
I don't think I ever realized I was gay, I think it was more realizing that it wasn't a phase, and even then it wasn't a big deal. I've known at least since 1st grade.
I kept five blogs during the 2003 calendar year: a xanga (which I left in January), a diaryland (which I left during the summer when I started getting death threats), a blogspot (which I shared with the ex), a second blogspot for poetry, and a livejournal in November. I still keep the livejournal for people who know me in real life. I then started RawYouth this January, though I started working on HTML in December.
I wrote in each blog at least once a day. It's only recently that I started taking the occasional weekend off.
July 23, 2004
dancing like a beautiful dance whore
Instead of answering all of your questions today, I think I'm going to wait until next week. We'll make a theme of it: PATRIOT week, where I'll divulge shitloads of information that you really have no reason nor right to know. Things from the library, doctor's reports, details of my sex life (don't get your hopes up), student records, amazon wishlist, scars, showering schedule, turn-ons, daily diet, web site habits, political musings, and other oddly personal habits that the government might need to label me a terrorist. That way, Ashcroft can take a break from sticking his nose where it doesn't belong: I've done all the work for him.
Technically, you are all now under gag order not to tell anyone about this week, but since it's all about the hits, feel free to spread the voyeuristic love, or to participate yourself.
Today, I'll leave you with a mix cd I made for Anna.
Technically, you are all now under gag order not to tell anyone about this week, but since it's all about the hits, feel free to spread the voyeuristic love, or to participate yourself.
Today, I'll leave you with a mix cd I made for Anna.
you're dancing like a beautiful dance whore01. michael: franz ferdinand
02. lounging: svelte
03. off with your head: sleater kinney
04. lit (or to the scientist I am not speaking to anymore): cristin o'keefe aptowicz
05. how to write a political poem: taylor mali
06. gin/wild: the wild party (original cast recording)
07. needle in the hay: bad astronaut (elliott smith cover)
08. international you day- no use for a name
09. to hell with good intentions: mclusky
10. letter to an occupant: the new pornographers
11. hump'em, dump'em: wheatus
12. anxious arms: jealous sound
13. tombstone: peaches
14. everybody got their something: nikka costa
15. please stop fucking on my corpse: johnny legs
16. shame: pj harvey
17. all is full of love: death cab for cutie (bjork cover)
18. flowers in the window: travis
19. caramel: suzanne vega
20. jealous guy: elliott smith (john lennon cover)
21. goodnight sweetheart: rufus wainwright
July 22, 2004
Let your erections subside.
My friend K was recently in town and took a few pictures. She asked me to write a post about the time we hung out together, but that was just a blatant ploy to get hits. Instead, here are my own captions for the vacation photos she posted.
Liz's shoes spawned a million fetishes.
This is Erin playing on the computer. You can't tell this, but Erin isn't a person. She's a giant ball of yaoi sugar.
This is a picture of Liz wearing the shoes that spawned a million fetishes. Please keep your hands on your keyboards where I can see them.
Stupid picture of people taking pictures of people taking pictures. If you take a screen shot of it, and then print it out, and then post in on your wall, and then take a picture with it in the background, then you're really going overboard.
This picture of me stretches nicely, in case you need a new desktop photo. I'm just saying.
We made bead characters. We didn't use any pink or purple beads, and so when we were finished making the video game characters, we made their gay doppelgangers.
What you can't see in this picture is that the girl on the right is wearing a (faux) bling bling necklace that covers half her chest. Fake jewels down to her tank top.
K likes jailbait booty.
I wasn't there when they made this cake for Elizabeth, who returned from Japan yesterday. Trust me. The decorations are missing something: a gay boy.
This is a picture of Liz, formerly of the hot shoes, being stealthy and hiding. Ninja!
When it came down to packing, Elizabeth decided that she didn't need to pack any of her clothes. Instead, she packed her suitcase with sweet yaoi love.
PS-I'm still taking questions, with answers probably on Friday.
Liz's shoes spawned a million fetishes.
This is Erin playing on the computer. You can't tell this, but Erin isn't a person. She's a giant ball of yaoi sugar.
This is a picture of Liz wearing the shoes that spawned a million fetishes. Please keep your hands on your keyboards where I can see them.
Stupid picture of people taking pictures of people taking pictures. If you take a screen shot of it, and then print it out, and then post in on your wall, and then take a picture with it in the background, then you're really going overboard.
This picture of me stretches nicely, in case you need a new desktop photo. I'm just saying.
We made bead characters. We didn't use any pink or purple beads, and so when we were finished making the video game characters, we made their gay doppelgangers.
What you can't see in this picture is that the girl on the right is wearing a (faux) bling bling necklace that covers half her chest. Fake jewels down to her tank top.
K likes jailbait booty.
I wasn't there when they made this cake for Elizabeth, who returned from Japan yesterday. Trust me. The decorations are missing something: a gay boy.
This is a picture of Liz, formerly of the hot shoes, being stealthy and hiding. Ninja!
When it came down to packing, Elizabeth decided that she didn't need to pack any of her clothes. Instead, she packed her suitcase with sweet yaoi love.
PS-I'm still taking questions, with answers probably on Friday.
July 21, 2004
Meme alert. Meme alert.
This is the problem with the internet: we all think we are so close, and we yet most of us know nothing about the people we read on a daily basis. I'm going to rectify it. I want you to ask me something you think you should know about me. Something that should be obvious, but you have no idea. Then post this in your blog and find out what people don't know about you.
Trust me. It'll be much easier on you just to leave an anonymous question (I won't look at IPs, I promise!) than it is to go through the first few months of the blog in search of the answer. January, in particular, is just wrong. Yeah, I know: rule number six, but we're not breaking the rule, we're just bending it. Rules aren't meant to be straight anyway.
Trust me. It'll be much easier on you just to leave an anonymous question (I won't look at IPs, I promise!) than it is to go through the first few months of the blog in search of the answer. January, in particular, is just wrong. Yeah, I know: rule number six, but we're not breaking the rule, we're just bending it. Rules aren't meant to be straight anyway.
July 20, 2004
A Post for K.
K wants me to write a blog post about her because she's jealous of all my madcap hits. (I like pretending like I'm the greatest thing to hit the interweb since the penis.) Even though I would never be as uncivilized to discuss numbers, I like to pretend that I am leaving you all in my wake. Talking about stats is like discussing salary between coworkers or a 7th grade girl making sure that everyone knows that she's dating a high school boy. Sure, it may have a purpose, but you usually can tell the big boys from the local legends. Let's just say that I'm somewhere inbetween Toby (not enough drunken posts and nearly naked poses, I guess) and zero.
I promised to write about her and our time hanging out yesterday once she posts pictures. Rule number 14, you know.
For those of you interested, there may or may not be a few pictures of me with a giant sex ball stretched over my head. That ought to pique interest and encourage more visitors.
I might let you know when the pictures are up--I'm not sure whether or not I approve of my face accompanying this voice. I like my anonymity, but I like it when people post pictures of themselves too. Maybe. Sometimes I like the ability to make people appear as I want them to--like how books are always better than movies. That being said, I also like pictures of cute boys, and while I may not be everyone's cup of tea, I'm bound to have a few admirers on the interweb. If you want, you can keep checking out K's journal in hopes of finding the pics. I'm sure she'll love the hits.
While I leave you to spend the day questioning whether or not my mug deserves its own place on the interweb, I'll distract you with a poem. Again, please leave compliments as I am a fragile shell of a human being with no love life.
I promised to write about her and our time hanging out yesterday once she posts pictures. Rule number 14, you know.
For those of you interested, there may or may not be a few pictures of me with a giant sex ball stretched over my head. That ought to pique interest and encourage more visitors.
I might let you know when the pictures are up--I'm not sure whether or not I approve of my face accompanying this voice. I like my anonymity, but I like it when people post pictures of themselves too. Maybe. Sometimes I like the ability to make people appear as I want them to--like how books are always better than movies. That being said, I also like pictures of cute boys, and while I may not be everyone's cup of tea, I'm bound to have a few admirers on the interweb. If you want, you can keep checking out K's journal in hopes of finding the pics. I'm sure she'll love the hits.
While I leave you to spend the day questioning whether or not my mug deserves its own place on the interweb, I'll distract you with a poem. Again, please leave compliments as I am a fragile shell of a human being with no love life.
Icy Stare
I take just one look at you and I comprehend sadism
I throw myself up on your mercy
uncontrollably without a second thought
I let you devour me in every sense of the word
time after time I beg for your cold stare
and it’s even better when you don’t give it
July 19, 2004
I never could leave cryptic blog posts alone.
“Hey Bob—I’m having a lesbian dinner party tonight. You should come over.”
My friend Anna is house-sitting for some aging hippies from church. Right now they’re biking through Europe, with an extended stay in Amsterdam. Gee, I wonder why.
Like all hippies, they have an obnoxious belief in the worth of animals, and are paying Anna far too much money to stay in their house and take their dog for a walk twice a day, and make sure the dog has attention. The dog’s name is Mr. Bliss. I hate these hippies.
Of course, Anna is a college girl, and has invited pretty much everyone and their mother to stay and party at the house for the next month or so. She figures that the hippies won’t care about any messes, and plans on doing some chanting and burning some incense to restore the karma before their return.
Friday night, she threw a small, intimate, lesbian dinner party. I thought it could be a fun way to end the workweek, despite the proximity of the words ‘intimate’ and ‘lesbian’. Anna has some “free-spirited” friends, and they’re always a blast. In small doses, at least.
I show up, and find the term lesbian is not what it used to be. Apparently, Anna uses the term ‘lesbian’ to denote bisexuals, as the dinner party consisted Anna, her new boy, Mary, and her Tom, and me. Two ‘real’ lesbians didn’t show up, which caused a few cocked eyebrows and snide comments, but it was ok. Lesbians are kind of scary. But yeah. I thought it would be lesbians, and mostly singles, but nope. I was the only person sans date there, and you don’t get much more single than me.
Mary and Tom are lovely, insane, rocking people. Between the two of them, they’ve been in every major hardxcore thrashcore band in the tri-county area, and they’re pretty damn good. If you’re into that sort of thing, that is. The two have been dating for eons, and even say things like “When we get married...” though the sentence usually ends along the lines of “When we get married, we’re totally going to name our kids after you, Bob. All of them. Even if they’re girls.”
Now, Anna has not been housesitting by herself. One of her friends is staying with her. And, it just so happens that the two of them are dating, or at least doing something along the lines of dating. She never used the term ‘boyfriend’ but he is staying at house, since he has graduated from college and is looking for a job. He’s a classically trained bassist and she’s training to be a pianist—yeah, that’s got to be some hardcore petting and fingering between the two of them.
I walk in, and greet her new boy, who’s chopping and dicing some tomatoes for the organic pizza they’re making. (I guess we’re all a little bit hippie tonight.) I startle him, and cause him to knock over the bag of sunflower seeds he was munching on. My nickname for him the rest of the night was ‘Onan.’
‘Onan’ has the exact profile of my ex, the one regular readers of this blog know far too much about. He’s a bit taller, a bit tanner, and his hair is short and doesn’t make the same “Screech-esque” style as the ex. I didn’t notice the resemblance until we sat for dinner, when it knocked the breath out of me. I guess I’m not as over him as I thought I was.
Before dinner, he mostly worked on the pizza while Anna, Mary and I sliced fruit for smoothies. Onan even cooks, just like the ex. Tom had to work and came just as we were about to sit down to eat. Mary added a few drops of vodka, and by a few drops, I mean “one-one thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand, five-one thousand and one to grow on,” and this was some pretty expensive vodka, not some $9.99 plastic jug the size of your head. This was quality, and there was a fair amount of it.
Tom finally arrived and we sat down to eat. I had spent the afternoon reading a biography of Dorothy Parker, and must have been channeling her before and during the meal, as I was wittier than the most superlative metaphor. We were all musicans/artists/writers/etc, and we exchanged stories about performances and concerts; it was like a Gertrude Stein soiree (except we had no real lesbians.)
Throughout dinner, I just-so-happened to extend my feet out repeatedly near Onan’s, in hopes that he would nudge me and then we would play footsie or something. I didn’t expect to have anything come out of it, especially since he’s sort of kind of dating or something my best friend, but it’s been a while since I’ve had a boy, and even longer since clandestine footsie. Every time his foot bumped mine, he glanced and me and smiled, but afterwards always tucked his feet underneath his chair. Bastard.
By the time Onan started cutting the last piece of pizza in half as not to take the last piece, everyone else had finished their smoothies, and were drinking gin and juice, and had their mind on their money and their money on their minds.
Now, other people get vivacious when they drink, but I don’t. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t drink usually. I tend to become sullen and quiet. Everyone else started comparing drunken and pot-filled stories: the time Tom was so drunk he let his friend tattoo his band name into his arm, Onan huddled under a bar table, pinching everyone who walked past, Mary giving an impromptu speech at high school graduation, Anna getting white-girl dreadlocks. I’ve never been drunk before, nor have I smoked, but if I had, I’d probably just sit around like a bump on a log in the corner and cry. The few times I’ve been in the room while people were smoking pot, I’ve always ended up leaving the room in tears for no apparent reason, and I tend to become sullen when I drink. Not only am I the worst college student, I am the worst gay I know.
To his credit, Onan tried keeping me into the conversation, complimenting my choice of dinner music (the Books), making eye contact while laughing in hopes that it would catch. I did laugh, but mostly because everyone else was doing it. I am a sheep.
I spent the next hour or so playing with the stereo and admiring the hippie art (not). There are only so many watercolor tye-dye sunsets that a house should be allowed to have. The others were meandering about the house, still comparing stories but now reenacting them. It was you expected college kids to do while drunk.
By one o’clock, I had had enough. Anna and Onan were making out on the stairs (which looked terribly uncomfortable) while Mary and Tom got into the hippies’ closet and were frantically dressing and undressing. They ran around the house singing “People all over the world, join hands, start a love train” and “C’mon people now, smile on your brother” while Anna and Onan kept making out at the top of the stairs. (The railing partially blocked them, but it was apparent what they were doing.) I quietly slipped out the back door and went home to write a whiny blog post.
Because really, at the end of the day, that’s all I feel comfortable doing.
My friend Anna is house-sitting for some aging hippies from church. Right now they’re biking through Europe, with an extended stay in Amsterdam. Gee, I wonder why.
Like all hippies, they have an obnoxious belief in the worth of animals, and are paying Anna far too much money to stay in their house and take their dog for a walk twice a day, and make sure the dog has attention. The dog’s name is Mr. Bliss. I hate these hippies.
Of course, Anna is a college girl, and has invited pretty much everyone and their mother to stay and party at the house for the next month or so. She figures that the hippies won’t care about any messes, and plans on doing some chanting and burning some incense to restore the karma before their return.
Friday night, she threw a small, intimate, lesbian dinner party. I thought it could be a fun way to end the workweek, despite the proximity of the words ‘intimate’ and ‘lesbian’. Anna has some “free-spirited” friends, and they’re always a blast. In small doses, at least.
I show up, and find the term lesbian is not what it used to be. Apparently, Anna uses the term ‘lesbian’ to denote bisexuals, as the dinner party consisted Anna, her new boy, Mary, and her Tom, and me. Two ‘real’ lesbians didn’t show up, which caused a few cocked eyebrows and snide comments, but it was ok. Lesbians are kind of scary. But yeah. I thought it would be lesbians, and mostly singles, but nope. I was the only person sans date there, and you don’t get much more single than me.
Mary and Tom are lovely, insane, rocking people. Between the two of them, they’ve been in every major hardxcore thrashcore band in the tri-county area, and they’re pretty damn good. If you’re into that sort of thing, that is. The two have been dating for eons, and even say things like “When we get married...” though the sentence usually ends along the lines of “When we get married, we’re totally going to name our kids after you, Bob. All of them. Even if they’re girls.”
Now, Anna has not been housesitting by herself. One of her friends is staying with her. And, it just so happens that the two of them are dating, or at least doing something along the lines of dating. She never used the term ‘boyfriend’ but he is staying at house, since he has graduated from college and is looking for a job. He’s a classically trained bassist and she’s training to be a pianist—yeah, that’s got to be some hardcore petting and fingering between the two of them.
I walk in, and greet her new boy, who’s chopping and dicing some tomatoes for the organic pizza they’re making. (I guess we’re all a little bit hippie tonight.) I startle him, and cause him to knock over the bag of sunflower seeds he was munching on. My nickname for him the rest of the night was ‘Onan.’
‘Onan’ has the exact profile of my ex, the one regular readers of this blog know far too much about. He’s a bit taller, a bit tanner, and his hair is short and doesn’t make the same “Screech-esque” style as the ex. I didn’t notice the resemblance until we sat for dinner, when it knocked the breath out of me. I guess I’m not as over him as I thought I was.
Before dinner, he mostly worked on the pizza while Anna, Mary and I sliced fruit for smoothies. Onan even cooks, just like the ex. Tom had to work and came just as we were about to sit down to eat. Mary added a few drops of vodka, and by a few drops, I mean “one-one thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand, five-one thousand and one to grow on,” and this was some pretty expensive vodka, not some $9.99 plastic jug the size of your head. This was quality, and there was a fair amount of it.
Tom finally arrived and we sat down to eat. I had spent the afternoon reading a biography of Dorothy Parker, and must have been channeling her before and during the meal, as I was wittier than the most superlative metaphor. We were all musicans/artists/writers/etc, and we exchanged stories about performances and concerts; it was like a Gertrude Stein soiree (except we had no real lesbians.)
Throughout dinner, I just-so-happened to extend my feet out repeatedly near Onan’s, in hopes that he would nudge me and then we would play footsie or something. I didn’t expect to have anything come out of it, especially since he’s sort of kind of dating or something my best friend, but it’s been a while since I’ve had a boy, and even longer since clandestine footsie. Every time his foot bumped mine, he glanced and me and smiled, but afterwards always tucked his feet underneath his chair. Bastard.
By the time Onan started cutting the last piece of pizza in half as not to take the last piece, everyone else had finished their smoothies, and were drinking gin and juice, and had their mind on their money and their money on their minds.
Now, other people get vivacious when they drink, but I don’t. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t drink usually. I tend to become sullen and quiet. Everyone else started comparing drunken and pot-filled stories: the time Tom was so drunk he let his friend tattoo his band name into his arm, Onan huddled under a bar table, pinching everyone who walked past, Mary giving an impromptu speech at high school graduation, Anna getting white-girl dreadlocks. I’ve never been drunk before, nor have I smoked, but if I had, I’d probably just sit around like a bump on a log in the corner and cry. The few times I’ve been in the room while people were smoking pot, I’ve always ended up leaving the room in tears for no apparent reason, and I tend to become sullen when I drink. Not only am I the worst college student, I am the worst gay I know.
To his credit, Onan tried keeping me into the conversation, complimenting my choice of dinner music (the Books), making eye contact while laughing in hopes that it would catch. I did laugh, but mostly because everyone else was doing it. I am a sheep.
I spent the next hour or so playing with the stereo and admiring the hippie art (not). There are only so many watercolor tye-dye sunsets that a house should be allowed to have. The others were meandering about the house, still comparing stories but now reenacting them. It was you expected college kids to do while drunk.
By one o’clock, I had had enough. Anna and Onan were making out on the stairs (which looked terribly uncomfortable) while Mary and Tom got into the hippies’ closet and were frantically dressing and undressing. They ran around the house singing “People all over the world, join hands, start a love train” and “C’mon people now, smile on your brother” while Anna and Onan kept making out at the top of the stairs. (The railing partially blocked them, but it was apparent what they were doing.) I quietly slipped out the back door and went home to write a whiny blog post.
Because really, at the end of the day, that’s all I feel comfortable doing.
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